The Promise

XII

THE GENERAL WAS UNEASY and the more because for many days he had not been able to ask the Chairman for advice. The small radio set he had brought to Burma was broken beyond mending. So one day he called Pao-Chen to him and he said, “Write something which will move the Chairman’s heart and make him see what he asks us to do. Tell him the radio machine broke itself and I have no way of hearing his commands. Tell him I am not afraid. Tell him I will fight where he tells me to fight, but in the name of all our people, tell him to give me freedom to fight our own war and not go into battle tied to an ally who retreats before we can get there. Ask him if we shall go in when Rangoon is already doomed. Tell him it is he who must decide and not I, whether these, our best troops, are to be lost in the jungles trying to save the white men, or whether we shall fight for our own reasons. Put your strength into words, Chen, and let them eat their way through the paper. Tell him the white men will not let us buy rice. Ask him where the American is. Tell him we sit here on our tails like treed monkeys, waiting while the enemy takes what he will. Nearly sixty thousand of the enemy are in the wilderness on the border of Thailand, ready to attack. That wilderness is the harshest battlefield in the world, and are we to fight upon it, not to defend our homeland but to hold the empire for the white men? Tell him twenty thousand of the enemy are just over the other border of Thailand and between the two enemy armies is a vanguard of their men. The Shan mountains lie there and their tops rise six thousand feet and their valleys are full of jungles. That is our battlefield, tell him. Tell him our spies say the white men are leaving the oil fields untouched — nothing destroyed, or so slightly destroyed that a few months will give them to the enemy, a few weeks, even. Tell him—”

Pao Chen’s pen was rushing across the paper, and the sweat was pouring down his face.

“Make it as black as you can and you cannot make it black enough,” the General said passionately.

“I make it black,” Pao Chen muttered.

In silence the two sat for a while, and the only sound in silence was Pao Chen’s foreign pen, scratching out the bold characters.

“Shall I read it?” he asked when he was through to the end of his paper.

“Read it,” the General replied.

He sat with his head in his hands to listen, but at that moment the door opened and a seventeenth spy came running in. His garments were torn and his feet bleeding, and he had been wounded in his left hand and he had wrapped it in a sleeve torn from his coat.

“Rangoon!” he gasped. “Rangoon has fallen!”

The General leaped to his feet. “Put that on the letter!” he shouted. “Rangoon has fallen — tell him we are not yet allowed to cross the border, though Rangoon has fallen!”

And he stood there gnawing his underlip while Pao Chen set these words down. Then he snatched the letter and shouted for his aide.

“Let me!” Pao Chen cried. “Let me take it to the One Above! I will carry the letter for you and I will speak for you.”

The General paused for one second, his face purpling and his brows working above his angry eyes. “Well enough,” he said shortly, “then take the small plane and go. I will wait long enough for you to come back but no longer. We march, one way or the other.”

… The Chairman put down the letter which Pao Chen had written for the General. He had read it carefully and without haste, and his lady had stood behind him, reading as he read. She was very beautiful this night. She wore an apple green robe, made of silk and cut very long and close to her slender body, and over it she wore a sleeveless coat of black velvet, cut short to her waist and close, too. The collar of the robe was high and its green made even more clear her exceedingly fair skin and red lips, and the black of her soft hair, brushed back from her brow. Pao Chen saw all this beauty as every man who looked at her saw it, and acknowledged it without thought of himself.

Neither of them spoke, the Chairman or his lady. She who could be voluble as a child over small matters when she liked, could be very silent when it was wiser not to speak. She sat down and clasped her hands together. Upon her finger was the fabulous ring of jade which seemed part of her and in the lobes of her ears were small rings of jade. She fixed her great black eyes upon her husband’s face. These eyes were the light of her beauty. They were so clearly defined in their black and white, so direct and energetic in their gaze, so fearless that all who saw her spoke afterwards of her eyes.

The Chairman lifted his head and the two exchanged a long look. Then he said to Pao Chen who stood waiting: “Do not think I am ignorant of what you have told me. I know and I have known. But I have had to think of more than this one battle. I think of our future as well as our present, and this war is a war in which we are only one among others.”

At this the lady put up her hand impetuously. “We fought it alone for the others all these years. Are we to go on fighting it alone?”

He silenced her with a look. “I know what I do,” he said.

She rose at that, her eyes very bright, and with a proud grace she left the room. The Chairman watched her go. His eyes were soft, but he kept his silence, and when she was gone he turned to Pao Chen.

“Go back to your post,” he said. “I will come and see for myself.”

… Thus it was that in a very few days after that the whole waiting encampment of the armies was thrown into turmoil.

“The Chairman is here,” mouth whispered to ear. In less than an hour all knew that at noon of that day a plane had descended on the level ground outside the city bearing the Two Above, and with them the American. With what care each made the best of what he had, every soldier furbishing up his uniform and polishing his gun and washing his face and ears and smoothing his hair, and the women, how they gossiped among themselves about the lady and wondered if she were as beautiful as men said she was!

“Is she as beautiful?” Hsieh-ying asked Mayli.

“I think she is,” Mayli said smiling.

“But no more beautiful than you!” Pansiao cried jealously.

“Much more beautiful,” Mayli said, still smiling.

“I have seen her once,” Siu-chen said proudly. “She came long ago, before the war, to our school and talked about keeping ourselves clean and our garments buttoned and what she called New Life. She was very beautiful, it is true. I remember she saw my hands that day — chapped, you know, Elder Sister, as they always are in winter — and she spoke to the principal and told her to buy a foreign cream for me. But we never did. It cost too much.”

In the mid-afternoon all were ready for inspection, and Mayli stood very straight before her lines of young women, and the Chairman and his lady came by with the American, thin and lean and gray-haired, and with them was the General. They all saluted the four and all kept their faces grave as the great ones passed by. But the lady stopped and said in her easy way,

“You all look beautiful, and never more beautiful than you are now, ready to serve your country.” And to Mayli, she said, “Are you happy?”

“Yes, Lady,” Mayli replied, not moving.

But still the lady lingered, and she put two delicate fingers on Mayli’s sleeve and she said in a low voice, “You may come to me in half an hour.”

But be sure the women heard, and they were envious of her, some gently who loved her and some not so gently. And after half an hour Mayli went to the house which was headquarters and there for nearly an hour the lady kept her. She was alone, for the Chairman was busy with his commanders, and because she was alone that lady put free and piercing questions to Mayli.

“I told you to be my eyes and ears,” she began, “and so tell me all you have seen and heard.”

She listened while Mayli talked, and every now and again she thrust in a barbed question.

When the hour was nearly spent she put her hands before her eyes and sighed deeply. Mayli waited for her to speak, but she only said, “Go back to your bed. You have been faithful eyes and faithful ears, but you have told me heavy news, heavier than you meant to tell.”

At this moment the Chairman came in, and as soon as he saw the lady he said quickly, “You are not well!”

“Indeed, I feel I am ill,” she said.

The Chairman bent over her, and he waved his hand toward Mayli.

“Go — go,” he said, “bid the doctor to come here.”

She was about to hasten away when the lady protested willfully, “No, only take me home. Let us go home at once. Tell them to prepare the plane instantly.”

She rose and walked about as though she were in pain, and so the Chairman gave the order to the guard who was always at the door, and Mayli came away.

In only a little while they all heard the plane soar over their heads and turn eastward and after they were gone and Mayli had dismissed her women, the courts were full of talking and wondering and laughter and admiration for the two who were more than leaders to these simple girls. They saw in the two all the dream of love between man and woman, which they themselves might never have.

Even Mayli dreamed a little that night and she thought of Sheng with something more than she had thought of him for a long time. Had the Chairman been uncouth when he was young like Sheng? She remembered, as she always did, how he, too, had been the son of plain people, not much schooled, speaking no foreign tongue, accustomed to hardship and work. There were rumors enough that told of his mischievous youth. He had not always been this grave high man he was today. She sighed and wondered where Sheng was now and she rose from her bed and went to the window and stood looking out into the small piece of starry sky above the roofs and, feeling without thinking, she felt him suddenly very near.

And not too far away Sheng lay flat on his back on a pallet on the floor of the barracks, one in a long row of men. Behind the shut lids of his eyes he was seeing her face. He, too, had stood at the head of his own men without speaking while the Two Above had passed, but when the lady passed she gave him a full deep look and that look had lit his being because it made him think of Mayli.

He would not turn or toss and why should he let himself be restless? He might never see her again.

For after the inspection was over the Chairman had called all the young commanders to him.

“Tomorrow,” he had said, “you shall lead your men across the border. We will wait no more.”

And then his profound eyes had singled out Sheng. “You tall fellow,” he said kindly, “here you are. I remember you, your name and your home. I sent you here because you are one of my best men. I have told your General that if there is any task too hard, he is to choose you for it.”

At these words Sheng’s pride rose in him like a banner. “And I will do it,” he said.

… Mayli walked across the border at the head of her young women.

“We are on foreign soil,” she thought, and felt a dread rise through her bones and marrow. On this soil who knew what would happen to all these she led?

It was a morning without cloud or shadow of any kind, and all were on foot, since the roads of this region of Burma were narrow and winding and not fit for vehicles. Ahead of them were the carriers, bearing weapons and food. Ahead of those were soldiers. She could see them winding like a huge long beast, the men in their blue uniforms packed together. She wore the same uniform and so did her young women. So too did the General himself, who had nothing to tell he was different from the soldiers, save his badge of blue enamel upon which was the white star of China. Behind them were more soldiers, winding as far as eye could see.

She smiled at her women. They looked fresh and strong under the morning sun, their skins were brown and their eyes clear. Not one had paint nowadays on her lips or cheeks. Such things were forgotten. She had put away her own foreign lipstick and powder and she washed her face with hot water and soap as they all did. Sometimes at night they rubbed a little mutton fat into their wind-burned cheeks and hands and that was all. Yet never had she felt so strong nor looked so well and that she knew. Even An-lan was beginning to lose her paleness. The slender girl smiled no more than she ever did, but the look of misery had left her eyes.

Now as she caught Mayli’s glance she said seriously, “It is the first time our armies have ever marched on foreign soil.”

“It is indeed,” Mayli answered, surprised and suddenly grave. Yes, this was the first time that Chinese men and women had ever left their own land to fight. She marched on, thinking of this as she went. Behind them lay China, and all around them and ahead of them was Burma. She lifted her eyes and looked at the green hills. Had a knife cut through here, it would have divided Burma into Upper and Lower. To the right of them the land rose rougher, even as they could see, than it did to the left. Northward it would break into uneven hills that grew quickly into mountains, but southward the land leveled toward the sea. The road wound itself, reasonlessly, it seemed, doubled and crooked, as human feet had found the easiest way to walk, century upon century. It was rich country. The rice fields were green even now, and she saw the farmers bent over them. Sometimes like a lamp across the green they saw the saffron of a priest’s robe. There were many priests here, many of them young.

Priests and all, wherever she saw a human face, it was merry and ready to laugh. The people looked up as they marched past, farmers stood to stare and children sucked their fingers. When they passed through villages of houses built upon posts, the people stopped where they were to watch them. At noon they halted but not in a village, for they had their own food. No one, the General had commanded, was to take so much as an egg from these people. Food would be bought and they were not to put a hand on anything that was not theirs; even when it was given them as a gift it must be refused.

“Remember you honor your country by what you are, or you disgrace your ancestors by what you are not,” the General had said.

Therefore, at noon when the word came to halt, they sat down in open country along the road and ate the fried rice that was their ration and washed it down with the pale tea that filled their bottles.

The sun was hot and the road dusty, and as they sat a horde of small children came running across the fields and stood at some twenty feet from them and stared at them. Once, Mayli held out a handful of rice to them and they fled backward.

“How pretty they are,” Chi-ling sighed. “I had a little boy once—” she rose and tightened her belt, and stood with her back to the children. But no one spoke or answered her. In these days none asked another a question. Who had not lost one dearly loved?

Then the order came to march again and they all rose and fell into the long swinging step that carried them twenty miles a day and twenty-five and then to thirty. The afternoon wore on and the sun fell before their eyes as they marched southward toward the Sittang River. All knew that the allies had withdrawn from the enemy and that the Chinese armies were to meet them upon the left flank, and engage the enemy.

Engage the enemy! These words were said as easily as though one went to a rendezvous, a party, an outing, but Mayli dreaded the certain hour ahead and kept her dread secret.

That night, their first upon alien soil, a deep uneasiness swept over them all. They encamped at sunset in a shallow valley between low hills, and yet weary as they were none could sleep. Above them the sky was pearl and pink for an hour, both east and west, and then the color changed to purple. Around them the lights of villages shone flickering and small as fireflies. Mayli and her women were gathered together, their blankets spread, but none was ready to sleep. The uneasiness of the men had spread to them, too, and they sat silent, a few with their heads sunk in their arms upon their knees. But others rose and stood or walked here and there, stumbling over those that sat. The mosquitoes hummed in the night air, and now and then one heard a slap and a curse, and soon other slaps and curses.

“Why are we restless?” Mayli wondered to herself. Only Pansiao was asleep. She had brought her blanket and put it down next to Mayli and curled herself into it, head and all against the insects, and Mayli could hear her breath deep and regular as a child’s.

Then suddenly she heard her own name murmured, and the women near her pointed toward some one standing at the outside of their circle, and Mayli rose and went toward the man. It was Pao Chen.

“The General sends me to you,” he said, whispering. “He says, can you and your women not come out and amuse the men — sing, perhaps? Or talk to us? Or make a little play? The men are disturbed. They say the air here is full of strange spirits.”

This command was so astonishing to her that she must think a moment. “Yes, we can,” she said quickly. “Siu-chen can sing some foreign songs, and Hsieh-ying dances with a sword very well — and — yes, we will think of something. Give us half an hour, say to the General.”

He nodded and went away, and she went into the midst of the circle and clapped her hands for them to listen to her, and then she called out what the command was and in her clear crisp voice that carried more powerfully than a man’s voice through the twilight, she said,

“Who can do any small clever thing? Let none be shy! Think of the men, who must be eased of their weariness and made to laugh and so to sleep. Step out, each one — this also is for our country.”

Then as though they longed for laughter, too, such a giggling and chatter rose that Mayli had to smile — these girls, these women, how young they were! Were there no war most of them would now have been in schools and homes, and here they were, part of an army, going out to engage the fiercest enemy their country had ever known! She who was so impatient of all tears suddenly felt her throat tighten at their laughter and her lips trembled as she smiled.

“Come, come!” she called. “Am I to wait all night?”

So one by one they came forward.

“I do know some foreign songs,” Siu-chen said.

“And I have a sword dance,” Hsieh-ying said.

“I know a juggler’s trick my brother taught me once,” An-lan said.

“I will tell a story,” Chi-ling said.

And so, one by one, some twenty came forward, each with a thing she could do, and these followed Mayli toward the ranks of the men and there they found a hollow center ready for them. Pao Chen had waited for them and when he saw them coming he began to clap his hands and all the men clapped their hands, but softly and only for a moment.

There in the brilliant light of the moon Pao Chen spoke and spoke very well, as though he read writing aloud.

“Brothers,” he said, “tonight we are far from home and the earth we call our own. It is true that no ancestor of ours has ever done what today we do. We carry the battle into the land of other peoples. This is foreign to us and because it is foreign we feel restless and not sure that what we do is right. Therefore let us reassure ourselves. We go at the command of the One Above and him we must obey. And the enemy is the same enemy, the one who even today let loose his bombs upon our own homes, who killed today his hundreds and his thousands. Though we are on foreign earth, it is not this earth we want. When the enemy is vanquished, we will go home again, taking nothing that we did not bring with us. Therefore we can be confident, knowing that what we do is right.

“Now, so that our hearts can be free and so that we can sleep our sisters will sing to us, play before us and speak to us for an hour or two. What their names are does not matter. They are our sisters, and it is enough.”

So saying, he bowed, and stood aside, and Mayli came forward and in simple short words, she told what they would do. She, too, spoke no name, not even her own, for what indeed did their names matter? Before her in that bright moonlight she saw the faces of many men, and they had no names either.

“One of us will sing to you,” she said, “and some of us will speak. And six of us will make a little play for you that these six played often in the villages of home, when they traveled from place to place to tell the people what this war is and how it must be fought by us all, here and at home.”

Now, when she began to speak, Sheng was sitting far toward the back. He gave a great start and stood up on his feet. Could two voices be so same as this girl’s and Mayli’s, he asked himself? He stood listening, catching not every word she said because he was too far away, and because the mosquitoes whined so loudly about his ears. But how could he see her face in the moonlight? She wore the uniform they all did, and looked, from where he stared at her, like a boy. The breeze lifted her short hair and blew it back from her face, and he could see no feature clear.

He sat down again. Of course it was not she. How could it be she when he had left her many hundred miles away in a little house at Kunming?

Then he remembered when he had last seen her. He had not seen her face, but only her hand wearing the jade ring. She had been leaving the General’s room, and he and the other young commanders had been waiting while the guard flung them his ribald words.

“It will be a long time yet, elder brothers,” he had told them, snickering. “The General has a beauty in there.”

And when at last she came out it had been Mayli! He had led his men out at dawn the next day, and he would not go near her to ask her anything. A man about to go to battle must not ask a woman anything.

Now the girl stopped speaking and instead he heard her begin to sing a foreign song, her voice high and sweet. He had never heard foreign music in his life except sometimes out of the wireless machines in cities. But Charlie sat near him, and he knew Charlie understood all foreign things and he leaned toward him.

“What is she singing?” he asked.

“Some song she learned in school,” Charlie said. He translated it after a moment. “Drink to me only with thine eyes,” he said.

“Drink to me only with thine eyes,” Sheng repeated astonished. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Charlie said, “that when a woman’s eyes look into yours you need no wine.”

Sheng did not speak again. He listened to the strange words and the clear high voice. The tune was painful to him. It twisted itself into him and made him tremble. “It is true,” he thought, remembering Mayli, “when I looked into her eyes it was as though I drank wine. I felt my veins grow hot.”

He rose when the girl stopped singing.

“Where are you going?” Charlie asked him.

“Upon my own business,” Sheng said shortly, and he wound his way among the men, sitting and lying upon the ground as they listened. He went beyond the outermost edge of them. Then under a little tree he took the blanket he had with him and rolled himself up in it, head and all, and lay stolidly enduring his inner loneliness.