Waiting for the Monsoon (32 page)

“Does it taste good?” she asked.

“Delicious.”

Charlotte was surprised that he had actually answered her question. It had been some time since she'd been able to carry on a normal conversation with him. He did have some lucid moments, but they were becoming more and more rare. “Is there enough sugar in it?”

“I already told you it was delicious.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

She put a heaping spoonful into his mouth and he slurped it up with evident relish.

“Are you going to the party?” he asked as he licked the yogurt from his lips.

“What party?”

“The party at the club, of course. It's coming up to the two hundredth anniversary.”

“Yes, I'm planning to go.” She had no idea how he had found out about the party. She hadn't mentioned it to him, Hema never concerned himself with such events, and none of the ladies who had visited her the last few days had gone upstairs. She couldn't imagine that the thought had simply come to him out of the blue.

“I want to wear my uniform.”

“You mean you want to go to the party?”

“Of course. I'm the oldest member. I was a member long before the Indians were allowed to join.” He pointed to a plaque on the wall that he'd won at a tournament held at the club, long before his accident. “Get my uniform out of the wardrobe.”

“First one more spoonful,” she replied, holding the full spoon to his mouth. He kept his lips tightly closed.

“Come now, Father. We're almost there.”

“I don't want any more. I want my uniform,” he peeped through his tightly closed lips.

“Just two more bites.”

The general began to cry softly. The spoon was suspended in front of his mouth. “Come now. The bowl is almost empty.”

“I don't want any more.”

“You can have your uniform when the bowl is empty.”

With one stroke he knocked the spoon out of her hand. “I want my uniform!” The globs of yogurt hit the wall.

“Now why did you do that?” she asked as she picked up the spoon. “You were almost finished. You know it's important to eat well.”

“Finish it yourself. You're thin as a rail.”

It was true that Charlotte had got into the habit of economizing on her own food, in order to buy biscuits and sugar to serve with tea when she had guests. A few days before, Hema had suggested, in his typically vague and discreet manner, that she ought to eat more. She told him that the extreme heat took away her appetite, so that no one would know that for days she'd gone to bed with her stomach rumbling with hunger.

“I WANT MY UN-I-FORM!” her father screamed, now in tears.

The only way to put an end to his whinging was to give in. Otherwise it would end in a flood of abuse. As a rule, Charlotte stood her ground — many of his requests were simply so ridiculous that it would be impossible to give him his way. But this plea gave her an opportunity to look in the big old wardrobe. She put down the spoon and bowl, and before he could renew his tirade, she opened the huge doors. There hung the uniform in all its glory, enclosed in a transparent plastic garment bag. As Charlotte took the garment out of the wardrobe she saw the enormous piles of fabric. They were enclosed in yellowed plastic, so that it was impossible to distinguish the colour of the fabrics inside.

“Father?” She unzipped the garment bag and took out the uniform. “Would it be all right if I used one of these fabrics to make a dress for the party?”

The general didn't hear his daughter's question, but he brightened at the sight of the shiny medals and insignia. Charlotte laid the uniform in his lap. The odour of a recent bowel movement was noticeable. With the tip of his forefinger, the old man — known to all as “the general” though it was now clear that the highest rank he ever attained was that of lieutenant colonel — stroked the embroidered cords, insignia, and medals, and then the Order of Distinguished Service, his highest military decoration, awarded for heroism while he was stationed in Burma.

Charlotte took a cloth and wiped the remains of the yogurt from the wall. She wondered what was going through her father's head. Did he think he was back in Burma, at the Officer's Club, perhaps, or had his fantasy already transported him to the party at the club? He was so obsessed with the threadbare uniform that he didn't see Charlotte transferring the piles of cloth, all neatly wrapped in plastic, from the wardrobe to the landing. The shelf, which had been overfull, now looked almost empty. She closed the door quickly, forgot to take the bowl and spoon with her, locked the door, and heaved a sigh.

USING A SPOON
with a bent handle and a bowl worn thin from years of scraping out the contents of his mess kit, he manages to swallow the sticky substance concocted from some kind of bitter fruit. It's the first food he's tasted in days. The odour is revolting and the first spoonful makes his stomach churn, but he continues to chew, trying not to think about what it had been in its former life. They finally have something to eat, and that's what matters.

Victor and two other men are lost. The day after he gave his seconds-in-command orders to spread his men along the front line, he has lost contact with them. His liaison officer stepped on a land mine and took the sole radio to his grave. His batman, who carried the maps, was suddenly felled by some rare form of malaria and died that same night. The maps have been reduced to pulp by the rain and can't even be used to start a fire. He has suppressed the memory of how the other men had come to their end. No use dwelling on the past. They have to go on.

Victor's brain is beginning to function again now that he has something in his stomach, even though it's an effort to keep it down. Their hunger is so great that the soldier across from him is eating his own vomit.

The major looks at what remains of his men. Two young soldiers. No danger of anyone deserting — where would they escape to? Each step they take in the impenetrable jungle is dangerous, and it is a miracle that they haven't fallen into an enemy trap. Are the Japs in front, behind, to the left, or to the right of them? There's no way of knowing.

Now that he is able to think more clearly, the fear returns. He has despised cowardice his entire life, but it has dogged his footsteps ever since they lost their way. Here, in this green hell, he doesn't fear the bloodsuckers, the snakes, or the black scorpions. They're a necessary evil, like the tigers. But he is terrified of the enemy, ever since he saw and smelled what they did with the men of the fourth battalion. No one talks about it: he has declared the subject taboo since the day it happened. When they're not sleeping or resting, they crawl as close as possible to the ground, invisible. The sun has reached its zenith and now it penetrates the canopy and hits the foot of the trees. Amid its flickering rays, the men scrape their mess kits clean.

Victor is hot. He lost his tie and shirt a long time ago, and he has nothing but his tunic. Their uniforms are made of indestructible canvas that is useless in this heat. If he gets out alive, he resolves to write to the general staff in London, to those idiots who never stopped to think before they sent them into the jungle. They sweat themselves silly, and after that the rough fabric scrapes their clammy skin until it bleeds. He sees the two soldiers nodding off. He has to tell them that it's important to remain alert. But a full stomach produces a longing for sleep, real sleep, such as they've not enjoyed for weeks. He takes off his tunic and rolls it up. Then he places it behind his head and leans back against the tree he's sitting under. He doesn't know when his eyes fall shut, but suddenly he hears the ringing voice of Vera Lynn.

The voice is very close. For an instant he thinks that the singing is part of a dream within his forbidden sleep, but then he realizes that it really is the voice of the “Sweetheart of the Forces” that echoes through the jungle. The two other men also jump to their feet. That voice can mean only one thing: there's another British unit nearby. Briefly it occurs to him how odd it is that the silence of weeks should be broken so suddenly, but the joyful prospect of finding fellow countrymen here in the jungle prevails over all doubts. They stumble as fast as they can in the direction of the voice, which is calling to them like a temptress.

They run into a clearing. Emerging from the shade of ancient trees, they are almost blinded by the sun. In the middle of the field stands a wind-up gramophone.

There is no one in sight, just the lone gramophone. They look at each other. Their doubt and astonishment, which lasts only a few seconds, seems endless. Victor watches the black vinyl revolve, sees the shine of the grooves, the reflection of the sun, the oscillating needle swaying to the rhythm of the
78
r.p.m. gramophone record. Vera Lynn's familiar voice crackles through the jungle. He recalls watching the woman in the white suit up on the stage, so far away that she was only a tiny dot. Everyone sang along with her. And here, not ten metres away, her voice reaches him from the horn. Where are the others? Sleeping under the trees? Where there's music, there must be tents, food, ammunition, medicine, a map . . .

He is just about to raise his hand, signalling that there's something wrong here, when a bullet whizzes through the air. The young man next to him, a second lieutenant from Gloucester and a newcomer to India, is struck and falls down dead. Without a flinch, without a sigh. Between his eyes there is a small hole, and a trickle of blood as Vera holds the last note and the piano completes its last run. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the other man, a private first class, raise his hands. The needle gets stuck in the last groove, like a sluggish metronome.

Where are they? Why don't they show themselves? The fear that has constantly plagued him re-emerges. He wants to raise his hands. He wants to cut their throats, he wants to take revenge on them for what they've done. Why don't they come out of the woods? Who pulled the trigger? Perhaps it wasn't the Japs but some desperate Brit who's suffering from hallucinations and has taken them for the enemy. The needle continues to tick in its groove. He knows that the Japs consider surrender a sign of cowardice, and that cowards are often summarily shot, but he decides to risk it. Slowly he raises his arms . . . until he remembers what they did to that major in the fifth battalion. Then his mind begins to spin in a wild panic. He remembers that his uniform jacket and his helmet are still lying under the tree. In his stained khaki undershirt and trousers, he looks exactly like the soldier next to him. There is nothing to distinguish him from the cannon fodder, except perhaps his age. But his face is just as dirty and unshaven, his hair just as long and grimy: even at close quarters, a Jap wouldn't see the difference. He raises his hands still higher.

Two Japs emerge from the trees and bushes, guns at the ready. Their uniforms are just as ragged as his, their cheeks just as hollow, and even the hatred in their eyes is the same. Until they stop next to the gramophone and one of them lifts the needle lovingly, removes the record, and replaces it carefully in the sleeve. Victor wonders how many others have fallen for this trick, devised by the yellow vermin, who probably don't appreciate anything but the twang of an untuned lute.

Now that the ticking has ceased, the sounds of the jungle are doubly prominent. One Jap places the record in a box, together with the gramophone and the horn, while the other keeps his gun trained on Victor and the young soldier, who are standing next to each other. One of the Japs disappears into the undergrowth. Victor prays that he doesn't find his jacket: he wants to go into captivity anonymously.

“Major,” the young soldier whispers.

“Shut up,” Victor hisses.

“But, Major . . . ,” the frightened boy begins again.

“Do you want to get me killed?” he growls in a voice that only the boy can hear.

The boy is silent. Their enemy returns with three rifles. He says something to the other Jap, and the entire group sets off. They walk into the jungle, leaving the uncovered body of the second lieutenant from Gloucester behind. It could be five kilometres or ten or two. Victor and the boy walk slowly with their arms above their heads. It's no use trying to escape: the jungle is more dangerous than the enemy, and it might just be possible to talk to them.

They walk into a camp just as the sun starts to set. There are a few shabby huts, and in front of one of them stands a chair. During the march, Victor has considered all the possible scenarios, and in each case he came to the same conclusion: the best thing is to just wait and see. They are led to a fenced-off area, where they collapse onto the ground. The Japs shout something in the direction of the huts, but there is no answer. The enemy is just as exhausted as they are, especially the man who led the group, carrying the gramophone and the rifles on his back. Again they call out, exchanging worried looks. Victor senses that a chance for escape may present itself sooner than he expected. One of the men enters a hut and quickly reappears. He calls to his mate, who suddenly readies his rifle and aims it at the prisoners. Victor withstands it all in silence, happy for a chance to drop his arms. He sees the other man go into the tent, and feels the first mosquitoes of the evening launch their attack on his bare arms and neck.

“Major . . . ,” the young solder whispers.

“Don't call me that, for Christ's sake,” snaps Victor.

“What am I supposed to call you, Major?”

“Anything except that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Call me Jack, for all I care.”

The Jap aims his weapon at them and shouts something, presumably that they're not allowed to talk. They fall silent and look straight ahead.

Victor slaps a mosquito just as it's about to stick its dart into his arm. Suddenly he is reminded of his daughter. His children mean little more than their faraway addresses to which he sends a letter at Christmastime. He didn't see them grow up. Would he even recognize them? Will he ever see them again? It's been a long time since he felt like a father. He's a soldier. He's been a commandant for many years, but now that he's pretending to be an ordinary soldier, something inside him has changed. He feels a maudlin sensation coming over him, something he had always loathed and detested when he saw it in his young recruits. He does his best to shake it off.