Farr drew back in horror as the other Karen levies came running, using their hooks and ropes to subdue the frightened elephant, and led it to a quiet, level area of the trail.
Stoddard hurried over, staring at the grisly scene and then at Farr.
“Are you…” Stoddard paused, uttering a sharp cry, “Christ! Your shirt.”
Farr looked down. Blood seeped through the worn cloth of his jungle khaki, spreading a stain of bright red; dripping down his canvas shorts and legs. He peeled his shirt open and saw a long scratch where the sharp point had sliced through his skin. More blood was coming out. Shit.
Stoddard examined the wound. “You’d best get this taken care of immediately. It will turn septic in this climate.”
Farr pulled a ratty handkerchief from his pocket, thought better of it, and stuffed it back. “Yes, sir.”
Stoddard squinted. “I don’t think it needs stitches. Ask the guide to find you a bandage in the rucksacks. I think I saw a medical supply box in one of them. When we get to Braithwaite’s camp, get some sulfa tablets from the medic, grind them into powder, and apply it to the cut.” He nodded to the levies. “And tell them to bring Maung’s body back. We’ll have it taken care of.” He shook his head. “The filthy blighter had it coming to him. The levies have been complaining. I should have spoken to him myself.”
* * *
Arriving at camp that afternoon, Farr helped the men unload and distribute the supplies to the Karen levies of the village. Later, he sat down to clean his rifle while he smoked a cheroot. He heard Stoddard’s voice and looked up to see the captain exiting Major Braithwaite’s quarters and walking in his direction.
Farr stood, attempting to adjust what passed for his uniform. The months in Burma had wasted his body away. Like most jungle soldiers, his uniform was in shreds. When sleeping or in camp, he dressed in whatever was available. Today, he’d changed into a dirty longyi, wrapped around his middle. He was shirtless, his chest partially bandaged in an attempt to cover the long cut. A bit of twisted tree vine tied back his hair, revealing a gaunt chin and a thick growth of beard. None of them had shaved in weeks. Since running out of malaria tablets, his yellowed skin had developed an unhealthy pallor. Sores covered most of his body. The captain looked just as bad.
As Stoddard came over, Farr straightened up, omitting the tell-tale salute. “Sir?”
“Sergeant, the major wishes to have a word.”
“Yes, sir.”
He’d expected this. If there was going to be military action against him, it had been worth it. The mule was now in care of the other guides, his cuts being seen to.
He entered the small mission house that served as the camp HQ. Major Braithwaite was inside, studying papers. Farr waited respectfully.
The major stood, motioning Farr to take a seat on one of the ammo boxes, then returned to his folding chair. He began abruptly, “The man who was killed today, Thet Maung. He had a wife.”
Farr winced. “Are there any—”
Braithwaite shook his head. “No children. And according to the Karens here in the village, there will be no love lost. Seems the man abused her as well. Still, amends should be made. Her husband’s parents will be coming from another village in a few weeks’ time. Until then, see what you can do to help out.”
“Yes, sir. We might be gone occasionally—”
“I’ve briefed Stoddard but let me catch you up on events. The BBC has reported some new kind of bombs being dropped on mainland Japan. Large ones. Destroyed entire cities.”
“What—”
“Rumors of a Japanese surrender have reached us, and Rangoon has just confirmed those reports.”
Farr could not take it in. “The war? It’s over?”
The major nodded. “It’s going to take a while for news to trickle down. The Japanese, for all practical purposes, are done, but there will still be skirmishes and small squads of them coming through, as they head for the border. We’ve been ordered to cease fire, unless directly attacked. Very little ammo left anyway. They should not be much trouble. Nonetheless, take care. No one wants to be killed now, when it’s all over.”
“Right. Will do, sir.”
“Meanwhile, make yourself useful. Radio parts have arrived with supply. It’s fairly flat here, so you shouldn’t have any trouble sending messages. I’ll see if we can get you some proper medication for that cut, but…” He shrugged.
“Yes, sir.” Farr rose, but the major waved him back down.
“One more matter, Sergeant. It shall take time, and will go according to draft dates, but we’ll all be sent back and demobbed, or given orders for new assignments. You’ve come to us from the OSS, and worked with the Jeds in France. Being an American, it will be a bit different for you. Of course, we can get you as far as Rangoon. But from there, you’ll head east, I presume? Across the Pacific, rather than through the Suez?”
“I would like that, sir; get me home a bit quicker.”
Braithwaite smiled. “Understood. Where is home, Sergeant?”
The memory of North Dakota wheat fields drifted through Farr’s mind, dissipating as quickly as it had arrived. “California sir, down San Diego way.”
Braithwaite nodded. “Nice place. Been there a few times myself. Well, I’ll make sure to notify the proper personnel in Rangoon. No problem with your orders.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Lodge where you can. See if you can square up with Sergeants Lewis and Wilkie for a place to sleep. Report each morning for radio transmissions. Stoddard and I will be moving out in the next few days, going back to Rangoon. We’ve been given orders, and will be catching the boat to Colombo soon.”
Farr was dazed. “Yes, sir.”
Braithwaite gave him directions to Maung’s, then Farr exited the hut.
Walking back to the clearing, he picked up his rifle and cheroot, and sat down. It was over. Just like that. It seemed he’d been here a lifetime, an eternity.
After relocation leave and training, Farr had left from Liverpool Docks in late January. The trip had taken over a month by ship, stopping in various ports along the way. Then there had been a brief stint of jungle training in Horana and Colombo, where he joined with Major Braithwaite and Captain Stoddard to form Team STARFISH .
They were dropped from a Dakota in mid-April and met by the colonel in charge of the jungle operation. After several briefings, they were taken by elephant to meet other teams already established under Special Forces. Then Farr and his team had moved on, farther east toward the Siam border, to stake out their own camp from which they would operate.
Their job had been to get in and out quickly, before the monsoon season. Due to the hilly terrain, there had not been much radio work. Farr had overseen the training of levies, worked with his team to transport ammunition and supplies, and prevented the retreating Japanese from passing across the border into Siam. Now it was over. They would all be going home.
Home. During the long, sleepless nights, Farr had made plans. They were simple. He’d go to Coronado and find a room for rent. He’d ask questions. He’d check all the ships coming into the harbor. He’d find her and apologize for being an incredible ass. If only he could hold her in his arms again, everything else would fall into place. Nothing else mattered. Nothing.
His rifle cleaned, Farr stood, carefully extinguishing the tip of his cheroot. Hitching his rucksack and slinging the rifle over his back, he went off to find Lewis.
He found Wilkie instead, in one of the bamboo huts propped up on stilts, next to the mission houses. The man sat on straw matting, eating his rations and some rice. Wilkie was from Chicago, and he and Farr got along well.
He looked up as Farr entered. “Welcome back. You look like shit.”
Farr squatted next to him on the mat and grabbed a rations packet.
Wilkie glanced at his face. “I heard abo
ut Maung. Don’t lose any sleep over it. He was a sneaky little bastard.”
Farr shrugged. “No man deserves to die like that. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t blown up.”
“Yeah, he’d still be walking around torturing animals and beating women.”
Farr changed the subject. “Did Braithwaite tell you the news?”
“Damn right. We’ve suspected for a few days. Figured we’d wait till you got back instead of sending a runner. Nothing to be done right now anyway. We’re all playing the waiting game.”
Farr looked around. “This our new sleeping quarters?”
Wilkie grinned. “Yeah. Lewis and I got the small platform over there. Guess you get the corner.”
The wooden platform was prime real estate, offering some escape from the wet and the bugs that crawled through cracks in the flooring. Not much, but some. He stared at the small cleared area between bales of cargo and wooden crates. At least it appeared dry. He finished his food and got up, staking out his territory by dumping his things onto the mat. He looked over his shoulder at Wilkie. “Going out to find Maung’s wife. See what I can do.”
Willkie grunted, and continued eating.
Farr walked along the path to the outskirts of the village where Maung’s hut lay. The late afternoon sun intermingled with dark clouds, and the air was sticky with heat. Absently scratching an open sore, he looked down at his skin. It had turned yellow with the constant use of mepacrine anti-malaria tablets, but when they’d run out, some of them had come down with it. Farr had been out a week with a high fever.
Maung’s hut was about a ten-minute walk outside the village, on the other side of a fallow rice field. It stood on stilts and was all beat to hell. Some roofing had been torn off in the last storm, and parts of the thatched walls were shredded. Maung hadn’t been much of a handyman.
The cloying smell of rotting mangoes filled the air, and he was careful not to step in any of the decayed pulp that lay scattered around the hut. He stopped at the bottom of the steps. There’d been no interpreter to accompany him, but Stoddard said she’d gone to the mission school as a kid where she’d picked up some English. They’d told her the news already. She hadn’t shed any tears over it.
He climbed the rickety ladder to the entrance and hesitated, peering in. Shafts of late afternoon sunlight pierced through the thatch, and he squinted. Everything—the walls, the floor, even the air—seemed to shimmer with golden dust. In one corner of the tiny room, a young woman squatted on thin matting, rolling rice into small, green leaves. She was golden-toned as well, with dark eyes and long, black hair woven in two braids down her back. Seeing him enter, she rose and bowed, speaking a few words in English.
He motioned to himself, saying his name, and she did the same. It sounded something like Aung Nan. After the struggle of polite introductions, the man faltered. What do you say to a woman whose husband you’ve just killed? It seemed, nothing. By her gestures, he understood that she was asking him to sit and eat.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Farr looked around the room as she arranged the food on a large, green leaf between them. A few colorful cloths were folded across a raised platform in one corner, and some pans hung suspended from looped twine along the walls. Several clay jugs and woven baskets stood in the other corner, and items of clothing hung from the wall. There was very little else. The interior walls had some ragged holes, as well as the roof. After their meal, he conducted a brief inspection. She followed him, watching intently as he examined everything.
He turned back to her and, with a series of gestures and words, indicated that he would return later to help repair the torn thatch. She nodded, then surprised him by taking his hand and leading him over to a small, wooden box. She lifted the lid, showing him the few tools inside. He barely saw them, his hand still tingling from her warm touch. Christ, how long had it been?
He said his goodbye, which she repeated. Bowing again, she followed him to the doorway and watched as he climbed back down the stairs. He made his way along the path and through the fields, feeling her dark eyes on him, until he turned past the last bend before the village.
* * *
For the next few days, Farr spent the mornings working the radio, cleaning weapons, and doing practice drills with the visiting levies. But every afternoon he made his way to Aung Nan’s, to repair the thatch.
She showed him how it was all done, and he was able to hoist the materials up to the roof after finding out it supported his weight. They would work though the afternoon, and in the evenings, she would prepare him a meal. He taught her a few words of English, and she taught him some of her Karen dialect, but he could never remember them later.
One afternoon, she met him at the door with a clean longyi, indicating for him to give her his ragged clothing. Farr turned beet red and retreated down the stairs to change, away from her laughing eyes.
Together they went to the river, and while he stretched out on a rock in the sunlight, she pounded his clothing onto the river rocks, water droplets splashing in sparkles on her golden skin. Farr was shocked to feel himself growing hard. He was glad when she finished the wash and they returned to her hut.
That evening they had rice wine with the vegetables. Unaccustomed to the alcohol, Farr felt his muscles relaxing and his eyelids growing heavy. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the platform of quilts, with Aung Nan kneeling next to him on the floor, lightly patting his arm. He reached out and held her hand. He held it for a long time, before eventually excusing himself and heading back to camp.
* * *
He could hear Aung Nan’s screams coming from inside the little hut. He bounded up the stairs, pistol in his hand, and faced two Japanese soldiers. One had the woman in his grasp. He had torn her longyi away and was making a long incision down the middle of her breasts.
Farr shouted out to the soldiers, firing his pistol, but it was jammed. The other man turned, and in horror, Farr saw Thet Maung’s half crushed face, his eyes staring wildly from their sockets.
Farr shouted again and jerked awake, finding himself lying in a puddle of sweat on his rice mat. Jesus. He sat up, glancing over at Wilkie and Lewis. They were sleeping. Apparently, he hadn’t made a noise.
He got up and looked out the doorway into the clear nighttime sky, still trembling. Suddenly, there was a brilliant streak of light as a shooting star arced over the silhouette of distant trees. The sheer unexpected beauty of it took his breath away.
He climbed down the stairs and began walking out along the village path. A silence settled over the camp like a velvet cloak, muffling all noise and calming his nerves. He’d walked quite a distance before finding himself standing near Aung Nan’s hut. There was a light inside, and he slowly climbed to the top of the stairs. No soldiers, no ghosts. Aung Nan was awake, sitting on her pallet of woven rice matting.
As he stood in the doorway, she removed her longyi and raised her arms. Farr stared at her warm, curved body and dark tumble of hair. He uttered a sharp cry, and stumbled over to her. She took him, folding him into her arms.
She spoke little English, and he knew less Karen, but there was no language needed for what they did with each other that night, in the small thatched hut east of the Irrawaddy, deep in the Burma jungle.
Chapter 16
Okinawa, 1945
Nye was pulling rank, pulling strings, moving heaven and earth to remain on island. He finally got a colonel he’d worked with previously in North Africa to put in an amendment on his orders back to Guam. The officer in charge of Personnel on Okinawa had just been demobilized, and Nye would take over the job. His own discharge was imminent, and it was a waste of time to move again. He could just as easily out-process from here. Many troops were arriving daily from the outlying islands, for demobilization and transport back home. Nye sighed with relief. He was cleared to remain on island for a while longer.
That done, h
e checked in with his new post and then headed to the chow hall for some food. He was amazed at how quickly the troops had reassembled the base after the typhoon’s destruction. Most Quonsets had been flattened like pancakes, and temporary structures had blown away. They would have been in trouble, but supplies for the previous month’s typhoon were already coming in. Within a week, food, water, medical supplies, and most shelters had been restored.
Grabbing a tray, he scanned the hot Quonset for some spare seats. Since the storm, the mess hall had not yet been segregated for officers and enlisted, but the officers tended to clump together. He spied a small table by the door with an emaciated enlisted man sitting at the end of it, smoking. He didn’t give a damn who he ate with. He brought his tray over to sit down, and almost dropped it when he realized who the man was.
Farr was equally surprised. “Sir!” He hastily rose to his feet.
“What the hell, Farr! Good to see you.”
They grinned furiously, shaking hands, then took their seats.
“What—?” Both men spoke at once.
Nye laughed and nodded. “Go ahead.”
Farr briefly related his experiences in Burma and what had brought him to Okinawa.
Nye sat back, listening, studying the man’s face. He’d not had an easy time of it over there, he could see that. The man had dropped at least two stone, and he’d never been bulky to begin with. A sudden realization hit him like a blow.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
“About two weeks. They had me over in intensive care. Had some infections. The fever needed to be brought down.”
“Have you caught up on current events?”
“The war’s over. Not much else matters. The big news was the last typhoon. Crazy stuff. Like one of those tornados back home. The men in my squadron rode it out in one of the caves along the river. How about you, sir?”
“Unfortunately, we arrived just as the typhoon hit. We were caught out in it, you see.”
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