A Single Swallow

by Zhang Ling

  But I wasn’t as strong in every segment of the ordnance classes as I was in shooting. For instance, when we had to disassemble and reassemble our firearms, I nearly failed. You thought I was like most Chinese students, lacking hands-on skills. You’d discovered this weakness in Chinese students early on. You said that by the time any ordinary boy in America went to elementary school, he could repair a bicycle, but many Chinese men had never even used a screwdriver. You said this out of surprise, but when it made its way out of your mouth, it carried a hint of sarcasm and disdain. You didn’t know how much you’d hurt our pride. And you were soon to reap the consequences of what you’d said. You also didn’t know that even though my ability to fix things wasn’t comparable to that of a man my age in America, I wasn’t as stupid as you thought. I just didn’t apply my mind to it. I didn’t spread my energy evenly between tasks, because I didn’t want to be a mechanic or a repairman. I just wanted to find the fastest way to become a sharpshooter. I didn’t have much time. I’d heard the footsteps of the god of death drawing near.

  So I muddled along through the first two lessons, and finally it was time for the third, Armament Knowledge, with Gunner’s Mate Ian Ferguson. You’d announced in our previous lesson that in this one you were going to introduce a new type of special explosive with superblasting power. The phrase “superblasting power” had been seared into my mind. In my lexicon, it meant I could exchange one life for many. You walked into the classroom carrying a thick roll of paper under your arm and what looked like a few tubes of toothpaste in your hand. I guessed these held what you had called special explosives. When the captain called us to attention, I noticed that my hands shook slightly with the excitement of a good rider who saw a horse of rare quality. I had just opened my notebook when I heard someone call my number: “Number 635, stand up!” It was the captain.

  “Have you done your inspection today?” he asked sharply.

  I touched my cap and found that the badge was centered, then touched my collar. My heart tightened. It was awful. My collar was loose. After we’d finished morning exercises, I’d been covered in sweat, so I undid the top button on my collar to cool down. I must have forgotten to fasten it again. I quickly did so, but it was too late.

  “You’ll stand during this class, so that you can be an example to those who don’t observe military discipline,” the captain said sternly. Feeling every one of the hundreds of eyes on me, I stood in the corner indicated by the captain. I saw you glance at me, and the corner of your mouth twitched as if you had something to say, but you swallowed it. I felt a naked shame. It was strange. That slap that morning was a much harsher punishment, but I don’t remember it having the same sting this did. I thought the shame had formed a crust on my flesh, and I had the spirit of a warrior, immune to all poison. I didn’t imagine that, no matter how thick the crust, there would still be cracks. That crack was you, Ian. I cared about my image in front of you. My collar had been loose since breakfast, and the captain must have noticed it in the earlier two classes. He chose to land his punch now, though, because he wanted to hit me where I was weakest.

  The captain’s hatred of me had started almost at first glance. He didn’t like that I stayed in bed, reading, on Sunday afternoon after all the work was done instead of walking to the market, like he and the others did, to go to the noodle shop at the entrance of the market and chat with the newly widowed woman who owned it. And he didn’t like that every now and then I sat on a stool to cut my nails, then swept the clippings into the rubbish heap beside the door instead of picking the dirt from the nails of one hand with the other and flicking it onto the walls or the top of someone else’s mosquito net, like he did. He didn’t like that I carefully wrapped the front cover of each textbook with oilpaper instead of tearing a corner off to wipe snot from his nose or blood from his gums, as he did. There were many things about me that the captain couldn’t stand. These were just a few examples that he could give. More than once he stood in front of everyone and cursed me, saying, “Don’t pretend to be some fucking Mr. Big Scholar with me.”

  There were other things about me that the captain hated that he was too proud to admit. For instance, I was always the first to understand the American instructors, while he had to wait for the translators to turn the English into awkward Chinese. I could casually half listen to the class on political situations and still receive a good result on the exams, while he struggled to pass, even though he put in many nights of studying. There can be many reasons for one person’s fondness or hatred of another, and sometimes there’s no reason at all. Explaining interpersonal relationships is easier in the animal kingdom. When it came down to it, the captain and I were just two dogs with different scents.

  This scent I was born with and couldn’t change led me to endure a good deal of punishment. There were more punishments lurking on the road ahead, like a sniper ready to strike me anytime, and I couldn’t prevent that. I was repeatedly called by the captain to carry his footbath and empty his chamber pot, though he had his own orderly to do those things. I had been given two consecutive weeks of housekeeping duty because the nail I used to hang my notebook on the wall was two millimeters longer than others. I’d once been punched because a corner of my blanket had fallen to the floor. I was made to carry sandbags under the scorching sun when my gunstock had accidentally bumped the student next to me while I was practicing my aim. There are too many instances to mention. Later, I eventually came to realize the truth about such faultfinding. When examined under a microscope, one will see the pores even in the skin of an angel.

  I had detected his animosity early on and had avoided him as much as possible, shrinking myself in hopes of disappearing into his blind spot. But I couldn’t succeed. I was often involuntarily thrust into view, like when I was asked to translate anytime the interpreter wasn’t around or was busy. At target practice, my brain repeatedly warned me not to steal the captain’s spotlight, but my hand and gun rebelled. They willfully sought the bright-red bull’s-eye. I could only watch as I sank ever deeper into the mire of the captain’s disdain. When the captain punished me by making me stand during class, he unwittingly placed me at an advantageous height. I could see the podium more clearly than any of my classmates. Eventually, I was so captivated by the instructor’s material, I forgot my own embarrassment. You hung three large photos on the blackboard, one of noodles in a sieve, one of a green onion wheat cake, and one of a long fritter. I heard Snot snicker in the back row. He said, “This American is still asleep. He’s in the wrong classroom.”

  You turned and asked for translation, but the translator said he didn’t hear clearly. Snot was confident about the translator. He spoke with a heavy accent, but he was a good old fellow, and he knew what he should translate and what he should not.

  “You must be wondering about these photos. Well, these are the special explosives we’re going to discuss today.”

  You whetted everyone’s appetite right from the start that day. Squeezing a small amount of the soft substance from one of the plastic tubes, you spread it over your palm and showed it to us.

  “This is our newly developed soft explosive. Its blasting power is five to eight times that of ordinary TNT. It can be molded into the shape of a variety of food items. Besides the things in the photos, you can shape it into the sesame balls most common in this area. If you want the effect to be more realistic, you can roll it in sesame seeds and crushed peanuts.

  “Besides being a powerful explosive, it can be transported safely, because unlike ordinary explosives, its detonator and fuse do not have to be installed in advance, but can be carried separately, then kneaded into the middle when you’re ready to use the explosive.”

  You grabbed a small piece, put it in your mouth, and swallowed it. Everyone gasped.

  “If one encounters an unexpected search or check, you can even take a bite in front of the inspecting party to show it’s harmless. Of course, you can’t swallow the whole thing.”

  At this, e
veryone let out a sigh of relief.

  “We’ve performed precise experiments. The fuse can be anywhere from thirty-one inches to ten yards, according to the specific needs of the situation. Thirty-one inches minimum was calculated based on the height of the average American, but since most Chinese are smaller, a minimum length of one yard is needed, since stride is proportionate to height. If the fuse is too short, the person who sets the explosive won’t have enough time to escape safely. If it’s too long, the detonation will take too long, giving the enemy time to defuse it.”

  Only Americans could engineer killing so precisely and cleanly, like a mathematical formula. Thinking of the time I had stolen the knife from the butcher Yao Er’s shop, I could only sigh and think I was no more than a frog in a well who’d seen nothing of the world.

  Next, you began to introduce another way to detonate soft explosives: timing devices. Once again, Snot couldn’t resist saying something that made everyone laugh loudly. You turned to face the interpreter. He stammered and said he didn’t hear, but you weren’t fooled this time. Your eyes clung to the interpreter’s face like a leech, not budging. In the end, he couldn’t stand up under a look like that. He laughed nervously and said, “Maybe they feel that if they can’t see the effect of the blasting, it’s no . . . not so exciting.” Of course this wasn’t what had been said. What had been said was two things: “If you don’t hear the bang, that’s a pretty chickenshit explosive” and “At the end of the day, those American motherfuckers are just scared to die.” The interpreter softened the edges on the first sentence and completely omitted the second. But the radar in your brain was particularly sensitive that day. You understood the tone in Snot’s words, and with that foothold, you intuitively struck on his meaning.

  You fell silent. At first, we didn’t realize you were angry, because the American instructors rarely flared up at the Chinese trainees. We only saw that your face had grown a little pale, but all the Americans’ skin was pale anyway, so we weren’t too concerned. Then, the paleness turned steely. Your silence lasted for a long time, beyond the normal span of someone gathering his thoughts. We began to feel confused and uneasy. You finally let out a sigh, then pulled out your wallet and took a folded newspaper clipping from inside. We passed it from row to row. No one but me and the interpreter understood the English text, but the photo above the words was a young, shy-looking American in sportswear.

  “That’s John Worthington. He lived in my hometown and was engaged to my friend’s friend. If there’d been no war, he’d probably be a professional football player,” you said. “He entered the military a year before me, joining the air force, and he also served in the Far East. He made sixteen flights on the Hump, landing safely every time. But on the seventeenth mission, his plane crashed. The special explosives he was carrying were like these you’re seeing today.

  “Do you know how many planes have crashed or been shot down besides his? Do you know how much tax support is required from each family for each instructor and each piece of weaponry to be transported all the way over here? For every one of you sitting in class here, how many people supporting you have had to cut back on food and clothing, even to the point of dying from hunger and cold? You’re not ordinary soldiers. You carry the lives of others with you.”

  You sounded exhausted, so unlike your typical swagger when you played basketball or walked your dog. At that moment, you sounded more like an old man who’d endured a long journey and was physically run-down. Later, I learned it was the death of this young man that prompted your girlfriend to marry someone else.

  “If you want to die in your first battle, that’s cowardly. Your training is too expensive. You aren’t here to learn how to die. The person who rushes to the front and dies in the most tragic manner isn’t the winner. If you live to the end, until you’ve beaten all your enemies, then you’re the real hero.”

  The interpreter stopped stuttering, finishing that entire speech in one breath. As he finished, I heard rawness in his throat. Silence fell. Nobody knew how to respond. The interpreter was the first to applaud. His applause was lonely at first, so lonely it grew awkward. After a moment, there was a smattering of sparse, hesitant responses, which gradually grew a backbone and became more confident. I did not clap. I was in a trance. I felt that the wall that had been guarding my heart had toppled, and a strange light was shining through. I couldn’t tell if I had gained freedom or if I was more weighed down than before.

  You took a few bills from your wallet and put them in the captain’s hand, saying, “After class, go to the store and buy some firecrackers. Get the biggest ones. Doesn’t 520 love to hear a bang? Let him hear all he wants.” Everyone burst into laughter. Snot wiped his nose with his sleeve and laughed along with them.

  That day’s class was short, lasting only half an hour. The next subject was field operations. Three simple brick houses had been constructed in an open field, and the fuses were set at lengths of one yard, five yards, and ten yards. The effect of each explosion was similar. A ball of soft explosive shaped like a wheat cake instantly turned a brick house into a pile of rubble. I took off my hat and wiped the dust from my body. I wasn’t even aware that you had walked over to stand beside me.

  “After seeing the power of these explosives, you still want to die right away?” you asked, winking at me.

  I was taken aback.

  “You . . . how did you know?”

  “I’m always observing. You concentrated when I explained the details of firing and blasting, but not on the aftermath and retreat segment.”

  I was speechless. Your mind was indeed a radar, and there were almost no blind spots. In all those long years after we parted, whenever I thought of Yuehu, I always felt that the main reason I didn’t die on the battlefield was that particular class of yours. But I don’t know whether I should thank you for those years or curse you.

  “I’ll look for you later. I have something to discuss with you,” you whispered to me.

  That night after dinner, you sent your servant Buffalo to call me.

  He didn’t come in, but stood outside the door and called, “Six-three-five, the American officer needs you to do some translation.”

  I followed Buffalo a few steps and noticed we weren’t going toward the classroom. I asked where we were going, but Buffalo just ignored me and walked ahead, leading the way. We walked into a clearing in the woods. In the distance, I saw you sitting alone on a rock, smoking, with Ghost lying at your feet. Beside Ghost was the white terrier Millie. Ghost was dozing off, and Millie kept pushing his head lightly with her paw. Ghost wasn’t annoyed, but shook his head from time to time, as if shooing away flies.

  I put my heels together and stood at attention. Though your khakis had no military insignia indicating rank and the Americans didn’t salute when you saw each other, regardless of rank, your practice didn’t apply to us. We had to salute every commanding officer of any level and every instructor. You waved and motioned me to sit next to you.

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  “Who?” you said, not understanding.

  “Don’t you need me to translate?” I looked at Buffalo in confusion.

  Buffalo showed his protruding front teeth and started to laugh.

  “If I didn’t say that, would they have let you go?” he said.

  He wasn’t wrong. Chinese students had no free time, aside from four hours on Sunday afternoon. You took your cigarette case out of your pocket and offered me one.

  “Smoke?” you asked.

  I nodded. Most of our comrades learned to smoke during their first week or two in the camp, and I was no exception. But we only smoked local cigarettes. This was my first American cigarette. American cigarettes were a rare commodity. Aside from the American instructors, I’d only seen our highest local commanding officer have one. I felt the difference immediately. Local cigarettes were made with couch grass, which is spicy and pungent as it travels from tongue to throat to lungs and back out the nose. The Amer
ican cigarette was also made with couch grass, but its edge was taken off as if covered in a layer of silky cotton, which was soft and had a smell I didn’t recognize. I couldn’t bear to finish it in one sitting, so I put it out half-smoked, then tucked it behind my ear for the next day. You, on the other hand, smoked your cigarette all the way to a butt. You took your time, as if there were an unreachable island between each drag. I could see that you were looking for an appropriate opening to start a conversation.

  “When I was little, my father took me to the zoo. Can you guess which animal I liked best?” you finally began.

  I’d never seen a zoo. Having only read about them in books, I had to rely on my imagination to answer your question. I guessed the eagle first, then the lion, since these two animals were the most fascinating to me, but you just shook your head. Then you told me it was the monkey.

  I was surprised and asked, “Why?”

  You said, “They’re very similar to humans. The monkey house at the zoo was like the land of little people in Gulliver’s Travels.”

  You said that every time you went to the zoo, you would ignore everything else and just go straight to the monkey house, where you would spend several hours.

  “Once, I saw a tourist throw a banana to them. All the monkeys rushed forward. One of the bigger monkeys grabbed it first, but he didn’t get to eat it. In the end, the one that ate it was a small monkey. The big fellow was almost twice its size, but the small monkey launched a surprise attack from behind. He jumped on the big monkey’s back and snatched the banana over its shoulder. When the big monkey turned around, the little monkey had just the peel left in his hand.