Harp of Burma. Michio Takeyama

      THE GREEN PARAKEET

CHAPTER ONE

      WE THREW down our guns. From that day we were prisoners of the British forces, something we had never dreamed could happen.

      The following night the captain called us together and talked to us. He spoke slowly and haltingly, as we listened in silence.

      “We’ve surrendered,” he began. “Not just us but our whole country. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what will happen to us, where we’ll be taken, or what we’ll have to do. I don’t even know if we’ll be allowed to go on living.

      “It’s hard to say what condition Japan is in. We lost contact long ago, and since we took to the mountains we’ve had no way of resuming it. But according to the leaflets and newspapers dropped by enemy planes, our country has been bombed from one end to the other, and many people have been burned, or wounded, or are starving to death. It can’t be all propaganda. Our people must be suffering. It makes your heart ache just to think of it.

      “Our country is in ruins and here we are, prisoners of war, thousands of miles away. Who could have imagined such a thing? I can hardly believe it’s true—the thought of it bewilders me. I ask myself what happened? All I can feel is a sense of shock.

      “In time, I suppose the shock will give way to sorrow. We’ll probably feel despair, and doubt, even anger and bitterness. But we can’t be sure what to think until we learn the facts. Actually, I began to suspect quite a while ago that we might end up like this. But now that it’s happened, I have to admit I’m completely at a loss.

      “All we can do now is wait to see what the future brings. Our luck has turned against us, there’s no use fighting it. If there’s no way out, the manly thing to do is to recognize clearly how we stand, accept our lot, and make the best of it. Let’s at least have the courage to do that much.

      “As far as I know, our situation is hopeless. It looks pretty grim for us. All we have left is our faith in each other. That’s the only thing we can count on. It’s all we have.

      “So let us go on sharing our sorrows and our pain. Let us help each other. Up to now we’ve faced death together—let’s go on that way, sharing the same fate. We have to be ready for hardship. For all we know, we may die here in Burma. If that time comes, let us die together. Meanwhile, let’s try not to despair. Let’s try to live through this somehow.

      “And if the day ever comes when we can go back to Japan, let us go back together—every man of us and work together to rebuild our country. That’s all I can say now.”

      Our taut nerves slackened, and we sat there in a daze. Everyone stared at the ground, thinking to himself that the captain was right.

      I remembered how stirred and excited we had been when we left Japan with cheers ringing in our ears, but how, even so, the whole country already seemed to be in an uneasy mood. Everybody was bragging about our strength, but our words were hollow. We were like drunken bullies. It was a vivid, painful memory, and I burned with shame.

      Someone began to sob. Suddenly all the rest of us felt so sad that we began to weep too. But we weren’t sad or bitter about anything in particular. It was just that we felt forlorn and helpless.

      Usually we sang when we were unhappy, but that night we didn’t. We lay on the floor to sleep, using our packs as pillows. The guns we had guarded so carefully were gone. It was a short, restless night.

      After that we spent many unreal days—numb at heart, but frantically busy. Putting our arms and equipment in order, turning them in, transporting them, making various reports and investigations, looking for provisions—all this kept us so rushed that we had no time to think.

      When I look back on that period I always recall a certain incident.

      The British troops had decided to stay in that village for three or four days, and relegated the menial tasks to us prisoners of war. One morning several of us were on K.P. duty. We were to pluck some chickens the villagers had offered to the troops.

      Packed tight in a basket, the chickens stuck their heads out through the meshes and worriedly looked here and there, jerking their cockscombs. A Burmese cook grabbed one bird at a time from the basket, laid it on a stone, and chopped its head off with a dah—a hatchet-like implement that the Burmese wear hanging from their waist.

      The cook chewed betel nut and spat out red juice as he lazily did his work. Betel nut is the fruit of the betel palm; the people of Southeast Asia chew it like chewing gum, but it is red and dyes the mouth, teeth, and lips an unpleasant color. The cook chopped the heads off one bird after another, and we were to pluck them.

      To our astonishment, one of the chickens that had just had its head cut off started to flutter about. Flapping its wings and scattering downy feathers, it hopped around erratically. We were caught by surprise and dropped the chickens in our hands. They came alive too, and stretching their headless necks ran around in circles.

      There were about a dozen chicken heads lying strewn on the ground. All of them had a sickly, reproachful look about them with their beaks open and their whitish eyelids closed. But the headless bodies were still alive; they were still flapping their beautiful sleek wings. Drunkenly weaving here and there, the birds finally ran into the bushes, or cowered down in the grass.

      Everybody gathered to see this strange sight. There were some who laughed, but others frowned distastefully. “How do you suppose it feels, running around like that without a head?” someone asked.

      At that point the captain came over, looking for Mizushima. “Mizushima, where are you?” he called in a loud voice. Mizushima came on the run.

      “We just got an intelligence report,” the captain told him. “You see that mountain?” He pointed to a triangular rocky peak in one of the distant ranges. “Some Japanese troops are holed up there, and they won’t surrender. For three days now the British have been attacking them, but they’re still fighting back. At this rate they’ll have to be wiped out. I asked a British officer to let one of us go over and try to talk them into giving themselves up. I told him we want to do what we can to prevent any useless killing, and he said we could try it. How about it, Mizushima, will you go and see if you can persuade them? If you don’t, I will.”

      We all looked toward the triangular peak. It seemed to be about half a day’s walk away. It was near the Siamese border, and its gray head jutted out of a thick forest. We strained our ears to listen but could hear no explosion. Thin columns of smoke rose from villages here and there in the valleys below; perhaps it was only our imagination, but the atmosphere near that peak looked yellowish and turbid. There dozens of our fellow countrymen were about to die a useless death. Knowing this, we stared toward the peak.

      Mizushima thought for a while and then answered crisply, “I’ll go.” Then he added, “I don’t know how I’ll manage it, but I’ll do whatever the situation calls for.”

      “Good,” the captain said. “Our company is being sent to a P.O.W. camp in Mudon, in southern Burma. When you’ve finished your mission, follow us there. The British officer says they’ll let you rejoin us.”

      The two men saluted.

      Mizushima got ready right away. He dressed lightly, carried no arms, and wore no insignia. The captain took off his own shoes, which were still in fairly good condition, and insisted on exchanging shoes with him. Then he gripped Mizushima’s hand firmly. For our part, we slipped him a broiled