“But he looks a little like my third brother, I think,” Pansiao whispered, to excuse what she had said.
Mayli stopped and stared down at the young pleading face.
“No, he does not,” she said quickly. “He does not look at all like him. Sheng is much better looking than Charlie.”
“Is he?” Pansiao murmured. “Then I have forgotten him, too,” and she sighed. But Mayli only pulled Pansiao’s little nose gently between her thumb and forefinger and laughed again.
… Seventeen days later Charlie Li came creeping through the border post where an English sentry stood on guard. To deceive this man was easy enough. No Englishman, he had discovered in these seventeen days, knew the difference between Chinese, Burmese or Japanese, if their clothing was the same. Englishmen had bade him take off his shoes so that they could see his feet and because his big toe did not stand out from the others they let him pass, since he wore Burmese garments. But the enemy had already mended this defect, and had found ways of pulling their toes together. Four times Charlie had found such an enemy and out of the four times he had killed two of them. He had disguised himself well enough to pass any Englishmen, for he had darkened his skin, because the men of Burma are darker than Chinese, and he wore a priest’s saffron robe. He was about to pass when the Englishman stopped him and pointed his gun at his breast.
“Take your bloody hand out of your chest!” he said. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
Charlie brought out the alms bowl with which he had begged his way.
“Thabeit,” he said with a false smile, for that was the name of the begging bowl in Burma.
“Get on, you beggar,” the Englishman said, and let him pass.
And so Charlie went on his way over the border, his heart swelling with anger. How easily he could have passed had he been an enemy — how stupid were these white men who would trust none but themselves and they so ignorant that they did not know friend from foe! The old foreboding fell upon him. With such allies, could they win?
So brooding, he walked into the border town by the time it was midnight and went straight to the General. He had decided that he would rouse that one if he were sleeping, but now he saw a light streaming out of the window and he saw the General bent over a map on the table and around him were his young commanders, Sheng and Pao Chen and Yao Yung and Chen Yu, their heads in a black knot together.
“Halt!” the soldier at the door cried when Charlie came near.
“Do not halt me,” Charlie said, “I have news.”
“Give the password!” the soldier demanded.
Now this password was changed from day to day and how could Charlie know what it was today? Instead he lifted up his voice and roared out the General’s own private name, and at the noise the General came to the door himself.
“What is this noise?” he shouted into the darkness, and then the light fell on Charlie and he knew him and told him to come in and so Charlie went in and stood there before them. A cry of laughter went up from all who saw him, for indeed he looked like any traveling young priest of Burma, with his begging bowl in his hand.
“It is like a play,” Sheng said grinning. “They come in, these spies, first one and then another.”
“You are the sixteenth to come back out of the fifty,” the General said. “Now let me hear what you have that is new.”
He sat down behind the table as he spoke and he bade the young men sit down where they could, and so looking from one face to another Charlie told his tale.
“I went to Rangoon,” he said, “because there is the heart of the battle.”
The General nodded, and lit a cigarette. His smooth face tightened under the skin.
“Sir, you must know that Rangoon is a city owned by the white men,” Charlie said. His voice was gentle, and his eyes were fierce. “There are many great houses of business but they are all the white men’s. There are many schools, but they are for those who would be tellers and clerks and servants of the white men.”
“Go on,” the General said.
“But the white men are not there now,” Charlie said, looking from face to face. “They have left the city and they are in the hills, safe — waiting, they have told their servants, for a few weeks until the war is over.”
His voice was singing smooth and quiet. A loud laugh went up from the young men at these words.
“A few weeks, until the war is over!” Chen Yu repeated with scorn.
“Go on,” the General said.
“There is a great golden shrine in that city, where there are two hairs from Buddha’s head.” Charlie went on. “The pilgrims go up and down the steps without let, all day long. They take off their shoes, for even the steps are sacred. But they say there are not above half as many pilgrims now as before.”
“Leave off about the shrine,” the General said. His cigarette was already gone and he lit another. “Tell us about the harbor. Is it well defended?”
“It is scarcely defended at all,” Charlie said. “There are but poor defenses ever built or planned. Yet it is a very great harbor. I was told that when the rice harvest is ripe more people come in and out of that harbor from India than go in and out of the American port of New York in a year. Indeed that whole region is very precious to the white men for its rice and oil and metal and fine woods, teak and—”
“Is there no defense at the city?” the General demanded again.
“None,” Charlie said. “And I heard many other things not good. Along the docks I saw barbed wire barricades with gates and great locks upon the gates. I supposed that these were defenses against the landing of the enemy, and yet I wondered, for surely even the white men know the enemy will not come by sea but by land. Then I was told that these barricades are not against the enemy but against the coolies who carry the cargoes off the ships. The white men feared that when the city was bombed these ignorant working men would flee into the hills and there would be no one left to carry the goods. So they ordered these barricades made and when the enemy came over the city they ordered the gates locked, so that the coolies who were on the docks could not escape.”
“Were they not killed?” Sheng cried.
“Are not their bodies flesh and blood like ours?” Charlie replied.
No one spoke for a moment.
“Go on,” the General said at last.
“They are a miserable people in that region,” Charlie said slowly, “and they die often of lung sickness. I was told that more people in the city of Rangoon die of rotting lungs than die by bombs, although in one day’s bombing in the twelfth month more than a thousand were killed.”
“Go on,” the General said, “go on! Can we talk of men dying in these days? Tell me, did you see goods piled up for our men on the airfields?”
“Hundreds of tons,” Charlie said, “goods from America, planes packed and waiting to be sent up the Big Road.”
The General lit another cigarette and this time his right hand trembled. “It will never get there,” he muttered. “It must all be lost — that precious stuff we have been waiting for all these months! The enemy will take Rangoon first. Of course they will take Rangoon first, where all their airships circle like crows around the carcass of a cow. It is the heart of Burma.”
“It will cease to be in a few days,” Charlie said in a low voice. “In a few days it must be lost. They will not hold.”
The General’s cigarette glowed crimson and burst into a tiny flame as he sucked in his cheeks. “How — they will not hold?” he asked.
“The white men will not hold,” Charlie said. His voice suddenly broke and lost its smoothness. “They will retreat!” he cried.
Groans and curses broke from the listening young men. The General crushed out his cigarette in the palm of his left hand.