Con lay in the headquarters slit trench. It was a little after noon. Sweat poured from his face.
“Those goddamn mules smell worse than people,” Niven said.
“I should have asked for lime,” Con said. “Ask for it in the next drop.”
Niven took out his notebook and made a note. “Will that kill the flies?”
“I doubt it.”
“They’re not going to free drop the mortar shells are they?” Niven asked.
There was a resounding crash nearby.
“No,” Con said. “They drop them last.”
“Look,” Niven said. “Jesus Christ look.”
They had started to chute in the plasma and mortar shells and one of the chutes had hung up on the tail of one of the DC’s as it approached the perimeter for a drop. And Niven and Con, through a small clearing in the jungle ceiling, could see that the plane was dropping rapidly, coming lower and lower right for the perimeter, and then the plane was crashing into the twisting jungle mass, ripping, tearing through the perimeter coming to rest half-hung up in the trees about twenty yards outside their line.
Niven and Con were out of their hole in seconds racing toward the plane. They hollered for all the Kachins on the line in the vicinity to rush forward with them and to form a protective line around the plane. The nose of the plane rested against the earth and the tail hung high over twelve feet up Con saw as he neared it. Already someone was in the plane helping the drop crew and pilots out. It was Danny, Con saw.
Enemy bullets began to tear into the fuselage. The Kachins began to return the fire. Con saw Niven climbing through the shattered pilot’s window, then Niven and Danny began to dump supplies out of the suspended door of the plane. Ringa had somehow organized a carrying party and the young soldiers lugged the supplies away almost as rapidly as they were dumped out as the bullets tore through the air.
Con smelled leaking gasoline. One tracer, he knew, and everything would go up. He decided to take the chance and let the salvage operation continue. They were dumping large plastic sacks of water out now, then huge crates of plasma. Finally Niven jumped from the plane. Con waited, hollering for the Kachins on the line to increase their fire. Danny finally appeared in the plane door. He jumped, headed for their line. Con ordered the Kachins to retreat to the perimeter in two’s or three’s covering each other. They retreated.
They regrouped on the line taking a quick count. No one was missing. Miraculously not one man had been killed or wounded in the salvage operation. The pilot and co-pilot were slightly bruised. One of the kickers was unconscious, the other had a broken arm, the other two unscathed. They all were suffering from shock.
While they had been unloading the crashed plane the other DC-3s had continued to drop. Con got on the radio and informed the flight leader of the safety of the crashed crew.
Firing continued on the line as the Japs persisted in harassing the drop. The fighter planes circled high above the transports. The round sun continued relentlessly from the cloudless sky. The unsated flies swarmed to the new deaths of the day. Mosquitoes rubbed their forelegs, choosing. The men sweat as the jungle sweats. They dug their holes, their homes. In the distance vultures circled. The putrifying odor of dead Japanese was overpowered by the nauseous emanation from the dead mules.
The big planes dipped their wings in a final salutory gesture and flew away. Details gathered the precious supplies. The Subadar Major issued an order: Any man caught stealing water before its distribution would be shot.
By mid-aftemoon the medical supplies had been distributed, a water and ammunition inventory made. There was a sudden explosion from the north, flames and black smoke soared.
“The plane went up,” Ringa said to Con.
The wet jungle flickered, sputtered, burned. There were horrifying screams. Then cheers. Minutes later Niven came racing into headquarters: “You should have seen it,” he said wild-eyed. “Danny wired the plane. There must have been fifteen Japs in it and ten more around it when he touched it off. One of them ran right up to the edge of the perimeter, burning alive.”
Ringa winked at Con.
Con had been taking inventory notes on a clip-board. He used the board to scratch his back. “Now it’s really going to stink around here. How many Japs did you say were in that plane?”
“Fifteen,” Niven grinned.
“How many?” Ringa asked.
“I’m positive there were more than ten. Ask Danny.”
“Get all the unit commanders here. We’re going to distribute the supplies.”
“And there were at least that many around the plane,” Niven said still wild-eyed.
“Get going,” Con grinned.
As a whole the drop had been a success. They had plenty of small arms ammunition now and enough water for two days, if they conserved. They made the distribution then the leaders returned and went over the plan for the priest and Danny’s getaway.
It was five o’clock when the Japanese prisoner died. He hadn’t given them one piece of information.
It was six o’clock when the bombers came over. Con contacted them on the radio and Ringa put three smoke mortar shells on the enemy hill. The bombers went in and dropped their load, the fighters following. The Kachins cheered lustily as the airforce put on their show, then suddenly the sky was empty. Smoke spiraled from the enemy hill. Jungle sparked and sputtered. But the sky was empty and only the glow of a departed sun remained of the day. A stillness enveloped the camp; a unified wondering and waiting.
Then the answer: BOOM-BOOM, the artillery without trajectory. Five quick salvos. One long. One short. And three right in.
It began to grow dark.
CHAPTER XLV
Night came.
“Here, Father,” Con said handing the pirest a canteen. “It came in the airdrop with the medical supplies. Scotch.”
The priest’s hand groped in the dark, found Con’s wrist, felt it’s way over Con’s hand, touched the canteen. Con heard him unscrewing the top, heard the heavy swallowing mechanism of his throat, heard the satisfied smacking of the Father’s lips.
“For the road, lad,” the priest pushed the canteen to Con’s chest.
“Save it. I had one a while ago.”
The priest pushed the canteen to Con’s chest again, insistently. “For the road,” he repeated. “It may be the last, lad,” he added dramatically.
BOOM. Down went their heads. BOOM. Shrapnel whistled in the night, thudded.
Con took the drink. “I think you’re enjoying this. I think it’s just dramatic enough that you’re enjoying it.”
“No one loves this, lad. No one. You’re afraid too, Con.”
“I’m afraid. I’ve always been afraid I suppose. And when there is nothing to do I will be especially afraid. But then I’ll be busy all night. I won’t have to fear the silence and night like the men. I’m lucky that way.”
“You have it all figured out, don’t you?”
“I think I have figured it out. Later I usually find I didn’t have it figured out at all. At least not for the reason I thought I did.”
“I wonder why this happened,” the priest said suddenly as if thinking out loud.
“We were batting over our heads, that’s all,” Con said. “We were hitting nine hundred when we should have been hitting four hundred. There’s an old saying in baseball when a second division team plays first division ball: The team like water will eventually find its own level. We’re finding ours …”
There was a rustling in the brush: “Dua Danny coming through,” Danny was hollering in Kachin.
He slid into the headquarters trench.
“Ready?” Con asked.
“All set,” Danny said. “Father?”
“Ay.”
BOOM … BOOM.
“Let’s go,” Con said.
Together they moved toward the west perimeter at a trot, shouting into the dark as they moved. They slid into a hole that had been evacuated as a departure point.
> Deep in the hole Con put the flashlight first over the priest, then Danny, checking for any loose metal or article that might refract light. Then Con fired three quick shots with his .38, and the diverting forces on the north perimeter opened with a barrage with mortars in support.
“O.K.,” Con said.
“Ready,” Danny said.
“Luck,” Con said.
“God be with us,” the priest said.
Like two earthworms the priest and Danny slithered over the edge of the hole. Like prehistoric creatures they crawled forward over the earth, worming their way over the damp dirt, tense and wary like other animals of the night they sniffed and listened and in the dark their eyes glowed greenly.
The priest and the pagan in the night. In the 20th Century night. I am that, Con thought. That is me as I am.
He slammed his fist into the earth as an overpowering anger spread through him. He stood up in the hole. He listened once more between the rapid fire of the north perimeter. He heard them out there, then leaped up out of the hole. He walked toward the headquarters slowly. Bullets cursed the air. Tracer bullets made pretty patterns in the jungle dark, darker than pitch dark night. And man the civilized screamed his animal howls of pain in the night.
I wonder if it’s raining in Chicago, Con said to himself suddenly. Or snowing in Ceylon? Carla, you give a damn whether or not it snows in Ceylon? No, not Carla. Carla skis.
He had passed the headquarters trench now and was approaching the mortars and a shot screamed by his ear and he saw the flash in front of him. He embraced the earth: “It’s Reynolds,” he hollered. “The Dua, Con.”
“Did I get ya? Did I?” Ringa asked.
“It’s a good thing you’re a lousy shot,” Con said and clambered into the trench.
“Fire three more rounds on each mortar and lock ’em up,” Ringa said. A Subadar repeated the order in Kachin. “Did they get off all right?” Ringa asked.
“They’re gone,” Con said.
“What chance they got?” Ringa asked.
“A hell of a good chance I’d say. As dark as it is.”
“I wouldn’t want that priest with me on a deal like that,” Ringa said.
“The priest is full of shit in many ways,” Con said. “But the only thing he’s afraid of is himself. And in the jungle he’s like an animal.”
“Maybe,” Ringa said.
The mortars fired. The final round was smoke. As the smoke shell exploded the firing on the line ceased. There had been no return fire. The artillery without trajectory began. Three quick rounds, then silence. Then the half-desperate, half-pleading call of: Du Medic. Du Medic.
Silence again.
“They should be through by now,” Ringa said.
“I haven’t heard anything from over there,” Con said.
They listened. They knew that everyone else was listening too.
“They must of …” Ringa started.
Then they heard the familiar sound of the Nambu gun, then the .25 caliber rifle fire, then grenades exploding.
“Jesus,” Ringa said. “They must of run right into them.” He was lying about two feet from Con in the mortar pit but he couldn’t even make out his outline.
Con didn’t answer.
The artillery piece fired, wide. Fired again, wide.
“They saw that firing,” Con said. “They’re shooting at themselves.”
The artillery without trajectory put five quick shells wide of the perimeter into the area that Danny and the Father were trying to infiltrate.
A flare lit the night. The artillery stopped abruptly.
“That was the break,” Con said. “If that artillery didn’t get them, they should get through.”
An hour passed. The artillery started but long. Seven shells and all long.
“They fucked something up when they moved that piece,” Ringa said. “They’re missing us.”
Con headed for the hospital. There were eight wounded from the original shelling. He worked with Doc until an hour before dawn. The dawn came without another shell hitting inside of the perimeter. Con returned to headquarters. Threw a blanket over himself as protection against the flies. He had been sleeping for an hour. A runner awakened him:
“Dua Danny in the hospital. Du Doctor say come right away.”
Con raced to the field hospital. Danny was lying on his side of the makeshift table the monocle still in his eye, the top of his head and face still blackened with smudged-on dirt for his attempted escape.
“The Father made it,” Danny said.
“Where, Danny?” Con asked.
“Shrapnel,” the Doc said. “From the artillery. In the buttocks and the back.” He lifted the bandages.
The right side of Danny’s buttocks was swollen hugely, black and blue. There was a rent four inches long and three inches wide between the right shoulder blade and the lung.
“I’m not sure yet whether it hit the lung,” the Doc said. “I think the shoulder blade took the brunt of it.”
“I just can’t seem to keep my ass out of the way lately,” Danny said a little dreamily from the morphine. “That pisses me, you know.”
Con grinned sadly running his hand over Danny’s shaven head. He swallowed deeply feeling for a second that the rent was in his own back. “We’ll get out of here, Danny.”
“Give me a hand,” Doc Travis said. “Take the buttocks.”
Con went over and washed in the now three day old solution of lysol and alcohol that hung from a tree in a bucket, and was now soapy, foamy dirty on top, thick with dead insects. He put on a pair of rubber gloves took the probe and began to remove the shrapnel from Danny’s butt as the Doc worked on his shoulder.
Sweat streamed whitely from Danny’s face and his mouth was shut tight but he didn’t wince or utter a sound. As they worked two Kachin attendants brushed the air with switches attempting to keep the flies at a distance, while another injected a needle in Danny’s main line then held the plasma bottle high so that it flowed into him.
“His ass is as hard as his head,” Con said. “The shrapnel busted all up. You won’t be able to sit down for weeks this time, Danny boy.”
“How did you make out last night?” Danny asked.
“Four killed, eight wounded,” the Doc said.
“You’re sure the Father made it?” Con asked.
“It’s his own bloody fault if he didn’t,” Danny said, “We were both through their lines when I got it. That artillery got a lot of them, too.”
Con was working on the wound intently. “You came back through their lines alone.”
“That was the easiest part. They were all hopped up, excited over being shelled by themselves. We could have gotten a platoon through there. Maybe broken out.”
Danny began to crap a watery stool. He didn’t know it. Con wiped it away as fast as it came.
“I think I’ve gone deep enough,” Con said. “They can open it up back at base if they feel it’s necessary.”
“I’ve got all I can,” the Doc said.
They washed out their respective portions, then sprinkled sulpha powder heavily, then quickly put on the bandages before the flies had a chance.
They carried Danny over and laid him down in line with the rest of the wounded.
“Should I put an attendant with him?” Doc Travis asked as they removed their gloves.
Con thought about it for a second. “No … I don’t think that would be fair, Doc. The lung?”
“It’s penetrated. But I can’t tell how badly. If he takes cold, though, it would be rough.”
“I’ll check with you later. I’ve got to check with supply and get off the messages.”
He started for the headquarters. He looked up through a clearing in the trees. For the first time he noticed the fighters as they circled protectively. He swatted a fly on his cheek. Looked at his hand. The hand was red with the fly’s blood. He studied the tree tops. They didn’t move. There was no wind. The smell of dead mules mingled with the
smell of dead men. The early morning sun glowed like a huge hot coal. There was occasional sniper fire.
He held his routine meeting with the leaders, got off his messages.
He headed east until he came to the perimeter. Three Kachins were trying to lug a tree stump over the top of a hole. “You have the strength of Shans,” he kidded in Kachin lending a hand.
“Of two hundred Shans,” one said.
Con lifted on the log. “I take that back. This log weighs of Nautaung’s mountain.”
“The Dua Danny is gone?” another asked sadly.
“That is the crap of latrine rumour. He lives. He must have the soul of a Nat Spirit. He will not die,” Con said. “He refuses.”
“See,” the third one said. “You fools. You would believe that a duck would eat a crocodile.”
They shoved the log over the hole.
“What a fine hole this is,” one admired. “It is a shame that I must share this hole with flat chested men such as you. It is a wonder. Forty women would give of their wealth to share it with me.”
“Women as old as this tree that is the roof of your home,” one said.
“And as hairy and wrinkled as an old monkey … Phoo,” another said. “You boast for the Dua. You do not win promotion by womanly conquest in this outfit,” he grinned at Con. “If it were so I a mere Lance would most certainly be a Subadar.”
“I am hungry,” Con said poker-faced in Kachin. “They are cooking a nice fat Japanese at headquarters. I must go.”
They watched him walk away. One of them wanted to laugh but he did not. White men were odd in so many ways; and they could not tell whether Con’s final remark was of truth or jest.
Con had made about one-third of the perimeter when the Japs attacked. It was the same kind of attack as the attack of the day before, in the same place, and the result was much the same. It was repulsed. There were no wounded but two Kachins had been killed when an enemy grenade exploded in their hole. Japanese dead lay visible a few yards in front of their position and their wounded moaned hidden by the heavy foliage.
A little after noon they attacked again, but not as strongly as the first time and in the same place. Two Kachins were wounded.
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