her thumb and forefinger. Then, ready to spring into action at any moment, she turned her big black eyes imploringly on the harpist.
Mizushima started to play. The tune was an old school song which he had arranged as a march.
The girl began to dance. Slowly she turned her head from side to side, crossed and recrossed her legs, bent her elbows, her wrists, all her joints, making a series of right angles.
Her slender arms and legs moved with a snaky indolence. Her hands fluttered here and there. She leisurely traced circles with her feet. It was indeed a charming, exotic, unforgettable dance.
The young men of the village shouted her praises and threw flowers at her. They demanded encore after encore. When it was finally over, Mizushima went to a corner of the room and sat on the floor hugging his knees while the villagers cheered.
“How about it, Mizushima?” we asked him.
“Wouldn’t you like to stay here in Burma and play the harp for the rest of your life?”
Mizushima was always a man of few words, and this time too he only smiled and said nothing. Then he stared straight ahead as if lost in thought.
“Somehow, I like Burma,” he used to say. He seemed very much attracted by the tropics—the bright sunshine, the vivid colors, the varied forms of life, the strange customs of the people. He was proud that when he wore a longyi he couldn’t be distinguished from a native Burmese. And though he was a man who conscientiously carried out his duties, a natural, easy-going life seemed to have a great appeal for him. Whenever we passed a wandering Burmese musician, Mizushima would gaze after him with what was almost a look of envy. When he went scouting he usually disguised himself as a traveling musician. Our teasing about staying in Burma for the rest of his life may have touched him somewhere deep within.
It was time for us to sing again—” The Autumn Moon,” “Wild Roses,” all lovely melodies we had known since childhood. As we sang, we forgot our troubles. Every one of us had memories linked with these songs. People we loved came to our mind’s eye. “Ah, I remember now. Mother was there, and my brothers.... I remember how they looked, what they were saying ... ” Such were our thoughts as we sang under circumstances we had never dreamed of, hunted, in peril of our lives, high among the mountains of a strange land.
We sang on and on, each of us pouring our inexpressible feelings into our songs.
CHAPTER FOUR
SUDDENLY we noticed that we were alone. For some reason, all the Burmese had slipped away.
That little girl, the young men—even the chief who had been so busy feeding us was gone. So was our guide, who had promised to arrange for our night’s lodgings. We were alone in the house singing to the scattered chairs and remnants of the feast. Even outside, under the windows or in the open space, there were no Burmese to be seen. They had all simply disappeared.
Panic gripped us, and someone shouted, “Stop singing!”
It had often happened that our troops were warmly received in a Burmese village, after which the natives melted out of sight and the enemy attacked from ambush. That was what we seemed to be facing now.
We had to prepare to fight immediately. We had to take up battle positions, put our vital supplies in safe places, find cover for ourselves, dig fox holes. Some of the men started to head for their guns, or rush out of the building.
“Hold it!” the captain ordered. Then, in a low, steady voice, “Go on singing.”
After that he began whispering rapidly. “We can’t let on we know what’s coming. We’ve got to keep singing as if nothing is wrong—and get ready for them at the same time. It’s only been a few minutes since the natives cleared’ out of here, so the enemy may not attack right away. But once they realize we’re digging in, they’ll come after us.”
We saw that he was right. And we went on singing.
Meanwhile, several of our men crawled across the floor below the enemy’s line of sight to where our weapons had been piled, and brought them back to distribute among us. Singing as calmly and deliberately as we could, we put on our leggings, buckled on our cartridge belts, and took up rifles and a munition.
We finished “Wild Roses” and began another song.
As we sang, we crouched in the shadows and peered through binoculars at the forest. Already we saw a few Gurkhas and turbaned Indian soldiers. You could see them running from cover to cover, scattering among the trees to form a skirmish line. Still singing, we shivered with agitation. Our song was a sad, solemn one, and we sang it as if for the last time. All the while, the captain was busy whispering orders, dividing us into groups of ten, posting us in strategic places.
When the song ended, he ordered, “Clap your hands! Laugh!” We did as we were told, clapping and roaring with laughter.
“We can’t tell when they’ll open fire,” he went on, “but we need every minute they give us. Let’s try to keep them off their guard till dark, if possible. Now, once more-laugh!”
We clapped hands again and laughed. But it wasn’t easy—after all, machine guns were trained on us from the forest, ready to blaze away at any minute.
Finally, there was only one task left to do, but it was a critically important one. A cart loaded with ammunition cases stood out in the open, and we had to have it safe and close at hand. Furthermore, we had to move it without giving ourselves away to the enemy, though surely they were watching us through their binoculars.
How could we manage that? Still singing, we racked our brains to think of a way. If a single bullet hit that case, we would be finished. Our whole supply of ammunition would explode. We looked at Mizushima, who was good at solving problems like this. He was laughing and singing too, and playing his harp, but we could tell he was thinking as hard as he could. At last he began whispering to the captain.
The trick they agreed on had some of us file out of the house singing a cheerful tune. Mizushima led the parade, playing the harp as he went. The rest followed right behind him carrying flowers that the young men of the village had thrown at the dancing girl. Everyone laughed uproariously, and some even pranced and romped about, imitating a Burmese dance. We lifted Mizushima up on the cart. He stood on the ammunition cases, propped his harp on one knee, and began playing a gay, lively tune. We surrounded the cart, waving the flowers in our hands, and sang in chorus.
Our plan was to draw the cart in as if we were pulling along a festival float. In order to save our breath we picked a slow song-Hanyu no Yado.
Apparently the enemy troops had finished deploying, since you couldn’t see any movement in the forest. It had become deathly quiet.
We were literally singing for our lives. At any moment there might be a volley of gunfire from the forest. We would have to push the heavy cart as quickly as we could, and yet make it look as if we were doing it for fun. If a bullet flew out of the forest and hit the case it meant certain death—not only for Mizushima, who was standing on it, but for all of us.
The cart began to move. Sometimes we had to clear stones from its path, or heave it up with our shoulders as we pushed it forward. Straining, gasping for breath, still we did our best with Hanyu no Yado. On top, Mizushima kept playing his special accompaniment as vigorously as ever. Hanyu no Yado is a slow, mournful melody that would touch anyone’s heart. Our voices harmonized, low and high parts blending, following, intermingling with one another.
