He could not sleep in the bed. Cigarette after cigarette glowed in the dark as he held her, her head on his chest listening to her deep even breath, thinking about first her and then the hills. Once he woke her and then she slept again, deeper.
Through the grill work of the bedroom window he saw the faint light of the false dawn. He slid carefully out of the bed and dressed. In the dark he moved his hand around her vanity searching for the alarm clock. He would let her sleep. His searching hand found the clock. She had apparently, he thought, had too many drinks and had forgotten to set it.
His eyes began to focus in the dark. He walked over to the bed staring down at her, feeling that strange new compassion for her again. A year ago he would have been compelled to wake her, to be kind to her before he left. But now he understood: he had his duty, but it was the duty of himself to himself that he must reckon with first. Only then, he believed, would he be ready for love, and standing there watching her body, the child in her sleep, listening to her breathe, he knew that she would not wait.
He waved off the taxi drivers, walking the two miles downtown in the dawn. He called Danny at the billet and told him to bring his equipment and he would meet him at the airport. He was famished and in the corner of the Great Eastern Hotel dining room he ate bacon and eggs leisurely. Then he walked out of the hotel and took an open cab.
“Dum Dum airport.”
The sky was clear after the rains and the sun was coming up bright and he knew it would be a hot day. And as they drove out of the city he stopped at the bridge where the old ash covered man stood, the railroad spike-like nail in his penis. He gave him a five rupee note and the old man wailed his thanks and blessings.
In the early morning the country was quiet and the cab drove fast. He felt like after a long march he had reached the summit of a hill. Faster the cab drove and he grew slightly chilled. He wondered what role he was to play in the forthcoming conferences, what role he was to play in this war that for the others was just beginning.
Yes, he thought, it was like Nautaung said, a man like a spider weaves the web of his own destiny. He lowered his head, cupping his hands over a match, and lit a cigarette. Then took off his bush hat and put it in his lap. He hoped Danny didn’t forget his peacock feather.
CHAPTER XIV
Now in the early morning they were airborne, Calcutta and Dum Dum below and behind, as they flew north by west. They sat near the tail section of the upholstered, carpeted DC-3 at a small conference table. Con and Danny faced the Colonel in the rear and Danny could see out the port, the bright sun glistening on the silver tail, and far below scattered white clouds hovered over the patterned earth. And as they climbed upward they felt the air come thinner and the cabin grow cool.
“We’re going to New Delhi first,” the Colonel was saying as he spread the map on the table.
“Then we’re not going to Gwoliar today?” Danny asked.
“I don’t care where we’re going,” Con said, elbows on the table, head between his hands. “I can’t take this city life.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Danny said. “The jungle is much more conducive to my peace of mind—and body.”
“And I’ll take base,” the unshaven Colonel half-grinned. “In fact, I’ll take the floor. But I’ll be goddamned if I’ll ever sleep three in a bed again. Especially when Danny is one of the three.”
They all laughed.
“And the southland gave birth to the blues,” Con sang softly, hoarsely, slightly off key.
The Colonel called forward and the airforce corporal came rear with a thermos of coffee and cups, pouring around. They drank several cups enveloped in a laggard, tired silence, rocked by the steady vibrations of the big plane’s engines.
Finally Con looked up: “I’ve got some bitching to do,” he said abruptly.
The Colonel adjusted his huge frame to his seat. “That’s what you’re here for,” he replied in a voice that said he was glad to finally get down to business. “I’ve got to know what you need. You got to know what to expect from me from now on in.”
“Well, for one thing,” Con was running his hands over the map, smoothing it on the table, “I need a medical man. I’ve got to have a surgeon.”
“And the same here, Ray,” Danny sided alertly.
“I felt sick to my stomach watching those medical bastards all day yesterday,” Con said. “It’s not right, Ray, having those guys sitting around in bunches idly sipping drinks when we need them so bad.”
“It’s rather difficult to face the men honestly knowing the waste of those professional sorts,” Danny said.
“I’ve only had one report on any demand for surgeons,” the Colonel said.
“One,” Con said sharply. “Hell, I’ve sent your medical unit at base at least twenty requests.”
“And I’ve sent at least ten,” Danny said.
The Colonel closed both huge fists. “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,” his face suddenly red. “I didn’t get any report about your requests. And that’s no excuse, I know,” he said incisively, bitingly. “It should have been included in the weekly report from my medical officer. You’ll each have a surgeon when you go back,” his face still flush. “You have my word on that.”
The plane jolted upward, then straightened. You have my word on that, Con repeated to himself. What did he have to add that for? When the Colonel said something he meant it to begin with. Anyone that had ever worked with him knew that. God, don’t tell me he’s getting jumpy.
The Colonel called for more coffee.
“What are we going to Delhi for?” Danny asked.
“We have to pick up the priest.”
“The Burma Bum,” Con said affectionately. The Colonel nodded.
“I hope he’s had his bath,” Danny said. “I don’t mind him dirty when I’m dirty, but I’m quite clean now, you know.”
“When did he come to India?” Con asked the Colonel.
“About four days ago. He’s been in Delhi talking with the brass; mostly about the military government of the hills after we win Burma.”
“The mother hen out to protect her chicks,” Danny said. “He’s smart to make his move now. He’ll need all the help he can get to assure his Kachins a decent break when this show is over.”
“And I’m afraid I won’t be in any position to give him much of a hand,” the Colonel said, staring out the port, seeing dark heavy clouds in the distance.
“That’s obvious, Ray,” Danny said reassuringly. “But Con and I should be able to offer something.”
“I’ll do anything I can,” Con’s bushy brows furrowed. “You don’t mean they’d deal them out? After all they’ve done?”
“Small nations are usually left out,” the Colonel said matter of factly, “no matter what their contribution. The exercising of peace can be as disconcerting as the exercising of war.”
“More so, history seems to say,” Danny said, adjusting his monocle.
The plane entered the grey-black clouds bouncing crazily from side to side. The rain whipped suddenly against the ports while long tropical streaks of lightning seemed to penetrate the wings. They flew through the storm for over forty minutes, then abruptly the sun was shining brightly and there were no clouds at all, and far below by a winding river the earth was bright green beside the muddy brown water.
Briefly they discussed the delicate issues involved when the Allied troops would move through Kachin Territory, and the probable reactions of the people. Danny was especially concerned with the problem of venereal disease; for never in the verbal or written history of the Kachin hills had a case been verified among the people.
The Colonel gave them a short concise but informative talk, occasionally referring to the map; refreshing them on all present tactical situations in the theatre of operations and of those future plans that it was essential that they know.
They landed in Delhi and taxied to the terminal. The priest boarded immediately, and without having cut the engines they took
off, flying due south.
“We’ll be in Gwoliar in an hour and a half,” the Colonel was saying. The priest was sitting next to him across from Danny and Con at the small table.
“I bagged my first tiger in the Gwoliar Province,” Danny said. “Real country. Every type of game.”
“Ay,” the grey and white bearded priest said. “The heart of the India plains. I’ve never been there.”
He was sober, Con saw. Absolutely sober. “It’s good to see you, Father. I’d hardly recognize you in those clean khakis. And after a bath.”
“Ay, lad. You look rather strange yourself.”
“I do believe you’re right, Father,” Danny said. “Con’s hardly smiled at all since he had his bath yesterday.”
Father Barrett took a canteen from his belt and set it on the table. Fondly he opened it and swigged, smacking his lips. “The first since I’ve been with them bloomin’ government people,” he passed the canteen to the Colonel. They drank around with assorted comments for the bracer.
“Tell me Con,” the Father ran his hand through his silken white hair. “How is the old man? My friend Nautaung?”
“Young as ever. He’d still like to convert you. He told me to tell you that first, before you issued any propaganda about converting him.”
“Ay,” the Father grinned. “If I should convert him and this ’ere Danny lad, sure as St. Pat they’d make me a bishop.”
And then they began to talk about the hills and the forthcoming conferences; speculating, arguing, and joking.
The plane landed bouncing hard over the dusty dirt field that had been roughly cut out of the Indian plain. There was a maze of transports and gliders parked around, and it was hot and dry in the noon sun as they walked toward a small white tent protected by the shade of a lone peepul tree.
A young looking grey haired American stepped from the tent, his battered airforce cap jauntily set. Cockily he walked toward them, his Colonel’s eagles glistening in the sun.
“Old swivel hips Pearson,” he greeted the Colonel. He was introduced to Danny, Con, and the priest as Colonel (Call me Flip) Cochran. Then standing outside the tent, they met a bareheaded, balding man of about thirty-five, Colonel Johnnie R. Allison, co-commander to Cochran of the 1st Air Commandos.
“These are the characters that are going to fly Wingate’s Chindits in,” Colonel Pearson said.
“Are these the daddios that are running the Kachin show?” Cochran asked.
“Odd but true,” The Colonel shook his head hopelessly, the sweat beginning to creep through the khaki shirt that covered his gargantuan chest.
“We’ve a lot of questions for you boys,” the calm and serious voice of Allison said.
“That’s what we’re here for, I gather,” Danny said admiring Cochran’s battered airforce hat.
“We’ve a luncheon now, guys,” Cochran said hands on hips. “Drinks and lunch with officers of the Black Watch. Then the big confo with all the brass. After that we lesser Dads will get together and bolt a few and breeze this here operation.”
Jesus Christ, Con thought, the comics did nothing to heighten this character. Niven will probably go out of his mind when he hears I’ve met him.
“That sounds jolly,” Danny said. “Is Mad Mike here?”
“Calvert? You know that crazy man?” Cochran said. “Sure, he’s here. Sleeping on his precious explosives all night, blowing up things all day.”
“That’s Michael,” Danny smiled reminiscently.
They walked over to two jeeps. The Colonel and the priest got in one, and Danny and Con and their driver followed in another; starting quickly up the ancient dusty road that wound through the hot sparse plain.
Mike Calvert, Con thought. He had met him only once; the short battered miniature version of Colonel Pearson. Ex-middleweight champion of the British army. But how often Danny had spoken of him. A legend at thirty-two: The Welshman that would never die. The demolition expert who had risen from an obscure private in the Norwegian army to the red brigadier pips of his Majesty’s own in three years. Calvert, the White God leader of the Gurkhas.…
“Look,” Danny poked Con as they drove swiftly around a corner, the dust from the lead jeep spilling over them.
There, not ten feet above them, hissing and drooling circled the great winged fox-bats of the Indian plain, their ominous wings spread four to six feet, their ratlike bodies an ugly furry black, their mouths open red, their curved bicuspid teeth gleaming.
“I’ve heard of those,” Con said watching as a whole family followed the jeeps, hovering, and ducked his head as one swooped low.
“They won’t bother you,” Danny smiled. “Just playing.”
They ate at the familiar Regimental mess table. It appeared to be at least two hundred years old, and was probably in the Watch since its inception. Once eight months before Con remembered, looking at the fourteen foot teak table, he had been sent to the Arakan front to obtain information for Colonel Pearson from a British officer. That was before the Kachin campaign.
He had walked two miles in the mud because the jeep couldn’t go any farther and when he was within four hundred yards of the front he finally found the headquarters. He had stayed for dinner that night, eating from that regiment’s table. It must have weighed two thousand pounds, he recalled, and often Con wondered how they had gotten the bulky thing through the quagmire that had stalled every available motor vehicle, including the versatile half-tracks. That table was like the very one he was eating from now.
They were about twentyfive; the Americans as guests being served first in order of rank after the priest. It was a simple luncheon served elegantly in courses by the officer’s strikers from the finest gold trimmed Danish plateware that was also a part of the Black Watch’s history.
They ate dried fish, tinned bully beef curried with rice, scones, beets, a raisin pudding, hard chocolate and tea; as politely, conversationally, they discussed current war events as any group of English gentlemen might in peacetime discuss a rugby match.
After lunch they got back into the jeeps and started for the field headquarters; three large white circular tents deeply submerged beneath the only verdantly tall trees in the area. The Colonels: Cochran, Allison, Pearson, and the priest left Danny and Con to be summoned later and entered the center tent.
For a half hour the young American and the monocled Englishman watched the jeeps pull up in front of the big center tent and the brass pour out. Colonel Sun Li-jen, born in Chungking, graduate of the Virginia Military Institute. General Lentainge, Brigadiers Calvert and Masters of the Chindits. Major General Orde Wingate who paused to say hello to Danny and Con. Then Brigadier General Frank Merrill and Colonel Jay Bunter of the Marauders. And Lieutenant Commander George Crowley, USN, Chicago attorney and naval aide to Chiang Kai-shek.
Con whistled: “I thought the only place there was this many Generals was in D.C.”
“Jolly good show,” Danny smiled. They were standing just off to the right of the center tent in the shade of the tall trees. Quick light winds blew, and several small twisters spun the dust and dry leaves upward into the sun.
Commander Robert E. Lee, American-born Commander in the British Navy. General Claire Chennault of the Flying Tigers, Colonel Joseph Stilwell Jr., Chief of Intelligence, C.B.I., General Joseph Stilwell Sr., Commanding C.B.I. and Chinese Yoke Force, and assorted Chinese and American General officers, representing Engineering, Supply, Intelligence, Liaison, Judge Advocate General, etc. Into the tent they streamed as the two Gurkha guards came time and again rigidly, proudly to attention.
“I was thinking,” Danny said. “If we gave every one of those generals a rifle I think we’d have enough men to start an offensive.”
The parade was over and Danny and Con could hear the chattering, buzzing voices of the brass inside the tent, wondering why the meeting hadn’t started.
“Danny. Look who’s coming this way,” Con said. “Mountbatten.”
Alone the tall imperially sle
nder Lord Louie came strolling up the dusty road swinging his swaggerstick as if he were Sunday strolling at Balmoral. Eyeing Danny he touched his swaggerstick to his cap and walked over.
“Cousin Dickie,” Danny greeted. “You’re looking shipshape.”
“I’m so glad you could make it, Danny,” he spoke familiarly, extending his hand. “My apologies for not answering your note. And this must be the American chap that’s running the Kachin show with you.”
“Con, this is my cousin Dickie Mountbatten,” Danny said.
Con looked up at the hard slender undisturbed man who was at least a quarter of a foot taller than he, suddenly surprised at his tallness and the four day stubble of his unshaven face.
They shook hands.
“Bring Con along to my place later. We’ll have a drink,” Lord Louie invited. “I saw your mother a few months ago,” he spoke warmly. “You’ll probably want to hear the news.… I must get on. I’ll see you chaps then.” And touched his swaggerstick to his cap smiling, then strode longly towards the tent.
“What a hell of a nice guy,” Con said.
“Yes. Not at all the snob the papers make him out to be,” Danny crossed his arms. “It’s not all cricket being famous,” he said, his good eye focused absently upward into the trees. Finally he would get word of his mother. It was over a year now since he had heard anything. Again the dark curtained vision of the musty old town house on Downing Street welled over him.
He remembered her vividly with a sudden pity, the same sudden familiar pity. Seeing her again as he had last seen her; lying crossways on her bed, messily made up, the black and grey roots of her dyed and disheveled hair, the empty bottle and broken glass on the night stand, the chipped red nail polish on the tips of the wrinkled fingers that clutched the crested family ring that was to be his going away present.
There was nothing he could do. She had carried Time back to other better years, reliving her younger more triumphant days over and over; always seeking new acquaintances to whom she might relate those increasingly exaggerated fragments of her biography. But before that, he remembered, there had been fortune tellers, an esoteric fascination for a thinly moustached medium who had secretly confided to her that he was born in 1724, then a succession of bodily ailments with medical specialists apropos to a lady of the House of De Mortimer.
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