Con was staring at the ground abstractedly.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Con? Don’t you feel well.”
Con looked up. “What do you want me to do, holler? For God’s sake, Mark, I can’t do anything about it. If we don’t get through in half-hour we’ll go on. What else can we do?”
A young boy about ten years old in a tattered longi and no shirt ran suddenly across the intersection and down the street.
“Halt,” Mark yelled. The boy kept on running, out of sight.
“I guess he don’t understand English,” Con grinned. “By the way, you owe me a hundred rupees.”
“You bloody Americans,” Mark shook his head and walked back toward the radio.
The generator continued to whrrr.
Then suddenly there was a shot. The young Burmese radio operator with the head phones fell back clutching his shoulder. They all hit the ground scrambling to spread out and get cover behind the stalls.
Con crawled up: “Where’s it from?”
“I couldn’t tell,” Mark said. “But we’d better get this equipment out of here.”
Another shot and the earth sprayed next to Mark.
“I saw him,” Con said. “He’s on top that corner building. We’ll have to take him out before we can move the radio. Cover me, Mark.”
Con got up sprinting low across the intersection, dodging. Mark fired three times low over the top of the corner building. There was no return shot. Mark saw Con, his back to the building wall, working his way toward the front door cautiously.
The figure on the rooftop made a sudden silhouette and fired. They returned the fire and the figure dropped back down at once.
Con, his back flush to the building wall, arms outstretched, looked quickly up and down the street. He signaled Mark he was going in, then slithered along the wall until he was next to the door. He reached around and grabbed the brass door handle and pushed, bringing his hand back quickly. The three inch thick wooden door creaked open three quarters of the way.
The figure on the rooftop appeared again, momentarily. Mark and the riflemen opened up. Then silence again.
Con waited a moment. Heat waves shimmered in the street. His khaki shirt was drenched through. The silence settled. He reached around with the muzzle of his carbine and pushed the apartment door open fully. Mark, his eyes flickering between the rooftop and the street, waited for Con to take a grenade and unleash it through the open doorway.
Con hesitated a moment then suddenly, his carbine lowered at the hip, jumped in front of the door. He started in. After the brightness of the sun the sudden darkness half-blinded him and he hesitated again, the musty oriental smell of the old building welling over him. He took a step and felt something up against his right ankle. There was a click, click like the ticking of a clock and he saw a piece of string lying curled over one paraboot. In that instant he knew he wouldn’t have time to think. He thought he could see himself grinning.
Mark saw black powder smoke and a bush hat flying out the door; and then, delayed, heard the explosion. The smoke cleared and Con lay still, his legs twisted on the sidewalk, his upper body extended over the gutter into the street.
There were seconds of purple silence. Then Con gave one great convulsion and the silence was split wide by the rattling gurgling sound of his death rattle. Mark shivered. Vomit clogged his throat. He swallowed it back down. Then he and the four riflemen charged the building. They made their way up the three flights of stairs. The roof was empty. Then far down the street of roofs they saw the sniper making his way.
Mark and one of the soldiers dragged Con’s body into the hallway. Mark stripped it of its valuables, took the mapcase, removed one of the dog tags. He covered it with a blanket and located the owner of the apartment house. He promised him a reward to watch over the body. Mark crossed the street to the bazaar. Then took a rifleman and went to the alley. While the rifleman covered for him he put his finger down his throat and vomited. They tried again on the radio. After fifteen minutes they made contact. While they were receiving Mark sat down and coded a message:
FULL EVACUATION CONFIRMED MINOR RESISTANCE ONLY REYNOLDS KILLED IN ACTION PROCEEDING ON MISSION AS PLANNED
BROOKE-SYMTHE
CHAPTER XLIX
The sixteenth of the month, two weeks after Con had been killed a memorial service was to be held at the American Air Force base at Colombo. Colonel Pearson in the performance of his duty as Con’s commanding officer (though Con was attached to the British at the time of his death) had arranged it and invited all those concerned. Besides those directly concerned, Colonel Pearson was informed by the base chaplain while making arrangements, the base chaplain was going to send a memo to chaplains of all faiths to request at the previous Sunday service that they send a delegation to Con’s service. It was the least he could do, the chaplain said, for one who had contributed as much as he understood Con had. Though really he knew very little about him.
The service was scheduled for 0900. The day before the ceremony the Colonel had called Carla and had asked if he might call for her. She thanked him but said she had already made arrangements to come with Nautaung. Later that day Gus had called the Colonel and asked if he might attend. The Colonel had said he was sorry he hadn’t invited Gus, it had slipped his mind, but that he would be more than happy to send a command car to pick him up along with a pass to get him through the gate.
Ringa and Mark were the first to arrive at the clubroom of the B.O.Q. where the men were to meet before going over to the chapel together. Ringa had flown in the day before to represent the group at Sinlum. The evening of his arrival Mark had contacted him and they had gone out and gotten drunk, and had gone to a whorehouse, then had gotten drunk all over again in Ringa’s room at the Galle Face.
There in the hotel room after what Mark had described as a rollicking good evening they had held their private wake. Mark described in detail how it had happened and finally, drunkenly put the question to Ringa:
“You tell me, Yank. You knew him better than I. Why didn’t he throw the grenade in the door? Why?”
“I dunno. Maybe he went soft. He was kind of soft. But he was good to me. Maybe he thought someone was gonna get hurt that didn’t have no business getting hurt. He was funny that way. Maybe he didn’t want to hurt no one.” Then glassy-eyed, suddenly awed. “Maybe he tightened up.”
“Panther piss,” Mark said. “He was loose as a rag that day.”
“Maybe he didn’t give a shit.”
“He gave more a shit, as you say, than any man I’ve known.”
“I dunno,” Ringa said confused. “What are you askin me for? How should I know? He was good to me. To everybody. What the hell difference does it make? He made a mistake. He knew better than anybody ya can’t make mistakes and stay alive. So what the hell difference does it make. I betcha he gave himself a private ass-eatin’ the second he knew he made a mistake. That’s the way he was. The stupid son-of-a-bitch. You should have heard them guys at Sinlum. Nobody believed he got booby-trapped. Nobody.”
“The best soldiers get booby-trapped,” Mark said.
Ringa tilted the bottle, then grinned as if with the relief of sudden illumination. “Maybe he was a rotten soldier. Down deep maybe he was a rotten soldier. He knew his stuff and all that. Better than anybody he knew his stuff. But he wasn’t no soldier. Not like the Colonel. No professional. He was somethin else. Inquisitive. Wanted to know about people. This and that. Wanted to be a little of everything not just no soldier. Maybe the fact that he wasn’t no soldier caught up to him. Maybe that’s it. Yeah,” Ringa said enlightened. “That’s the way it was. I know, Limey. Cause that’s the way I am. He was somethin else. The stupid son-of-a-bitch. Stupid get blown up by a booby-trap son-of-a-bitch. He jus’ wasn’t no soldier. But he was good to me. He just wasn’t born to be no soldier, see. Have a drink, Mark. Black Mark. Question Mark.” Ringa giggled. “Leftenant-Colonel Question Mark Brook-Smythe. Have a drink with old Captain Willia
m Ringa-Dinga.”
The Englishman with the poetic face and the Lord Byron’s eyes now all hazy, reached for the bottle which Ringa kept just out of his reach until Mark made one final desperate lunge and went off his seat and onto the floor face flat. Ringa giggled again. Finally Mark pulled himself back up into the chair. He took another drink trying to analyze what Ringa had said. He finally decided he was too drunk to analyze anything. Don’t fight it any more, Mark. What the bloody hell’s the use of fighting it. You’re ready to pass out. So don’t fight it. Pass out nice, easy. Don’t fight. That’s a Mark. That’s a boy. That’s a.…
And Mark leaned forward slightly and fell face flat on the floor again. Ringa giggled.
Now they were in the bar of the B.O.Q. a little after eight sipping on their second gin and tomato juice trying to get in shape for the service. The bar was early morning empty except for the Ceylonese barkeep but fifteen minutes before a wave of colonels and half-colonels had come rushing in to get their morning bracer before taking off for their offices.
After they had finished their second which was better than their first but still had made no marked effect on their condition, and while they were waiting for their third, Colonel Pearson came in. He paused at the end of the bar and grinned. “You guys look in great shape,” he said.
He came over and they shook hands around. “Next time I’ll know better than to get you to show one of my boys around, Mark. Ringa looks worse than after the second Kachin campaign.”
“I feel worse, Ray,” Ringa said.
The Colonel ordered a scotch-water. “How are things up at Sinlum? how did they take it?” he asked Ringa.
“They claimed they knew it was coming all the time. It was written they said. The priest said a big mass. Nobody paid much attention but they all came. The Kachins had their own ceremony after that. First three days of singing laments and drinking. Then a three day manau to celebrate. And their having a contest to see which village writes the best lament. You know how they feel about dying,” Ringa said. He paused a moment and sipped his fresh drink. “And they made up a lot of those baskets, those bamboo designs to keep the Nat Spirits away from his spirit. They took it good.”
“How come Niven and the Doc didn’t come?” the Colonel asked. “You got my radio giving Niven and the Doc permission to come didn’t you?”
“They didn’t want to. I never asked them why. I don’t think they took it too good. I didn’t particularly want to come myself. I mean I wanted to come,” he said stealing a look at the Colonel out of the corner of his eye, “but I’ve been pretty wrapped up in that job. There’s a hell of a lot more to it than I thought. But it wouldn’t look right if I didn’t come. You know, being his exec and all.”
“They really claimed they knew Con was going to die?” Mark asked.
“They knew all right,” the Colonel said. “If they said so they knew.”
“You’re damn right they knew,” Ringa said. “They knew about Danny too. An old man told me Danny was going to get his about two weeks before he did.”
“Danny said they were like that,” Mark said. “It’s hard to believe.”
“Not if you believe it,” Ringa said. “You worked with Nautaung, Mark. Hell, he’s the champ of them all. He’s ten years ahead of the rest. Where is Nautaung?”
“He’s bringing Carla,” the Colonel said.
“Who?” Ringa asked. “Oh yeah, Niven mentioned her.”
“He was supposed to be married yesterday,” Mark said.
“Like hell he was,” Ringa said suddenly wide-eyed. “He never mentioned her. Not to me, anyhow. Married. Jesus, it’s hard to picture him married.”
The Colonel was astounded by the improvement in Ringa’s speech mannerisms; his ease in speaking to the group. He studied the young officer; the wide shoulders, the narrow hips, the clean, firm face. The perfect picture of a soldier.
An orderly came up and the Colonel went out. He returned in a few minutes with six British officers from the Kandy Headquarters that Con had worked with. A few minutes later he went out again and came back with Gus Regas.
Ringa and Mark were sitting at a table in the corner of the room eating scrambled eggs they had gotten from the buffet that had been set up at the end of the bar. Ringa spotted the short sloppy-fat Greek in the white shantung suit and black tie as soon as he entered. He watched him waddle up to the bar, fascinated. “Who’s that with the Colonel, Mark?” he asked.
“Gus Regas. A good friend of Con’s. I’ll introduce you later. He’s a big shipping man. Very well known in this part of the world. Supposedly black marketeer. Opium addict. And pervert extraordinary. A hell of a personable guy, nevertheless. Loads of friends,” Mark said repeating the propaganda that everyone who knew Gus’s true identity were under orders to repeat at every available opportunity.
“What a natural for the movies,” Ringa said, and absently took a forkful of eggs still staring at Gus.
A few minutes later the Colonel took Gus around the room and introduced him. Then the Colonel announced that everyone should eat up or drink up, it was time they left. They walked over to the chapel a haphazard group sticking to the cobblestone walks and off the neatly trimmed lawns with the signs: Keep Off The Grass.
The chapel was a large Quonset hut about a half-mile from the airfield but near the officers’ quarters. It was set amidst a cluster of tall palms which shaded it and gave it a sense of isolation. There were three cobblestone walks which junctioned near the chapel entrance and the main walk to the street was lined with six tall evenly spaced royal palm trees on each side.
It was a clear tropical day with a soft still-fresh-from-night wind in the early morning. The Colonel walked ahead and as he approached the chapel he saw Nautaung and Carla standing in the shade near the chapel steps.
She wore a plain black dress with a square neck and no sleeves and black high-heeled pumps. She had on no makeup whatsoever, the Colonel saw, and there was a lightweight black Kashmir shawl over her head. And as he approached her Nautaung came to attention and saluted. The Colonel did not return the salute but nodded and removed his campaign hat.
“Colonel,” she said. She stood extremely erect, cool in the shadows of the clustered tall palms, and her eyes leveled to his unflinchingly.
“May I extend the respects of my command,” he said.
“Thank you,” she spoke softly, composedly.
He turned and shook hands with Nautaung then turned back to her.
“There are some things to be cleared up,” the Colonel said. “Papers for you to sign. I’m going to leave Nautaung here for a week or two, to assist you.”
“That’s very good of you, Colonel.”
“I’ve an office here as you know. I hope you’ll call on us if we can be of any help, in any way,” he paused. “Will you be going to America?”
“I haven’t made any plans. I still have a job here.”
“I think it can be arranged under the circumstances,” he said. “It might take some doing. But I’d be glad to help.”
“That’s very kind of you, Colonel.”
Three fighter planes roared over low, then swept upward and away. Nautaung noticed a young British officer standing nearby begin to twitch around the eyes.
“We’ve put him in for a citation,” the Colonel said. “It will be placed in the hands of the Judge Advocate along with the other things from his estate that will be turned over to you.”
She just stared at him for a moment. She took Nautaung’s arm.
“A DSC,” the Colonel added.
“If it’s verified I wish you’d see that his parents get it,” she said. “I think they’d appreciate that.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” the Colonel said. “And generous.”
She had a sudden half-hysterical urge to laugh out loud at him. She pressed Nautaung’s arm.
“Captain Ringa is here representing the group at Sinlum,” the Colonel said. “Would you …”
“I s
hould like very much to meet the Captain.”
“I’ll bring him over,” the Colonel said suddenly aware of the childlike quality of the madonna face under the shawl. “Again, the respects of the entire command. I think you know how I felt about him.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” she spoke softly, without expression.
The Colonel called Ringa over then left.
Carla extended her hand. “I feel that I know you, Captain.”
His mouth was half-open with embarrassment and he didn’t seem to hear her. “I’m very sorry, mam,” Ringa said. Jesus, he thought, she looks like a saint or something.
“You don’t have to feel sorry for me or Con, Captain,” she said unable to hide a faint note of pride in her voice.
“Yes mam,” he said still embarrassed, his eyes straying downward bashfully. He couldn’t help but notice the slim tan ankle, the long supple line of leg which, he thought suddenly, was no saint’s leg. He caught himself staring and looked up quickly. “I don’t know what to say,” he blurted.
“I guess there isn’t much to say then,” she smiled warmly. “It’s been nice meeting you. You take care of those Hills now. If you don’t you’ll be hearing from me. And it won’t be good.”
The genuine warmth of the voice and the genuine warmth of the smile filled him with an unfamiliar boyish longing, and suddenly he was not afraid of her or afraid that she would make a scene like he had expected.
“I will watch the young Du, Carlotta,” Nautaung said.
Ringa smiled. “You watch everybody,” he said with no trace of boyishness. “You going back with me?”
“I will be there soon,” Nautaung said.
“Would you thank Lieutenant Niven and Captain Travis for their kind letter. I received it yesterday.”
“I’d be glad to,” Ringa said. Fleetingly he remembered some old country pictures his mother had shown him as a boy, the women in their black shawls. “They both wanted to come,” he lied. “But only one of us was allowed to come.”
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