“Dukaba. Dukaba,” a voice called from his rear. He turned in the darkness and the headquarters runner came up to him saluting. He handed Danny the message: “The evening radio message, Dua.”
“Thank you, young soldier,” Danny said in Kachin. “You may go.” The runner saluted and Danny saluted, then he took a small pencil flashlight from his breast pocket.
19 DEC 43 HDQS
BUILD STRIP. SENDING PLANE FOR PRIEST 1300 20 DEC 43.
RAY
Danny folded the message and stuck it on the pencil clip and put it in his pocket.
He wondered how the men would take this. They wouldn’t like it, of that he was sure. They had great respect for the Father even if he was known as the Burma Bum, it was only a term of affection. The priest was the only missionary in all of North Burma that stayed with his people after Stilwell walked out. Certainly if he stayed out very long now the Kachins would believe that he, too, was deserting them. And it would be a bad reflection on all white men.
If Colonel Pearson wanted to see the priest then it must be important. Danny considered it all carefully. Colonel Pearson was no fool. And he was sure the Colonel knew the value of the priest’s morale factor. Well, he’d better find a place to blast a strip and .…
Then he saw the fires on Con’s hill across the valley. Momentarily his mind stood blank; then he grinned. That foxy Greek.
Danny laughed, he’s sucking them into an ambush. There will be one hell of a fight on that hill tonight, and suddenly Danny wished he could be there.
CHAPTER IV
That same evening back in Con’s camp Niven and the Filipino Lau’rel sat by the fire of the radio headquarters eating monkey stew and rice and squares of water buffalo covered with pepperseed. The wind blew down hard from the north now, cold with the night, and the moonlight came through the branches of the tall trees leaning with the wind.
“Pass the brandy,” Lau’rel said inserting a spoonful of rice into his mouth.
“Coming up,” Niven tilted the bottle. “I’ll have to send my bearer for more. We’re almost out.”
“I say, you’re hitting it rather hard aren’t you?”
“I can take it,” Niven said impetuously, passing the bottle to Lau’rel. Then he took a final piece of water buffalo and wiped his mouth with a khaki handkerchief: “MacArthur. MacArthur.” Niven hollered.
Almost instantly a young Kachin came out of the woods, up to the fire, saluting sharply, grinning. “Genhural MacArthur reporting,” the Scout said in his broken English.
Niven looked up at his bearer: “Go over to the headquarters kitchen and ask Billingsly for some brandy. Tell him I want the red Chinese brandy,” Niven commanded. They both looked at the young Kachin who had on shoes that were four sizes too large for him.
“Yes, Du. Genhural MacArthur get right away,” the Scout smiled saluting, dragging the large GI shoes as he left the clearing.
Lau’rel reached over and put another log on the fire, his mouth full, chewing in rapid bites: “Where did your bearer ever get those shoes?” Some of the meat trickled out of his mouth.
“I gave them to him after the last airdrop,” Niven said adjusting his glasses. “He hasn’t had them off yet. That was ten days ago. He’s very proud of those shoes, it’s the first pair he ever had. MacArthur’s a damn fine bearer.”
“Rather,” the Filipino said, now setting his dish to one side and draping a GI blanket over his shoulders. He fondled the silver medallion that hung from his neck. “Rather,” he repeated.
“I don’t want to seem nosey,” Niven said. “But where in the hell did you get that English accent?” Then he reached for the almost empty bottle and drank.
“At Oxford.”
“You went to Oxford?”
“Yes, old man. Outside of two years at the University of Manila I was educated mostly in England.”
“How come you went there?” Niven asked wonderingly, his light blue eyes beginning to glaze from the brandy.
“Lots of people from Manila go to England to school.”
“I didn’t know that. You’re an American citizen though?”
“Not any more. I’ve been a British subject since ’31.”
“How come?”
“Well, for business purposes essentially,” Lau’rel said lighting a cigarette, gazing into the fire. “I’m in the export-import business, you know. Coffee. I’ve lived in the Crown Colonies most of my life.”
“No wonder you’ve got that accent,” Niven said taking one of the new cigars from his breast pocket, peeling the wrapper from it admiringly.
Down on the side of the hill, far down in the valley, there was a shrill almost human screeching. Niven and Lau’rel looked at each other, heads held tense as they listened. Then came the deep grunting and roaring of a tiger and the living things of the night jungle were silenced. The blanket drone of the camp became audible in a sudden quiet and everything stood still. Then a final terrible screeching, a conquering roar and more silence. The jungle came alive and the sounds of the camp slowly gained momentum.
“I say, they’re making a lot of noise tonight,” Lau’rel shrugged.
“I never knew that tigers slept in the day and only came out at night,” Niven went back to admiring the cigar. “Jesus, you get out of the States for awhile and you realize what a bunch of shit the movies put out about these countries.” He struck a match.
There was the sound of footsteps in the brush, then General MacArthur came into the clearing and stood by the fire saluting and grinning, breathing heavily. He handed the bottle down to Niven: “Genhural MacArthur reporting with one bottle of red Chinese brandy for the Du.”
“Thanks, MacArthur,” Niven said putting the bottle between his legs, sweepingly taking the cigar from his young face.
“And, Du,” the young Kachin smiled. “Billingsly says not to forget the card game.”
“Thanks, MacArthur,” Niven said. “Have a cigar?”
The young Kachin grinned widely, taking the cigar. Then he saluted and merrily walked away.
Niven held up the bottle to the firelight, admiring it. Then turned to Lau’rel: “Have a drink.”
“After you, old man,” Lau’rel said, rubbing his fingers over the half moonshaped scar under his right eye, very white against his dark skin.
Niven drank, handed the bottle to Lau’rel, then stood up zipping his fur-lined airforce jacket high to his neck: “I’ll be back in a minute. I gotta take a little leak.”
“Righto,” Lau’rel said looking up at the young face, the soft cheeks pink from the night air and the brandy. Niven swayed slightly, then reeled a little as he walked into the brush.
Lau’rel took another drink of the brandy, inhaled deeply on his cigarette and threw it into the fire. The brandy burned warmly and he could feel it coming back; remembering that old familiar scene that he had managed to suppress for three weeks now.
There had never been a care in the world then. Not until that day. How vividly it all came back to him. How vividly it always came back. The Royal Hotel, Crown Colony, Hong Kong. And Nickie. Nickie: the first time he had seen her standing there at the end of the bar just off the lobby. He had come in from the office on one of the hottest days of the year, heading straight for the bar for his usual gin and tonic. Everybody in the lobby had handkerchiefs in their hands and the women were drinking cool drinks, sitting at their tables with fans in their hands and everybody looked exceedingly, uncomfortably hot. Then he had felt Nickie standing at the end of the bar. The rest of his life Lau’rel would remember how she looked that day with the gold clasp in her long black hair, the long racy body in the plain white dress, her fine little feet arched high in her white shoes, the tightness of the dress to the buttocks, her eyes soft and sad like a puppy’s eyes.
She had stood there clean and cool as a fresh fall day holding the drink in those long sensitive fingers that hung loose and caressingly on the glass. There were no other hands like Nickie’s; those exquisite, sensiti
ve long fingers, that belonged to, had ever belonged exclusively to the halfcaste.
How could she have done it to him? How could she have tortured him the way she had after all that he had done for her? If only he had never seen her that day. How many nights he had twisted in the bed and torn at the sheets with fingers frustratingly, ragingly strong just from the thought of her. God! if only he could forget her. If only he could drive away that raw, gnawing emptiness that came with his every remembrance of her.
“What’s up, Daddyoo?” Niven said staggering slightly as he came back by the fire. “You look very serious Lau’rel, my ollld Oxford pal.” He sat down.
“Just thinking, old man,” Lau’rel said head bowed, his voice sinking, quivering. He twisted the silver medallion that hung from his neck staring at the fire blankly. Then he smiled disconcertingly, looking at Niven: “I was thinking about my office in Hong Kong. We expected to get run out of Hong Kong. That’s why I was in Rangoon when the war broke out. We never thought the bastards would take Rangoon, you know. That was really something of a surprise.”
“You couldn’t shell that to anyone in the States,” Niven said a little incoherently now. “It was a big goddamn surprise in the States. Biggg surprise,” Niven tilted the bottle. “To old Saint Francis,” he smiled lovingly, reminiscently.
“You’re drinking to a Saint?” Lau’rel asked quizzically, running the palm of his hand over the black wavy hair that was grey on the sides.
“No. Saint Francis is where I prepped. Where Mother, dear Mother, sent me for background. And I don’t mean the back of my ass-shee,” he hiccoughed and grinned amusedly.
“To the old school and all of that,” Lau’rel said genially. “I’ll drink to that.” Niven passed him the bottle and Lau’rel drank.
“Where I come from Lau’rel, old boy old boy, everything is background. You know how important background is, Lau’rel my old friend,” Niven inhaled deeply of the cigar. “The big event at Saint Francis is the Exeter football game. The whole goddamn school year is lived just for the Exeter game. The Muscle men were the Hitlers of the campus. What a shithouse school that wush,” Niven said spitting tobacco juice that had dribbled from the cigar end.
Lau’rel laughed.
“If Mother could only see me now,” Niven wrinkled up his nose and put the cigar in his mouth with a sweeping gesture. “Poor Mother. Lau’rel I feel sorrie for pooor Mother. Do you feel sorrie for your pooor mother, Lau’rel my friend?” he put the cigar in the side of his mouth.
“My mother is dead,” Lau’rel spoke solemnly.
“I’m sorrie. I didn’t know. I’m sorrie, Lau’rel old friend.”
“Forget it, old boy,” Lau’rel touched the silver medallion, lowering his head. “Go on,” he said weakly.
“Where wush I?”
“You were telling me about your mother,” Lau’rel looked at Niven and half smiled.
“Shish divorced.”
“Lots of women are divorced,” Lau’rel said consolingly.
“Not ash many times as my mother,” Niven said. “Not ash many times as pooor Mother,” he belched. “Imagine that. Lil’ me. Scrawny lil’ me sittin’ up on top of this ole hill bout to get my baby skinned lil’ ole ash blown off. Just feeling sorrie for pooor Mother. Ohhhh Mother. Chasin’ her men around Newport. Palm Beach. Bar Harbor. An I feel sorrie for pooor Mother. You ’magine that, Lau’rel. Hey, Lau’rel,” Niven said demandingly. “How old are you, Lau’rel my frien’?”
“Thirty-eight,” the Filipino laughed, then drank.
“An ollld man. You don’t look like an ollld man. You look toooo young for an ollld man. Pooor ollld man. Up here with all us dashing guerrillas. Pooor Lau’rel,” Niven sighed.
Lau’rel shook his head like a fighter tossing off a punch. In his mind the picture was coming back. In technicolor distortedly magnified Nickie stood there before him. He wanted to slash at the screen. It was no use. Pictures like that you could not kill. They only died when you died. He thought he could reach out and touch her standing there cool in the white dress that made a pattern against her long tawny body. Lau’rel groped for the bottle and drank heavily.
“Thash a boy, Lau’rel. Lesh get drunky. My good frien’ Lau’rel.”
“To your mother,” Lau’rel said drinking again.
“Dearrrrr Mother,” Niven smiled. “Give me the bottle, Lau’rel, so I can get drunky for dearrrr Mother.” Lau’rel handed him the bottle. “Tooo Mother,” Niven drank. “Which husband did I come from, Mother? Which one?”
“Which one, old man?” Lau’rel asked.
“What do you think I am a goddam adding machine?” Niven stiffened. “Who gives a shit? Whoo gives a shit which one? Met my fatha’s twice shince I wush twelve. Nish fella fath’a. Ran for Governor of Maine. Fath’a, Mother called him. Deah Fath’a. Never worked in his life, Fath’a. No gentleman gets up before eleven, Fath’a says. That’s how he ran for Governor. Yeh. Fath’a had a name. Last time I shaw Fath’a was in New York, Lau’rel my good friend. Met him in New York.” Niven spoke despondently, his young face growing suddenly older as Lau’rel looked at him despairingly, understandingly.
“Met the old man at the Gotham bar. Did he know how old I wush? Did he know?” Niven said turning his head from side to side disgustedly. “He knew shit. Bought me scotch. Real scotch. Did I feel it. Jesus did I feel it. Fine guy Fath’a. Took me to a whorehouse! What a whorehouse.
“Fath’a got me a redhead, Lau’rel old boy. This will kill you. You know what she did. You know Lau’rel? You know? She scared the shits out of me. I couldn’t get a hard on. Me. Your buddy. Your frien’. She scared me so bad I puked. Me. I puked. I’d sure like to have that redhead now. What a woman and I puked. Couldn’t get a hard on.”
“Well it’s happened before, old boy,” Lau’rel said reaching over. He patted Niven on the shoulder consolingly.
“And what do you think, Lau’rel,” Niven said solemnly. “My old man saysh I wasn’t much of a man for puke …” he hesitated, swallowing hard. “For puking in the whorehouse.” He was crying softly now.
Lau’rel moved over by him and put his arm around his shoulder. “What do you say we get up to the card game? I dare say they’re waiting on us.”
“Thash a good idea, Lau’rel my frien’,” Niven wiped his eyes under his glasses. “Lesh get up to the card game. I’m going to get some of that son-of-a-bitching Indian’s money. Going to win all that Danforth’s money. Jim’s going break him brokey,” he rose lurching. “MacArthur! Asshole MacArthur,” Niven hollered.
The young Kachin came into the clearing almost instantly.
“You garth the radio. With your life you garth that radio!” He pointed drunkenly with one finger toward the puptent that housed the radio equipment. “Du Niven’s playin’ cards.”
“Yes, Du. Genhural MacArthur will guard the radio,” he said grinning widely. “Do not worry, Du.”
“Lesh go, Lau’rel. I got the flashlight,” Niven said.
“Righto,” Lau’rel said.
Indian John Danforth stretched out resting his head on his hand near a large fire in the headquarters kitchen and supply dump, absently smoking a cigarette. He glanced occasionally to the small groups of muleskinners and cooks, listening to the young voices arguing and lying about their women, hearing the old voices telling and retelling the tales that had been passed down to them for generations.
The moon was high in its arch now and the clearing being rather large the light was very good. “Where the hell are those so called card players, Billingsly?” Danforth looked at Con’s No. 1 boy and head muleskinner as he counted the cards on a GI blanket.
“They be here soon, Du,” the Kachin grinned discreetly. “La Bung La vill play too, Du. Niiice game. Five play.”
“How’s the Subadar Major La Bung?” Danforth asked. “I never played with him.”
“He thinks he’s pretty hot stuff,” Billingsly said setting the deck down, beginning to stack neat piles of chips. “He n
ot so hotsy-totsy.”
“How about the Dukaba Con?” Danforth probed.
“He no play,” Billingsly grinned. “He use to vatch sometime before. He no come round now. Do nuttin since he had little monkey.”
“That goddamn monkey,” Danforth said taking the knife from his scabbard, writing his initials and odd little symbols on the damp ground.
“Here comes the Suvadar-Maja now,” Billingsly said looking across Danforth. “Good ev’ning my niiice friend, Suvadar-Maja La Bung La,” Billingsly greeted.
Danforth looked up as La Bung moved forward between Billingsly and himself. The Kachin’s black beret was tilted rakishly on the right side of his head. He smiled crookedly, standing chest out shoulders back.
“Hello, Father of the Mules,” La Bung said strikingly, his face shiny clean in the fire glimmer.
“And Du Danforth,” La Bung said elaborately, turning slightly. “How is the good Du?”
“I’m all set to take your money La Bung,” Danforth winked.
“Where are the other Dus?” La Bung asked.
“They be here soon,” Billingsly said as La Bung sat down legs crossed head erect. Danforth sat up spreading his legs. He began to throw the knife in the ground, sticking it. La Bung took a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and taking the GI binoculars from their case began to polish the lenses.
“How much ve play for?” Billingsly asked. “Cash on the barrel head. Sisto.”
“No limit as far as I’m concerned,” Danforth said. “That punk Niven will probably want to play for marbles.” Then it smackingly hit Danforth who Niven reminded him of, wondering why, when it was so obvious, he hadn’t dug it out before.
Niven had that same rich eastern suggestiveness that was the suggestiveness of all FBI agents. But of one especially who had had two bulls pinion him by the arms in a Seattle jail and had kneed him three times in the balls; the first time because the Fed had wanted him to talk, the second time because Danforth had spit on him, and the third time because he had spit on him again, remembering now how greenly sour hollow the pain had been lying curled up on the cold stone floor of the solitary cell; achingly-retching, lonely-retching, on-the-reservation-riding-ponies-retching, his-brother-a-lifer-for-a-murder-he-did-not-commit-retching, for-the-first-time-in-his-life-thanking-God-retching, thanking-God-he-had-been-born-to-spit-retching.
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