by Anton Myrer
“I came off morphine without any help at Angers in 1918,” Damon said quietly.
Lin smiled. “Ah. Then you do have an idea. A good idea. Yes.” He nodded. “Well, then I went abroad. To France and Germany. But not for pleasure. I studied and read, I attended the Sorbonne, I talked with professors and military men and politicians and farmers. And everything I saw I related to China. For, foolish as I was, headstrong and self-indulgent and arrogant as I was, I loved China even then—more than I knew. And slowly, inexorably, I came to this conclusion: the Kuomintang has failed us. It’s as though your Washington had died in 1781, and Hamilton—a very selfish Hamilton with a large and greedy family—had seized control of the government, put to death all your Paines and Jeffersons and reinstated the British taxes and military occupation that had brought on your War of Independence. Chiang has turned back, not forward: immense corruption and the oppression of the lao pai hsing are the order of the day. You have seen it for yourself. And so for me the choice was clear …
“But it was difficult!” He laughed once, his teeth short and even in his broad mouth. “That Bible of yours! You have no idea how strange it sounds to an Oriental. And yet parts of it are so moving. There is one place in particular I often think of: the place where the young man comes running to Jesus and asks him what he should do to inherit eternal life, and Jesus answers, ‘Sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor, and come and follow me.’ And then it says of the young man: ‘And he was sad at that saying, and went away grieved: for he had great possessions.’ Well, I had them, too—greater perhaps than Jesus’ sad young man. But I sold them all, and gave to the poor.” He opened his hands. “And here I am.” He laughed again, softly. “But I must confess I expect no treasure in heaven.”
The mountain loomed above them, blue-black, its spines and ravines softened in the late afternoon light. The wind was bitter. Lying on his belly behind a low ridge Damon chafed his hands and blinked repeatedly; his eyes kept tearing in the cold, and the drab, lonely village wobbled and wavered as though under water. He thought somberly, I’d give a hundred dollars for a cup of steaming hot coffee right now. A hundred dollars cash. He felt an overpowering need to urinate, although he’d relieved himself less than half an hour ago, and his jaws trembled as if he had palsy. For the past two hours they had been working their way down toward the village, and were now deployed in a wide arc less than a hundred and fifty yards away. A soldier ten feet from Damon had a huge broadsword slung across his back; the blade looked silver in the dull light.
Wu T’ai. Eight or nine battered dwellings huddled around a large building with a horned roof of blue tiles, where the remainder of the Japanese garrison was. Damon looked at his watch: less than three minutes now. If everything went according to plan. How could anything go according to plan with this scarecrow outfit, weapons from the dark ages and no hot food for two days and this wind? God, it might be possible without the wind—
A soldier came around the corner of the nearest building: flat, toadstool helmet and mustard-colored overcoat, tightly buttoned, moving with the deliberate, languid gait of a sentry. He was short and stocky and was carrying his rifle at sling, with the long bayonet fixed. Damon felt his head contract tautly into his shoulders, but the sentry’s eyes passed indifferently over the hillside; yawning, he clapped his hands together, and then leaning against the wall of the house began methodically to pick his nose. The enemy. A cold, unhappy young man very far from home, who would soon be dead. Damon thought of the two German boys outside the farmhouse at Brigny that hot July morning so long ago. Now here he was again hiding and watching, at the other end of the earth. He glanced at Lin Tso-han, who was crouching behind a great boulder twenty feet away; but the guerrilla leader’s expression was completely unreadable.
Beside him the Eskimo stiffened; and following his gaze Damon saw two figures coming along the road from the south. Two old women bent nearly double under huge loads of twigs. The Japanese sentry, watching them, pushed himself away from the wall and called something, waving one arm as though to hurry them. The two figures hobbled nearer; one of them answered something in a thin, croaking voice. The soldier shouted again and uttered a harsh burst of laughter, shocking in the cold air. They were very near him now. Then the sentry must have seen or suspected something, because his left hand snapped the sling off his shoulder, but he was too late. There was the flash of a knife, a short, sharp cry. The soldier stiffened, then slumped, and for an instant the three figures drew together in what looked like a swift and violent embrace. Then the Japanese was lying in the road. One guerrilla had his rifle, the other was buckling on his cartridge belt; they darted away between two houses to the right of the post.
At that moment Lin raised his arm and a dozen men leaped to their feet and ran down the slope in perfect silence; and from the opposite hillside another group came hurrying, flowing down over the rocks, fanning out to each side of the blue-tiled building. There was a shout, two rifle shots—and then the flat snapping of a Nambu: quicker, higher pitched than a Browning. Damon looked again at Lin; the desire to go down there was almost overwhelming. The Nambu stopped, started again, and the firing rose to a sudden roar, like grease in a pan. Lin raised his arm and he and the rest of the group ran down the slope, spreading out to the right of the building; he thought he saw Lin vanish down the alley between two hovels that the guerrillas had used. Damon glanced at the Eskimo and P’ei Hsien, who had been detailed as his bodyguards; neither was paying any attention to him—their eyes were riveted on the long, blue-tiled building, which seemed larger now in the falling light; figures came and went like shadows. There was a stuttering flash from the window on the side facing him, and he could hear the Nambu chattering away, a slithering, slapping sound. They’d shifted it, then. If there was only one. If there were two—
A figure was crawling along the base of the wall, below the winking light of the Nambu. Lying very still, like an old bundle of rags right under the barrel. Then suddenly, magically, an arm went up; there was a flash of pure orange light as the grenade exploded inside, and the Nambu was silent. There was the hollow crash of another grenade, then another. The figure vaulted into the room, followed by two more; and gradually the rifle fire died away in a desultory, trivial popping.
Got it. They’d got it. Just as Lin said they would. Principle of Surprise, Principle of Economy of Force, Principle of Simplicity. Of course Lin would not put it that way. “Tactical superiority is the answer,” he had said the day before, in his precise, musical French. “The problem is to achieve tactical superiority. It is always possible.”
“What do you mean—it’s always possible?” Damon had demanded.
Lin had smiled, his eyebrows had lifted and fallen. “Careful planning, patience, distraction, decoy, diversion, feint, any ruse that will work—”
“Any at all?”
“Any at all. But above all the feint. We call it: The Principle of Pretending to Attack the East While Attacking the West. And once the attack is launched, unwavering decision. If you do these things, if you select the most vulnerable spot in the enemy’s anatomy, isolate that particular element—you will have achieved tactical superiority over him at that moment in time, even though he may have an over-all strategic advantage …”
Beside Damon P’ei had scrambled to his feet. “Ting hao, Ts’an Tsan,” he said in his high, clear voice. “Pao huai-la, tao-la—”
All at once the boy spun around and pitched forward on his face, slithering on the stones; and Damon heard the snap of the rifle shot. Something stung his cheek, bits of stone: the ricochet sang away like a band saw. He turned his head, and his heart misgave him. Six or seven Japanese, helmeted, their rifles long and bright in the dusk, running toward them, high on the mountainside. Where had they come from? Another shot droned through the air. He struck the Eskimo on the shoulder and shouted: “Ch’iang tai!” and in English, “There! Over there! …”
The Eskimo, who had started to go to the aid of P’
ei, turned, raised the Lebel with calm deliberation and fired. One of the Japanese stumbled and fell. The rest kept coming in a lumpy, bandy-legged run, swelling out of twilight like squat giants. Damon started to reach for P’ei’s rifle; a bullet sang by his head and he ducked. The Eskimo, his face completely expressionless, fitted another round in the chamber, plucked back the bolt and fired again. Damon raised his head. No one. They’d taken cover. Damn fools—they could have had them in a rush. Another slug struck a rock nearby, showering them with chips of stone and dust. The Eskimo fired again, and started to hunt for another bullet in his pocket. Damon thought of all the clips for Lebel rifles he had seen in ’18, the crates of small-arms ammunition and Springfields and grenades, the mountainous dumps from Bar-le-Duc to Sancerre, and groaned. The Japanese would rush them in a minute, another minute. He pulled his pistol out of its holster and ran back the receiver in a shivering spasm—looked around him wildly, thinking, Did I have to do this? really do anything like this? I could learn their God damn goofy tactics without getting into this kind of a stupid, crazy—
The Eskimo fired again and clawed another cartridge out of his pocket. No cover. There was no cover all the way over to that houselike clump of rock. Fifty yards, sixty. In a moment the patrol would get up and rush them, and they would take no prisoners. That was for sure. He poised near the edge of the shallow depression, estimating his chances. It was nearly dark, the edges of rock melted into one another softly. But now, looking back, it seemed bright as midday in a desert. The Eskimo was probably down to five or six rounds, maybe less. In another few minutes he’d run out, and this patrol or whatever it was would be in their laps. He’d give it just—
The Japanese were up, on a command; up and running toward them, their rifles swinging like scythe handles. He raised his pistol and fired—heard at the same instant a deep, blasting roar. Tommy gun. One of the Japanese lurched into a silly pirouetting skittering dance and fell, then another; the remainder broke and ran and the gun followed them, struck them down.
Looking back he saw Lin Tso-han crouched with several others, firing in short, clean bursts. He jumped to his feet and ran forward; the nearest of the Japanese was not twenty-five feet away. He bent over and unhooked the soldier’s belt with its boxlike brown leather cartridge pouches and buckled it on above his own, then picked up the Arisaka rifle.
“Ts’an Tsan, are you unhurt?”
He nodded. “Where did they come from?”
Lin shrugged. “They must have sent out a patrol on this side at the same time the main body set out after F’eng. The unexpected. War is full of the unexpected.”
“Yeah,” Damon muttered. He was shaking now, and out of wind. He slung the long-barreled rifle.
Lin was watching him, frowning. “Ts’an Tsan—”
“You’ll want it, won’t you?” he answered defiantly. “Another weapon. Isn’t that what you’re after? I’m taking it with me.”
Lin scuffed one foot, then grinned his comical Groucho Marx grin. “That is inconsistent with your status as military observer.”
“How true.”
They walked quickly over to P’ei. The boy was dead; the bullet had passed through his skull above the ears. Damon gazed at the smooth, round face; with his eyes closed, the lips faintly curled, the boy seemed to be smiling slyly—as though in quiet glee at having escaped the bitter cold, the meager rations, this interminable war that had never been declared. “He’s so young,” Damon murmured half-aloud, and the thought chilled him: he had never thought that of any soldier he’d seen killed in combat.
Down at the Japanese command post everyone was moving with haste, lashing boxes of medical supplies to packboards or rigging lines around them. Two men came out carrying the Nambu, which looked wicked enough with its heavy corrugated barrel and the curious tilted boxlike hopper fixed on one side of the breech. Six-point-five millimeter; and no problems about belts or faulty linkage—just keep dropping five-shot rifle clips into the hopper. Darned clever, these Japanese. Still sweating from the close call he watched them hurrying. And now they were going to carry these medical supplies and captured weapons away with them, in addition to their meager personal gear; up one mountain and down another …
He stepped into the command post: a welter of smashed furniture and strewn papers, dead bodies sprawled under tables and chairs. In one corner there was a little commotion; he moved up to the knot of men, and stopped. The hardbitten old officer they called Lao Kou was lying very still, his face slick with sweat. What looked like a series of shadows was gliding out from under his back and buttocks.
Damon turned away and went outside again, into the cold night. The sense of alienation, of sheer uselessness was immense; he kept opening and closing his hands. A man he hadn’t seen before, a farmer in a sheepskin vest and cloth trousers, was talking to Lin Tso-han, who was listening, his face stern. He spoke rapidly to two of his officers, then gave the command: “Tsou pa!” and here and there other voices took up the cry softly:
“Tsou pa!… Tsou pa!…”
“What is it, Colonel?” Damon said.
Lin looked at him as if he’d forgotten his existence. “Japanese. Only five li from here. We must move quickly.” He went into the post and gave an order, and the soldiers who had been inside came tumbling out and started forming up with their loads. Damon followed Lin inside. The Commander had knelt over Lao Kou and was asking him something.
“Mei yu pan fa,” the old man muttered, his lips barely moving. “Mei yu fa-tzu …”
The Observer caught the phrase. “What’s impossible?” Lin looked at him, his face flat and utterly remote. “Nothing.”
“What can’t be done? Can’t you rig a stretcher for him?” Lin looked at him without answer; outside there was the clink and rustle of the column moving out. Damon stared at the Colonel. “—You’re not going to leave him here, are you?”
“Go out and take your place in the column, Ts’an Tsan,” Lin said.
“What? Look, for Christ sake—”
Lin came to his feet. “Fu tsung ming ling!” he said tightly; then, in French: “You will obey orders. Now, go!”
He got it, then. He drew himself up and saluted smartly and said: “Yes, sir,” and turned and went out. The end of the column was already passing swiftly; he saw the Eskimo, nodded and stepped out behind him, fell into the quick, driving rhythm of the march. As they swung west across the railroad tracks he heard the shot—a muffled pop that sounded like a crushed paper bag, a child’s game. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Oh—my—Jesus. What a dirty, filthy war …”
They were walking at a speed that astonished him, half-running up a slope that cut back and forth between rock shoulders. His face broke out in sweat, he lost his wind, he had a stitch in his side. Then he caught his second wind, and held it. They were moving up Wu T’ai mountain, a narrow ascending trail that led past boulders big as cattle; below them the village had already vanished in the darkness, like a toy that has sunk to the bottom of a pool.
“How far,” someone just ahead of him said. “How far to Pa-hsüeh?” and another voice answered: “Forty-seven li.”
He did some painful calculating, then. His mind, slowed by hunger and cold and the physical effort he was making, worked haltingly, like a gun whose grease has congealed. A li was one-third of a mile. So, 47 divided by three was 15⅔. Sixteen miles, nearly. But they had already done 53 li the day before, and 14 getting into position that afternoon. Which made 114 li, or—divided by three—34—no, 38 miles … But that was only Pa-hsüeh, and they had to get to Tung Yen T’o before they were out of danger. All of this at 3⅓ miles to the hour, up one mountain and down the next.
They reached the ridge, followed it for half a mile and then descended, along a twisting path strewn with stones that rolled and skittered underfoot like large malicious marbles. Once he fell, sliding on one hip, felt the hot, dry burn on his thigh. He got to one knee. Someone’s arms were under his, hauling him to his feet; he glared at the Sa
maritan—but it was a face he didn’t recognize. He muttered, “Thank you, comrade,” and struck out again, cursing savagely under his breath. The Japanese rifle bore down on his right shoulder, the lumpy cartridge pouches jostled at his hips, chafing the bone with every step. What in God’s name had he picked it up for? The sling, even in this biting air, smelled queerly—of mildew and old brass and fish. Why of fish?
He was falling back. One by one they were passing him, these ragged figures in their quilted uniforms and cotton-cloth shoes, burdened with their packboards, their breath coming in quick, dry gasps. He gaped at them. It was impossible—he was a martinet about physical fitness, he’d earned the reputation of a hiker among hikers at Beyliss and on Luzon; and here he was almost at the end of the march, in danger of becoming a straggler. He, Sam Damon, a straggler …
They crossed a dry riverbed, and the dust rose in choking clouds; he could feel it on his teeth, in his throat. They climbed again, reached a flat little knoll where there had once been a dwelling or a shrine. Someone gave a command, and they sank to their knees or sprawled against the stone. Damon stretched his legs out slowly; his thighs were quivering, and the old wound throbbed. He took a sip from his canteen and it was worse than no water at all. Surely now they were safe: surely now they could rest for a time. Just sit on the flintlike stone and rest.