for their victims, have a substitute ready to hand over to them. Their language is mild too. Pointing a pistol at you, they say, “Trade me your longyi for this banana leaf!”
Burma is a devoutly Buddhist country where the people are content with a very low standard of living. They are a gentle people—without greed, or, to put it less kindly, without ambition. That is one reason why they have lagged behind in the present-day world competition, despite their wealth in natural resources and their high level of education. Brutal criminals never existed in this country. Even these newly armed robbers behaved with the traditional gentleness.
It was lucky for us that the robber had his eyes on Mizushima’s longyi and not on the harp.
That is how we happened to find Mizushima there in the rank-smelling grass under the scorching sun, naked except for a banana leaf. We went up to him and slapped him on the shoulder saying, “What’s the meaning of this getup? Were you bewitched by a fox or something?” Mizushima gave an embarrassed laugh but returned our teasing. “A banana leaf makes a nice cool outfit,” he answered. “Why don’t you try it?”
CHAPTER THREE
WE TRAMPED on and on, over mountains, through valleys and forests. We were like the fugitives in the tales of old, frightened even by the sound of the wind.
British forces would parachute down into the villages along our route to block our advance. One village would send word to another about us, and hide their food. Sometimes when we put up in a village for a much needed rest we would find that the natives had informed the enemy and that we were under attack.
For months on end we were unable to relax our guard. However, a few of the native tribes were friendly, and with their help we made our slow progress over the mountains.
One day we came to a village at the top of a high cliff. Our Burmese guide assured us that we were at last out of danger. He was a tall man and his head was shaved clean—you could see the veins standing out on his scalp. “Look there,” he told us, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “You go over that pass. Then you are in Siam.” The vast panorama stretching out before us was really superb. As we stood looking at the view, the cold, bracing air of the mountains swept over us. In the direction the guide was pointing we saw a kind of bluish haze hanging over the dense forest in a sunlit stretch of the mountain range. Beyond that was the Japanese army.
“There are no British or Indian soldiers or Gurkhas around here,” the guide said. “Tonight you can have a good sleep.”
It certainly looked safe. We were quite a long way from the next village, and the sheer cliff before us dropped off into a deep gorge, where we could see a river with frothing white rapids far below. Behind the village was another high cliff, over which eagles soared in circles. In the center of the village was an open space, and on both sides of that the forest—a dark, fathomless tropical forest. You could hardly imagine a better hiding place for some fifty Japanese soldiers.
The captain said we would stay here for several days, resting and getting ready for the last stage of our march.
As we approached the village, the chief and many of his people came out to greet us. We were ushered to a large thatch-roofed house standing at the edge of the open space. A feast was prepared for us—there was even wine. We were overjoyed.
Until recently the Burmese were so strict in their observance of Buddhist commandments that they never drank alcoholic beverages. Although this custom had begun to break down in the cities, it is still very strong in the country; it was almost impossible to find any liquor along the battle front. But in this case the villagers seemed to have gone to great trouble to get it for us.
They treated us royally. Before we knew it, the feast turned into a lively party, with entertainment. About ten young people from the village stood in a row and sang us one of their folksongs. All of them had kinky hair, and their eyes were brilliantly clear. Yet they were not very dark skinned—we Japanese soldiers were darker. They were barefooted and naked, except for the gay colored longyi wrapped around their hips. At first their song sounded harsh, but when you listened carefully you could hear a plaintive undertone. The song seemed to have no end; just as you thought it was over, it would gather strength again and go on. It was the sad, languid, monotonous music of the tropics.
The guide translated the words for us:
“Far off among the clouds gleam the snows of the Himalaya—-
We bathe in a stream of melted snow.
Far, far off your heart is hidden—
I wish I could bathe my burning heart in that icy stream.”
All through the singing more and more delicacies were served. The ruddy-cheeked, white-bearded chief kept pressing wine on us.
One of our men turned to him and asked: “Can you see the Himalayas from here?”
The chief smiled, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. Then, absentmindedly stroking his long beard with both hands, he answered, “They cannot be seen from here. None of us has ever seen them. We only know them through the sutras and our legends.”
The Burmese become familiar with sutras and legends in childhood. We often heard the Himalayas mentioned in their songs and stories, and saw paintings or sculptures of these sacred mountains in their temples. They all think of that great mountain range as the home of their soul, and hope to make a pilgrimage to it before they die. People say that those snow-capped peaks among the clouds glow in the sun like marble or beaten silver—a vision of unearthly beauty. And at their foot, thousands of years ago, the lord Gautama meditated on a way to save mankind, and attained Enlightenment. All this is part of the vital faith of the Burmese. Listening with that in mind, we could detect a prayerful quality in their song.
When the villagers finished, we sang. After all, we were the famous “Singing Company.” We sang all sorts of songs, but the one most applauded was “The Moon Over the Ruined Castle.” That was a real masterpiece. No matter where we went or how primitive the audience, people were enchanted by it.
Drawn by the music, a large crowd of villagers gathered around. The Burmese love festivals. On the slightest occasion they bring out flower-decorated carts and sing and dance. From the time we entered this mountain village the people were in a festive mood, smiling as they vied with one another in devising ways to entertain us. We meant to thank them with our songs.
The villagers listened to us as attentively as if they were at a ceremony. Old people sat in the doorway. Children leaned against the window sills, propping their chins on their hands, and peered in. Under a palm tree in the open place in front of the house squatted women carrying their babies pickaback. All of them were sitting motionless, with their thin arms and legs folded in the peculiar Burmese crouch.
What they liked best was Corporal Mizushima’s harp. He sat on a chair with the harp between his knees, playing as passionately as ever. The harp was decorated with orchids and red feathers, and when he plucked the strings vigorously with both hands it made the flowers and feathers dance.
Suddenly, from among the listeners, a young girl stepped forward as lightly as if on air. She was about twelve years old, dressed in a tight-fitting skirt and jacket with curved, winglike ornaments attached at the waist. Her supple arms and legs shone glossily. Her hair was wound in a high, tapering coil, as if she wore a little pagoda on her head.
The young girl stood in the middle of the room, glanced around at her audience, and struck a dance pose. She cocked her head to one side, stretched her left hand out in front
