Berystede the last two days. He did not know what comforted him in their uneasy truce.
With the remnants of the 11th Indian struggling on the Malay Peninsula, the major had seen endless opportunities to rid himself of the embarrassment of Lieutenant Gillen and he had taken all of them. More than once Harry had caught the major eyeing him with a look somewhere between fear and guilt. Harry dryly noted that he was being singled out either for heroism or death. Only the hand of fate would make it clear which of these it was tobe, so Harry was first at the mercy of a capricious man and, after that, an even more capricious God.
Harry had been ordered to lead a group of men up a slope to a makeshift bunker the Japanese had set into a hillside. The line of greenery broke abruptly to a smooth ascent. There wasn’t much on this side of the hill, but scouts had come back with descriptions of a series of fields on the other side, already strewn with their dead. The major had decided to take the bunker and he had decided that Harry would do it, just as yesterday he had decided that Harry was the best man to run a message to Lieutenant Colonel Lifkin, which involved a good two-hundred-meter sprint through a papaya grove, whose slim trunks and umbrella foliage offered little protection from snipers. Harry tried to control himself, but he hadn’t slept in days and had never been much good at anything but feigned deference. The men were checking their rifles, whispering requests to their respective deities. Harry approached Major Berystede and asked in a low voice, “Excuse me, sir, but I must ask you, are you trying to kill me?”
“Lieutenant Gillen . . .”
“I apologize. A voice inside keeps telling me this is none of my business. But surely it is.”
Berystede was taken aback. “What kind of insubordination is this?”
“Some variety, but at this rate I’ll be dead by sundown, so the chances of my being court-martialed are very slim.”
The major was rattled. He inhaled deeply. “Are you refusing to execute the order?”
Harry thought about it for a minute. “No, sir.”
But despite the major’s best efforts, it hadn’t been Harry’s time. The bunker was empty, the battle already won by the Japanese, the field deserted.
• • •
From the look on the doctor’s face, Harry knew the major was close to death. Berystede’s eyes brightened when he saw Harry, as if all the troubles of the past were gone and Harry was still the handsome horseman, the major his eager patron, and the rumble of war an ugly rumor. Harry squatted by the cot and helped the major drink a little water, which was set on the crate along with the major’s belongings—a worn photo of Mrs. Berystede on a horse, carrying a rifle, and a set of keys, one of which unlocked the liquor cabinet back in the mess hall at camp.
“Harry,” said the major, “what are you going to do when you get home?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said.
“The English will all be gone.”
“I find that hard to believe, sir.”
“Please, call me Edgar.”
“Edgar,” Harry said, “you should probably sleep.”
“I will sleep and sleep and sleep.” The major smiled. His eyes were watering. Harry breathed deeply and took the major’s hand. He’d done this on impulse and once he was holding it, didn’t know how to put it down. The major’s hand was cool, despite the thick heat. The bones were thin and fragile, like the skeleton of a bird. His skin already had the look of death. When the major finally drifted off, Harry set the hand down on the cot. Mrs. Berystede stared bravely out of the photograph from atop her horse, in approval of Harry’s loyalty, or maybe deep disapproval of her husband’s succumbing to his limitations. Harry would survive. He had no doubt about that. He would return to see how India had been altered by the war, as he too had been altered.
Outside, the sun slid down the sky, slipping through a cloud, touching the barbed wire.
With the remnants of the 11th Indian struggling on the Malay Peninsula, the major had seen endless opportunities to rid himself of the embarrassment of Lieutenant Gillen and he had taken all of them. More than once Harry had caught the major eyeing him with a look somewhere between fear and guilt. Harry dryly noted that he was being singled out either for heroism or death. Only the hand of fate would make it clear which of these it was tobe, so Harry was first at the mercy of a capricious man and, after that, an even more capricious God.
Harry had been ordered to lead a group of men up a slope to a makeshift bunker the Japanese had set into a hillside. The line of greenery broke abruptly to a smooth ascent. There wasn’t much on this side of the hill, but scouts had come back with descriptions of a series of fields on the other side, already strewn with their dead. The major had decided to take the bunker and he had decided that Harry would do it, just as yesterday he had decided that Harry was the best man to run a message to Lieutenant Colonel Lifkin, which involved a good two-hundred-meter sprint through a papaya grove, whose slim trunks and umbrella foliage offered little protection from snipers. Harry tried to control himself, but he hadn’t slept in days and had never been much good at anything but feigned deference. The men were checking their rifles, whispering requests to their respective deities. Harry approached Major Berystede and asked in a low voice, “Excuse me, sir, but I must ask you, are you trying to kill me?”
“Lieutenant Gillen . . .”
“I apologize. A voice inside keeps telling me this is none of my business. But surely it is.”
Berystede was taken aback. “What kind of insubordination is this?”
“Some variety, but at this rate I’ll be dead by sundown, so the chances of my being court-martialed are very slim.”
The major was rattled. He inhaled deeply. “Are you refusing to execute the order?”
Harry thought about it for a minute. “No, sir.”
But despite the major’s best efforts, it hadn’t been Harry’s time. The bunker was empty, the battle already won by the Japanese, the field deserted.
• • •
From the look on the doctor’s face, Harry knew the major was close to death. Berystede’s eyes brightened when he saw Harry, as if all the troubles of the past were gone and Harry was still the handsome horseman, the major his eager patron, and the rumble of war an ugly rumor. Harry squatted by the cot and helped the major drink a little water, which was set on the crate along with the major’s belongings—a worn photo of Mrs. Berystede on a horse, carrying a rifle, and a set of keys, one of which unlocked the liquor cabinet back in the mess hall at camp.
“Harry,” said the major, “what are you going to do when you get home?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said.
“The English will all be gone.”
“I find that hard to believe, sir.”
“Please, call me Edgar.”
“Edgar,” Harry said, “you should probably sleep.”
“I will sleep and sleep and sleep.” The major smiled. His eyes were watering. Harry breathed deeply and took the major’s hand. He’d done this on impulse and once he was holding it, didn’t know how to put it down. The major’s hand was cool, despite the thick heat. The bones were thin and fragile, like the skeleton of a bird. His skin already had the look of death. When the major finally drifted off, Harry set the hand down on the cot. Mrs. Berystede stared bravely out of the photograph from atop her horse, in approval of Harry’s loyalty, or maybe deep disapproval of her husband’s succumbing to his limitations. Harry would survive. He had no doubt about that. He would return to see how India had been altered by the war, as he too had been altered.
Outside, the sun slid down the sky, slipping through a cloud, touching the barbed wire.
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