Seize the Day. A M (Jack) Harris
advance was continued and soon we came to an open sand patch that glistened whitely in the night. Here I expelled my breath in a gusty exclamation. The white sand indicated the first boundary of our patrol: the bank of the Samichon River. We moved forward over pebble-strewn sand until a large tree brandishing leafless limbs stood before us. Once under its gaunt limbs our patrol gathered closely together, seeking human companionship and nearness in the hope that it might afford protection and safety when we were so surrounded by danger.
“Pak!” I spoke softly, almost a whisper, and a small figure detached itself from near the tree. “You all right, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must get through, you understand?” I knew the others were listening. “Our friend should have some good news for us this time.”
“Yes sir. I do understand.”
I reached out, pressed Pak’s shoulder, and then called softly, “Chet.” Another figure, more thickset than the first, came up to me. “Chet, you do what Pak tells you and there will be no trouble.” Chet had pressed close to me for I understood that my voice could hardly be heard above the monotonous drone of the many insects. “Come. We’ll cross over now.”
Chet grinned at me, his teeth a white flash in the blacking on his face. I looked closely at him for a moment, then I too smiled and soundlessly began to unravel a piece of nylon rope from about my waist. I worked swiftly, adjusting the rope then handing one end to Lim before stepping down the bank and into the river. I shivered as I stepped into the cold water and a sudden panic skittered through me as my feet slipped from under me. It dispersed in a moment, melting from my nerves as my common sense, bred from a number of previous missions and their remembered shocks and problems, took its place. I went forward but the tug of the current swept my footing away and I had to breast-stroke clumsily forward, my body being carried downstream by the force of the water I was battling against. Then, without warning, my hands met a big, rough boulder and I knew I had reached the river’s centre point. I lay there, tensed and waiting as the water swamped about me while the rope, much of its length buffeted by the water, tugged at my waist. Everything appeared to be still on the bank ahead of me which I had to move to. I could not see much and I could hear nothing but the sound of the water about me. Beyond the boulder which I was clinging to the water moved slowly, a silent strip of darkness with none of the noisy verve of the stream which I had just battled to cross. But in a way it was more menacing in its quietness, as the quiet man can be more deadly, or a hidden snake, or the sensed presence of an intruder. Also, its farther side lipped the enemy’s shore, knew the touch of his feet, was fouled by his excrement. It was defiled territory and as I slid forward I felt my lips draw back in a grimace of distaste.
The bottom beyond the boulder was sandy, the water shallow, and I went easily across it, the white ruffles foaming around my tensed knees. I stopped for a few moments, stripped a waterproof cover from my Chinese Burp gun and eased the safety-catch forward. I moved, the drag of the water lessening as it edged down around my calves, then my ankles until suddenly it was gone. When I stepped onto the bank the gravel beneath my feet crunched softly but to my anxious ears the sound filled the night with dissonance. I cursed softly in an agony of apprehension and annoyance. But nothing moved and I was where I was supposed to be, in enemy territory. The valley I had crossed to get to the Samichon River was no-man’s land, and while there was always the danger of meeting an enemy patrol, one never knew when or where. Here, it was different. On this strip of land men sat cunningly concealed, never betrayed by movement, or noise and they closely watched their front to see that none passed by. If any attempted they could die.
I stood there on that shelving bank, my body tensed, watching and listening for any danger; but no challenges came to me, no sound other than that of the flowing river. I was facing the opposite bank, waiting, my mind racing in many directions, frantically seeking some reason why I might refuse the last small act which would commit Pak and Chet to the mission before them. But even as my mind hunted about, my hands mechanically gave a sudden jerk to the rope to let my companions know that, for the time being at least, all was well. Now they too could use the rope attached to the tree and, steadied by Lim, cross the river.
When Pak and Chet were beside me on the bank, panting with the exertion of their crossing, only their dark-painted faces partly visible in the night, I watched as they sat and squeezed water out of their socks and replaced them, tied up their shoes, checked their weapons and stood before me. I shook hands with both of them and they went off, all without uttering a word. Lim had done his work with the rope, feeling the weight, gauging the passage of each of us as we crossed. Now he waited until he felt vibration on the rope again as I crossed back to him, and stood, dripping wet before him. Then he coiled the rope in and we turned silently on our way back along the outgoing route. After a while we stopped and squatted down close together.
“All right, sir?”
“Yep. They are good lads, Lim. They’ll make it back.”
We both fell silent. The undertone of night with its threat of danger and its promise of concealment encompassed both of us. I felt good. Things were off to a promising start.
Chapter Two
At first light we moved carefully in past the standing patrol of the forward company as the poor visibility of the valley was improving. I called a greeting to a number of shivering British soldiers and they spread their arms wide, welcoming us in return. After all, they had spent long hours peering into the darkness which often seemed hostile to them as they listened for any sound that might indicate the approach of their enemy, anxious to take a prisoner, or perhaps to explore the defences of the outer perimeter in preparation for an attack. All night through they had gripped their weapons and waited, hoping that any enemy would not choose to come at them, firing in the dark. They had waited, thinking of home, of love, of the need for a smoke, and perhaps, sometimes, of death. They would always be ready for the first warning when they would shoot and, in a weaving, terrified run, get back through the minefield to warn their comrades and, primarily, preserve their own lives.
But the enemy had not violated their night, and now in the welcome light of dawn they stood and sat, sucking hungrily on their cigarettes, chaffing one another as Lim and I walked up to them. They laughed at themselves and at the two mud-spattered men, me and Lim, in a strange happiness that another fresh day was dawning. In the satisfaction which refused to acknowledge a fear of another night, they would not now consider the crawling dread of the next outpost position, which would begin again in a few short hours.
The corporal in charge spoke to us in a laconic fashion, as some men do when they joke about serious matters.
“Had a good time, Sergeant? Looks like it!”
I did not immediately answer but grinned in companionship.
“Wonderful. The water was great. Those buggers worry you at all last night?”
“Nuh. Haven’t been in touch with him for about three weeks now. Bloody good thing too! Came right up to this spot!” He pointed a little way into the valley. “Killed two of our blokes; snatched another, they did! Cunning bastards!”
“True.”
“But I’m thinking he’ll be coming again soon.” The comment came from one of the soldiers sitting on the ground near the corporal. He spoke in a thick Scottish burr and winked broadly at me as he spoke.
“You know exactly when that will be, Scotty?” I asked.
“When he hears that me, James McFee, is going on leave to Tokyo, and will not be mounting patrol for three weeks,” The Scot spoke complacently, ignoring the storm of derision his words had unleashed.
“Huh! Would you get that?” The corporal spread his hands upwards in mock resignation. “No self-respecting Chink would ever try to take you prisoner, McFee, you Scotch rooster. You would not be worth the trouble: besides, they got no Scotch-Chinese interpreters.”
“You may have a point there,” I commented with a grin. I did it in the hope of prolonging this moment of warmth and comradeship and humour, to let the bawdy familiarity of soldier-talk