LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      At last the cart had come within four or five yards of our destination.

      Suddenly it was night. In the tropics the border between day and night is sharp; as soon as the sun drops below the horizon it becomes pitch-dark. This was an immense advantage to us. All our other preparations were made. Here and there in the shadows little groups of our men crouched with their fingers on their rifle triggers. The captain had his hand on his saber and was staring hard in the direction of the enemy, waiting for the moment to give the command to charge.

      Just as the cart reached a safe place, we came to the end of Hanyu no Yado.

      Instantly the captain drew out his saber. Those of us who had brought the cart stopped singing and took up our rifles. During that brief interval of stillness you could hear, quite distinctly, the river flowing in the valley far below. The birds that had been busily twittering until a few minutes ago were now all fast asleep.

      The captain raised his saber. The soldiers were poised, ready to shout their battle cry and charge. But just then the captain checked his command and stood transfixed. An extraordinary thing was happening. Out of the forest soared a voice—a high, clear voice, fervently singing Hanyu no Yado.

      The captain grabbed one of our men who had started forward, and blocked others by spreading out his arms.

      “Wait!” he shouted. “Listen to that!”

      The voice in the forest was joined by two or three more, and then by voices from here, there, and everywhere. It was Hanyu no Yado sung in English: “Home, home, sweet home ... ”

      We looked at each other in astonishment. What could this mean? Weren’t the men in the forest the dreaded enemy soldiers who were out to kill us? Were they only the villagers? In that case, we needn’t have been so anxious. We gave a sigh of relief and lowered our guns.

      Now the forest was full of singing voices. A chorus arose even from the base of the cliff hanging over the river. We joined in and sang too.

      The moon was shining. Everything was dyed blue in its cool light. There seemed to be luminous pillars of glass between the trees. One by one, shadowy figures came running out of that forest into the open space.

      They were British soldiers.

      Gathering into little groups here and there, they sang “Home Sweet Home” with true feeling. We had always thought Hanyu no Yado was a Japanese song, but it is actually an old English melody. Englishmen sing it out of nostalgic pride and longing for the joys of their beloved home; whenever they hear it, they think of their childhood, of their mothers, of the places where they grew up. And so they were astonished and moved to hear their enemy—the dangerous enemy they had surrounded high in the mountains of Burma-singing this song.

      By this time we were no longer enemies. The battle never began. Before we quite knew what had happened, we were all singing together and coming up to one another to shake hands. Finally we built a bonfire in the middle of the open space and sat around it singing in chorus under the baton of our captain.

      A tall Indian soldier pulled out a photograph of his family and gazed at it by the light of the fire. He was a stately, dignified looking man with a white turban and a black beard, but his eyes were as gentle as a lamb’s. He showed us the photograph—of his wife and two children smiling under a palm tree. It turned out that he was a businessman from Calcutta.

      A soldier whose nationality we couldn’t tell asked us to show him our family pictures. One of our men pulled out a picture of his mother; the other soldier looked at it with tears in his eyes.

      A ruddy-faced English soldier began to sing “If a body meet a body ... ” He was joined by one of our men, singing

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