Con felt that if he didn’t get it all clear now, that someday it would come through and ruin one of his plans. When he thought of this he could see a row of the little brown men twisted on the dank jungle floor as the flies gathered on their still contorted faces; and heard plainly the sound of the shovels as the burial detail uncovered the wet earth.
Then it would be too late. As much as he hated to he was forced to face it. But if it wasn’t for the old man Nautaung, he probably never would be able to face it at all. Whatever he had said to him always made sense running through him like a clear sounding bell and leaving him clean and confident inside. He had never known anyone like the wiry bent old man who could out-walk him on the trail and out-shoot the best of shots.
The old Kachin had said that men were like spiders weaving their own web and creating their own destiny. A spider that was afraid did not weave a web of quality. A man must be free and he could only become so if he mastered himself by looking into the mirror of his mind as often as he looked at himself in the mirror-pool of the jungle stream. And somehow Con understood it all and knew that the old man was right.
Times when Con felt strong and especially wanted to see how much he could take within himself he would put Nautaung and Margaret side by side in his mind and say one of you must die and the power of who was to live was within him. And it was always Nautaung that he had let live. Deep down this bothered him.
He loved Margaret Fitch but he never believed that anyone could really love without vanity or material want as Nautaung did, and sometimes he became irritated seeing his own weakness and the weakness of his woman, through the strength of this simple man.
The hills and the people of the hills were changing him. He could not place it but felt it surely and sometimes he didn’t think he had any idea where he was going. He would have to think some more of just how he was changing. He would have to talk that over with the monkey. It was getting cool now and he’d better get over to headquarters where the monkey waited for him. He got up slowly and stretched, dusting the back of his pants with the bush hat. He put the hat on his head and slung his carbine from one shoulder and his battle pack from the other. Then he looked up through the trees stretching again arms extended, hearing the whrrr of the generator he began to think about Niven.
And Nautaung watched as the goateed lean body unwound. Ahh! The Dua feels his youth, the old man thought.
CHAPTER II
Jim Niven sat on the ground on the opposite and blind side of the hill from Con Reynolds’ headquarters sending the evening message. Two young Kachin Scouts turned the handpumped radio generator between three tall trees and the puptent that housed the radio equipment and kept it dry.
Niven sent the message expertly, automatically, a small fire reflecting on his gold rimmed glasses and thin young face. The first north breeze chilled from the Himalayan snows felt cool to the back of his crewcut head, his light blue eyes stared out through the clearing to the flickering campfires, his mind a dreary carousel of spinning faces and scraps of talk. Then not ten feet away he saw the Filipino, Lau’rel smiling at him from the shadows.
Niven stopped sending: “Come on over. I didn’t hear you.”
“Didn’t expect you to, old boy. That generator is rather noisy, you know,” Lau’rel said in his neat English accent.
It shocked Niven again. Since the Filipino had joined them five weeks before, and his knowing from the radio before he met him that Lau’rel was a middle-aged native of Manila, it still had shocked Niven to hear the precise English accent.
“Sit down. I’ll finish up here and we’ll have a drink,” Niven urged, watching the hard and stocky Filipino, carbine slung, amble toward his fire.
“A little later, old boy,” José Francisco Piedro Lau’rel smiled whitely, scratching his temple near his greying hairline. “I’m checking the perimeter. And I have to report to Con.”
“How about having dinner with me … here?” Niven said a little anxiously, seeing the aristocratic Spanish structure of Lau’rel’s face glimmer in the firelight.
“Excellent. I’ll meet you in … say … forty-five minutes. At Con’s headquarters?”
“Good,” Niven agreed. “I have to take the evening radio message there. And we’ll walk back here together.”
“Neat,” Lau’rel nodded. The generator continued to whrrr and Lau’rel looked over at the two young Scouts pumping it laughingly, sweating in the cooling night. They couldn’t be over fifteen or sixteen. “They really seem to enjoy pumping that generator,” the Filipino said.
“They love it,” Niven looked at the Scouts. “They always argue to see who gets to pump. They’re like small children, fascinated by anything shiny or noisy.”
“Well, I’ll get along,” Lau’rel said touching the silver medallion that hung from his neck, then adjusting his carbine to his shoulder. “See you at Con’s headquarters in fortyfive minutes.”
“You wouldn’t have a cigar would you?” Niven asked, fingering his gold rimmed glasses.
“Sony, old man. I never smoke them,” Lau’rel said heading for the shadows.
Niven finished sending and took the short reply, breaking the message rapidly on the code machine. He typed it up on the portable field typewriter, then carefully he packed the typewriter and code machine and radio in the heavy canvas. He carried the equipment to the puptent, then he noticed the two young Kachins still turning the generator merrily.
“You are finished,” Niven said in their tongue. They stopped cranking and stood up slinging their M-1 rifles. The slung rifles were conspicuously too long for them, almost dragging on the ground.
Niven walked over and gave them each a cigarette and lit it for them.
“Thank you, Du,” said one.
“Thank you, Du,” the other said. They called the Filipino Lau’rel and all the white men Du. They called Con the Dua or Dukaba.
“Go eat now,” Niven commanded.
They saluted and started walking out of the clearing. One of them tripped on the generator and knocked it over. Niven stood awed momentarily, then he rushed down on one knee by the fallen piece of equipment, examining it severely but tenderly for a long time. Slowly he looked up at the two young Scouts, his gentle face twisted: “You fools. You stupid shits,” speaking in English, forgetting it was not coming in Kachin. “Didn’t I tell you to watch this equipment. This is your life. You wouldn’t have any ammunition to shoot or food to eat without this .… this .…” he said pointing.
They looked helpless. He did not realize they hadn’t understood what he was saying.
“Goddamn you. Goddamn you both. Get out! Get out!” Niven motioned with his arms. They walked out of the clearing with bowed heads, like two little boys caught playing hooky.
Niven pulled the generator over by the fire and examined it before packing it in the canvas and putting it in the puptent. He came out of the puptent carrying a battered comic magazine and curled up by the fire, beginning to read, the sweet scent of burning fircones drifting down the side of the hill. He sniffed the air delicately rolling the comic book in his hand, staring into the fire.
Maine.
Northeast Harbor. Sailing on the sound and the clean fresh smell of salt water. Bar Harbor. The summer evenings after the full days: dancing at the Yacht Club or sitting on the porch of Mother’s big house. That was the house she got from her second husband. Or was it the third? Father was the second. Jesus! At times he couldn’t remember anything anymore.
How much longer would this go on? Five months in these hills and jungle valleys and they were nowhere, getting nowhere. His brain was sick and powerless and everything of the real world that he had known was but a faint echo within him. Bar Harbor! then it was gone. The year Father ran for Governor when he was very small and Father had lost. Was that the year of the divorce? No. He remembered now, the divorce was the year after the election.
Niven laid his head on his arms and stretched out, listening to the beat of his heart as it came fas
ter and faster, louder and louder. He braced himself slightly, feeling now the thumping beat in his ears.
Wasn’t it going a little too fast, a little too hard for a man who had just turned twenty-one? He pressed his hand to his chest firmly trying to slow it, feeling certain now that his breath too was coming strained.
He sat up shaking his head, then rushed over to the puptent, and came out carrying a flashlight and started up the hill towards Con’s headquarters. He would take the evening message early and talk to Con for a while. That would make him feel better. Talking with Con always made him feel better.
He walked rapidly up the hill, through the murky shadows of the camp and the treetops blowing in the night’s northwind, smelling the rich peppered, curried powdered air; the succulent stews of the cooking pots, past the patterned groups of laughing Scouts by their fires, wondering why Con had moved him out of the headquarters.
It was that goddamn monkey, he thought.
The monkey?
How could you blame it on the monkey really; it was Con who was acting strange lately.
For five months he had shared Con’s headquarters, his bread, his conversation and friendship; everything but his responsibilities and perils, and suddenly when they had reached this hill he had ordered Niven to make his own bivouac without any explanation at all.
But that wasn’t the end of it; even stranger still, Con had called in all the Subadars and Dus and ordered that the men be permitted to burn fires within sight of the Burma Road itself. And then they had attacked the road that morning. And now the fires blazed teasingly on the hill, which must look like a Christmas tree of a hill with all its patterned light.
Niven swung up through the brush now, up towards the top of the hill. He walked faster, the brush scraping his clothing, stinging his face, through the changing shadows that sometimes were not shadows but hamadryads and Russel’s vipers or tusk sharpened boars. Faster he walked over the top of the hill down through the picket line of small Mongolian mules and into the headquarters kitchen and supply dump.
“Hallo, Du. Vat’s up?” Niven heard the voice of Con’s No. 1 boy call from his left. He stopped and looked around the headquarters dump; the cooking pots of stew and rice, the mule packs and equipment scattered and piled on the damp ground, the blacksmith shaping a pony shoe, canvas being sewn for the equipment packs. Then the No. 1 boy Billingsly came toward him from beyond a large cooking pot.
“Hello, Billingsly. How’s it going?” Niven asked touching his gold rimmed glasses, smiling slightly at the middleaged Kachin muleskinner and gambler whom Con had named, and whom Niven had taught to speak with a Jewish accent.
“Miss you, Du. Vhen you come back to headquarters, Du?”
“I miss you, Billingsly. I’ll ask Con,” Niven said his voice sinking, then brightening slightly as he saw the bright red and outlandish purple of the native’s longi.
“You back soon. Vhat a fine supper. You stay va supper?”
“No, Billingsly. I have dinner with the Du Lau’rel.”
“Thats niice,” Billingsly said slurring out the nice, holding his arms extended, head tilted. “Then ve play a lettle pokerr lata. Niiice lettle friendly game.”
“I’ll ask the Du Lau’rel,” Niven smiled. “I’ve got to get over to the CP now, Billingsly. I’ll see you later.”
“Jest a lettle friendly game among friends … Duuu.” Billingsly said smiling gleefully as he always did when he talked about cards.
“We’ll see,” Niven said starting down the hill, wondering what kind of life Billingsly would lead after the war. He would certainly be a very rich man with all the money he had already won from the troops; that, and the rents he got from his mules, plus the flat pay he received for his headquarters crew of seven and his thirtyfour muleskinners. That would be something he would like to see, Billingsly returning to civilian life. What a colorful sight, Billingsly money lender and man-about-town.
It was the first time Niven had ever really thought about the war being over. He dismissed the idea swiftly, superstitiously.
You didn’t think about the battles you hadn’t won, Con had told him. Winning battles in your mind only made you worry about them when you had to face them. Worrying was a bad thing and could cause disaster and when a white man worried, no matter how deeply he buried it, the Kachins somehow worried too. It was a very contagious disease, Con had said.
Why didn’t he have his mother’s talent for ignoring everything that was unpleasant? That was her greatest wisdom, he thought resentfully, walking very slowly now seeing the light of Con’s big fire. He doused his flashlight and slowed his pace even slower. Then he stopped completely on the edge of the clearing.
Con was sitting on the ground his back to a rolled sleeping bag, the sleeping bag to a tree, his legs extended and the monkey between his legs. The monkey was doing back flips and screeching loudly while Con looked at her seriously, almost religiously, stroking his goatee.
“Scheherazade,” Con said humanly, warmly. The monkey continued her acrobatics. “Scheherazade,” he spoke louder.
The monkey looked up at him understandingly.
Niven wiped his brow and momentarily closed his eyes. Then he looked back. They were not more than twenty feet away. The monkey was drunk already.
Niven watched as Con reached over to his right and took a bottle of scotch and poured some into his bamboo cup. Con drank and the monkey began to screech and do more back flips, its little bare bottom a rouge red against the firelight. Smiling, Con took a little bamboo cup the size of a thimble and filled it with scotch and the monkey quieted down looking at her cup possessively.
Niven swallowed hard.
The monkey drank and coughed and made the most horrible little faces and sputtering sounds, then she drank again and hissed and spit and jumped around.
Con took her empty cup away from her and Scheherazade sat down on her tailless little bottom.
Niven wondered why the monkeys were tailless on this side of the Burma Road and why all those across on Danny’s side had tails. The whole country was queer, in one way or another.
The monkey wiggled her nose and scratched her chest, then inquisitively she examined her little nipples with her tiny little fingers watching with glazed eyes and puckered lips.
Niven wondered what he should do. Maybe he should come back a little later. He couldn’t seem to move. He had the strangest feeling. It was almost sexual, he thought, but it was a spooky feeling too. His hands felt wet and clammy now.
Scheherazade began to do back flips and then she landed on her feet and staggered around backwards, backwards, reeling, and then boom she collapsed on her red bottom, looking up at Con bewilderingly.
Con tilted his head sideways and the monkey tilted her head back; Jesus Christ, Niven thought, they do understand each other, watching Scheherazade throw her little hands over her eyes, hissing and spitting, then trying to get up. Finally she rolled over with her back to Con and pushed down her hands and got up staggering backwards against his thigh.
It reminded Niven of a movie he had once seen long ago. A sexy blonde had clambered out of a gutter and staggered drunkenly into a tall Hollywood type hero complete with white tie and tails, the blonde’s big glazed eyes had searched hungrily, wantonly with the same identical look the monkey had now.
Scheherazade reeled and staggered back again. Boom. Then looking up indignantly, putting her hands over her eyes fingers spread, then closing her eyes and shaking her head murmuring odd little sounds. Jesus, Niven thought. The monkey’s seeing double.
From down on the side of the hill a tiger roared and Scheherazade shook herself straight, her glazed eyes suddenly sobering. She put her tiny hands together and pressed her arms to her chest, looking up at Con fearfully.
The tiger roared again and several others grunted. Scheherazade began to shake. Con called to her. She crawled and staggered towards him and he scooped her up, holding her in his arms soothingly. She clutched his shirt and looked up at
him and then reached up and began to pick out the little things from Con’s goatee. Con’s eyes stared across her into the fire.
Niven sighed and swallowed heavily with a dry throat. A tall gangling young man, he pressed his hand to his breast pocket feeling the message there. He touched his glasses and walked towards his commanding officer; “Hi, boss,” he said nonchalantly.
The monkey whirled shrieking at Niven, grabbing at Con possessively.
“Hello, Jim,” Con said. “Sit down. I’ll tie Scheherazade up.” And reaching over he tied the little collar to a piece of rope attached to a tree.
The monkey screeched loudly and Con held one finger up to her. “You be quiet. No more scotch if you’re not quiet.” The monkey hissed and continued to screech. Con picked up her cup and she screeched louder. “Play with this and keep quiet,” he said sternly, giving her the cup.
She looked at Con poutingly, then she looked at Niven. Niven turned quickly towards the fire feeling the lump in his throat swell, fleetingly remembering the time the maid had caught him peeking in the keyhole at the Palm Beach house.
He handed Con the message and sat down. Con passed him the scotch bottle and the monkey screeched again.
“Quiet, Scheherazade, or I’ll cut you off,” Con said loudly. She hissed and bared her teeth menacingly at Niven. Niven looked away and drank, setting the bottle down near Con. The monkey quieted and Con began to read the message.
19 DEC 43 HDQS
PULLING THE PRIEST OUT TOMORROW FROM DANNY’S AREA.
RAY
Con folded the message carefully. He gazed into the fire, then slowly put the message in his breast pocket. And silently Niven studied his commanding officer, seeing the layer of silken hair on his forearms and wrists, the eyes that were hard and brown, the square cut of his face and the straight nose.
“How come they’re pulling the Burma Bum out?” Niven asked artificially, carelessly, wondering how he should approach Con after having been kicked out of the headquarters. Con didn’t seem mad at him, he thought.
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