THE LOVE TRYST

(A short story)

DEBESH DAS, I. C. S.

Translated by the Author from the original in Bengali.

[The World Book Exhibition honoured and commended the writer of this war story by specially exhibiting in German translation his Rakta Rag, the only novel in any Indian language written on the actual background of the war in India, which was published with a foreword from the late President Dr. Rajendra Prasad, as the Supreme Commander of the Indian Armed Forces. As a story-writer Shri Debesh Das has the distinction of receiving the first place of honour for his story “From Rome to Ramana” in a leading German literary magazine in which there were contributions from several internationally celebrated writers like Michael Sholokoff and the Noble Prize winner Juan Zimenez. This story also relates to the last war on our eastern borders and depicts the transfiguration of a middle class youth of Bengal, a class traditionally dubbed as non-martial.]

Hardly fifty yards between life and the Japanese.

Sometimes it appears that even that much distance does not exist. The Japanese Zero bombers swoop down upon us with a terrorizing zum zum noise. With unerring aim and speech they dive down like fierce hawks. Their machine guns spray bullets all round us from a low level and we lie flat on our belies under a camouflage of leaves and twigs spread over the trench and count the last minutes.

Two mighty Bums, i. e., hill ranges, protect us on two sides. The cliffs are cluttered with undergrowth and bushes, and no attack is likely from the flanks. Not even the Japanese would try that. Between the two ranges lies a narrow strip of flat land which is still under our occupation. By we I mean this newly formed and inexperienced Company.

We have no hope of being able to advance on the enemy. Right in our front the Japanese army is advancing irresistibly like the Chindwin river in spate. Nor is there any escape route behind us. Our Brigade has been scattered and is at sixes and sevens. It is trying to put up floating bridges of rubber dinghies on a number of small rivers behind our lines. This of course is an excuse for keeping the way open for their own escape. Some days back the Zero bombers flew across these hill ranges and smashed up the bridges over those rivers. The whole Division might have been caught in a mouse trap. But it was mighty lucky that British Totnmies were the ones who were leading us in the retreat.

Sh! Sh! For Heaven’s sake, don’t say that they were running away ahead of everybody else. Two hundred years back they had landed in this country for setting up an empire. It is for the sake of the very same empire that they are again on the move. If you try to preserve yourselves and are on the run in the same process that is no retreat. Showing a clean pair of heels to the advancing enemy should in fairness be taken as a strategic withdrawal.

In short, this Brigade was at the rear of the entire Division as it headed for India. We the fresh recruits were to be classified as “last come last served” – I mean, last saved. Nothing unfair in this.

And this company of mine, the last of them all. I mean the very first one to stand up to the Japanese avalanche. We have strict orders that, however we may, we must dig up a trench and hold this flat strip of land until the rest of the Brigade cross the bridges. Indeed, the safety of the whole Division depended on us. It was explained at great length that this operation order was inspired by a noble mission.

Quite right, my General. Certainly right. When the A. R. P. contingents were formed in Rangoon to help civilian population during Japanese bombing, people innocently laughed at the sight of their quick march. They interpreted the A. R. P. as the advance retreating party.

Now if those people were to see this Brigade’s keenness in fight they would probably have forgotten even to laugh.

But we too have forgotten how to laugh.

In this No Man’s land where I only exist and my enemy lives, either I must kill him or he will give me the same treatment. Here, in this night of nights, we cannot even laugh at ourselves.

Early this morning the only experienced soldier and Captain of this Company was killed during the enemy shelling. If he had only died the loss would have been grievous. But one sleeve of his battle dress was ripped off together with his hand and got stuck on the high branch of a tree which covers our camouflage. We dare not look in front because a cold shiver runs down our spine at the sight of even the slightest move of the enemy mirrored in the field telescope. Nor can we look back because there the Captain’s hand dangles from the tree top. The leader of the Company, the only Englishman, a representative of the unbeatable British army, shows us the door to the south i. e., the door of death according to the Indian conception.

We can, therefore, hardly cast our stolen glances in any direction. The whole day the Japanese have gone on firing at random on that dangling hand. It has been perforated umpteen times and we feel that our own chests also have been similarly treated. Measuring the distance of that hand the Japanese have trained their machine guns and have blown into smithereens this trench of ours, the only hope of our survival. Only this bit of the trench near me is still in tact. Several surviving members of my Company have crawled on their bellies and gathered here. They are whispering like mad men and asking me piteously what should be done.

I, Lieutenant Dutt, have often seen tins of sardines displayed in the show windows in the Municipal market of Calcutta. I have read the phrase “packed like sardines”. Also I have relished the appetising smell of sardine in the military mess. They always remind me of our own delicate hilsa fish. But to-night closely huddled together I and Jowans make a different picture and are more desperately packed than sardines. I also remember that no other officer of this Company is now alive.

The shells again began to burst round us.

Suddenly we had to bury our heads deep into the marshy soil of the trench. While the smell of the gun-powder was floating all round I smelt this earth afresh. I had gone lyrical over the dank smell of earth in Calcutta. I had discovered a familiar sweet smell in the timber sawn afresh. I had enjoyed with an alluring shiver the smell of the earth in spring time and in rains. But I had an experience of a new smell now. Suddenly I seemed to have come down in the hierarchy of animal existence to the most insignificant and most short-lived one. I was no greater than the puny insects that helplessly crawled on the soil. Even they have been going about in this trench every day in spite of continuous shelling. Our fright and helplessness have not affected them in any way. Mosquitoes and flies have gone on their rounds of flight over us with indifference and yet again in between a few showers of shells and mortar fires one or two song birds have broken the silence of the depth of the night.

In the meantime, We started digging earth deeper with our kukri, i. e., fighting knife. We did it silently but with all the excitement of people under a hallucination. Each burst of shells seemed to tear away our tears. So somehow we must dig deeper so that at least the head together with the pair of ears could be pushed farther down even if the body remained exposed.

Suddenly my kukri slipped out of my grip and flew in some unknown direction. It was not possible to light a torch and recover it. Madly I began to dig earth with my ten fingers. This trench would be the burial ground for our whole bodies. But that was not enough. We wanted a deeper one for our heads.

Suddenly I thought that those screeching shells were the only signs of life. These birds and these insects were nothing but death or beacons of death. Once I thought of running out of my camouflage because I felt that this cover of bushes and branches was my enemy. An enemy that kept me separated from the rest of the world. A conspiracy to despatch me to the world hereafter without any fuss or notice.

Amrik Singh was more educated than other Jowans. He started calculating and cried out that the Japanese have now got us correctly within their range. He said that after pounding up the trenches and the escape route they were now training their range right on us. A minute later he cried out again, “Look, Lieutenant Sahib, these trees are now groaning as shells fly past them. The enemy is shortening his range. Five minutes; only five minutes more.”

Desperately I plugged his mouth and thrust it in the pit below. Grewal caught my feet and entreated, “Sir, these shells are made with British steel.” I clenched my teeth and rebuked him, “How do you know with which steel they are prepared? Shut up and keep quiet.”

He did not listen. His voice was wet but throat dry as he said, “I have checked this scientifically. If it were not the British steel the noise would not have been so shrill.”

Suddenly, broken pieces of another shell scattered an iron spray almost over our heads. A part of the roof of branches disappeared from over our heads. A Jowan almost cried out but somehow controlled himself. His voice seemed like one coming from a grave as he cried, “My bald patch, the bald patch on my head. It’s so shiny that the Jap will hit a bull’s eye , from a distance.” He almost went mad as he started covering his head with loose soil.

Amrik Singh pathetically entreated, “Sir, shouldn’t we at least try to run away from here before we die like flies? Order us, order us, Sahib. We don’t want to die like rats.”

I had no reply. No reply whatsoever.

Who knew whether behind us the Captain’s torn sleeves were still showing us the way to the other world! A little later I whispered, “You should all feign death and lie still.”

I dare say I was not certain of the meaning of the words that came out in a whisper from the cluster of beard and moustaches on Amrik’s face. But probably he said or at least thought that this brother-in-law of his, this coward of a Captain, did not even know how to order a retreat.

Whatever he might have said I quietly stomached the insult. No force of command was left in me, nor any power of resistance in the Company.

Gradually a deep and unutterable silence descended on us in this old little world of ours, on our own life within this trench. The enemy had stopped shelling us. But this dark silence practically suffocated us. This was not the familiar and peaceful silence of the fields and greens of village plains nor the darkness of the midnight lit up with stars. The silence I had so long experienced meant only the absence of noise. But now it appeared that this was nothing but my inability to hear any sound. Sound seemed to be like a beast of prey prowling all round me while I was unaware of it. It seemed to watch me with murderous eyes from over the hill tops, from across the machine gun nests. Sound seemed to be all-pervasive, enveloping everything including all those smashed bridges which once made a safe path over the swirling waters below.

Suddenly a mortar or something like that shrieked through the air and seemed to tear up the essence of noiselessness in the world. We were all atremble in our boots. Suddenly I realised that it was not a mortar. Probably an enemy had put his feet on a field mine planted by his own people and it has noisily finished him off. No. I should not describe this as noise. It was just a noiselessness that yelled out in protest. It became quiet again.

I thought that the great conductor of the orchestra, the universal music of this world, was now standing mesmerised with his baton still clasped in his numbed fingers.

And face to face with that conductor but surrounded by the quiet stillness of night there stands Bandana. If you just describe her as a neighbour’s daughter, you do not say anything bout her. She is the dream of the entire neighbourhood, the young beautiful daughter of an affluent aristocrat. I need not repeat the rest of the story. It is the familiar story of the frustration; of many an imaginative Youth. A story nice to listen to nicer still to tell others. And if you retail it to a writer he makes an entire novel of it.

That Bandana!

I failed to achieve anything materially worthwhile in any direction. She was not averse to me. But I had no face to go and present myself before her father and to ask for her hand. I had nothing to show to my credit, no status in life. I could just keep the body and soul together under the father’s roof. But you cannot build a home of your own there. Nothing you can point out there as your own, not even your self-respect. During the war it was possible to secure some sort of a job. But there was no dearth of more suitable aspirants for a girl like her.

Modern Bengali girls also have become more inclined towards people with greater status, particularly in the military line. A tame and docile husband with a soft job was no longer the fashion of the day. In desperation I declared to Bandana that I was going to apply for an Emergency Commission in the armed forces.

She laughed and threw cold water on my aspiration. Not content with that she added, “Be careful that you don’t swoon if a flower strikes you. I am sure you know that the Japanese chrysanthemums are rather big in size.”

I do not think any other Bengali poet has had the misfortune of receiving such a reward for his poems. I had unconsciously paid more attention to my dress, to arrange my dhoti in particularly smart pleats. That did not involve more expense but did indicate a greater refinement of taste. I knew that I did not possess the looks of a poet. Nor would they have become my lean and lanky frame. But I had made up for that with the exuberant growth of my hair and its curly waves. But Bandana’s satire was cutting on even this slender possession of mine. “I suppose you know the Biblical story of Samson,” she said, “Curly locks were his sole source of strength. Perhaps with the same asset you would be able to rout the Japs.”

Unable to bear any longer I had withdrawn. I was a poet, a weakling, a good for nothing youth. That is why I could not even throw a challenge to her, “You’ll see one day when I actually come back from the war. You must wait for me till then so that I can that day claim you as my own.”

But as soon as I turned my back on her she felt overwhelmed. She became different and assured me with feeling, “Yes, I will wait for you behind the grills of my window. If you become a hero, if you only become somebody……”

Then she turned her face away and went in. She, a prisoner behind the grills of her window. Never before had she revealed herself so clearly to me. I must now go forward to get an Emergency Commission in the army. I must.

The enemy bombers were swooping down upon us all round. I felt sure that I was their only target. No. They did not only come down. They surrounded me from all sides. Above me and beneath and on all sides and everywhere. But their noise was dead. Probably they had put in special silencers on the engines of their planes for mounting a surprise attack. Even the machine guns were not spraying us with bullets. Probably they wanted to take us prisoners alive. Probably that is why they were not going beyond us either, but were circling round me and me alone. No. It would be much better to be sprayed with bullets and to get this business over quickly. Still better if a nine-pounder were to burst upon me. Yes. I was prepared to meet my beloved death in this love tryst today. I had written poems like that in the past. But today I was indeed prepared for a death like this. Where was the nine-pounder? Oh, where was it?

Highly excited I shook off the hallucination. Where was Bandana and where were the bombers? All round me only mosquitoes were flying low and aiming their attacks at me. They were coming down in numbers and again flying away. We had been supplied by our Commands with mosquito nets, to protect the face, citronella oil and what not. Indeed, when we first started for the Burma Front with all those equipments we did look like Santa Claus on a Chirstmas night. But now we had no means of escape even with our bare life.

I shook off my fear and lethargy. The Japanese put up a Very light just behind their own line. Green, green, bright green illumination went up from the earth like a fountain of light. I cast a sharp glance through the field telescope and noticed machine guns installed right in front of our trench. The barrels were looking at us with all the vicious looks of the agents, not angels, of death. All that was required was a splutter of fire.

Everything was clear. The shelling was just a camouflage. The machine guns were being installed under its umbrella. To-night, yes. Tonight would be the last night. Before that they wanted to befool us for a while with a deliberately engineered silence. Probably the enemy also wanted to have a little break for their meal. Now was the time.

The green illumination of the Very light flooded the dark forests and the blue hillside just to make sure that beyond this trench we had no other support or reinforcement. Now was the time.

For a trice I passed my fingers lovingly over the stars on my epaulet, just as a mother tries to soothe her child by caressing its forehead. Then in pitch darkness I whispered my orders to the remainder of the Company. They were probably–why probably, certainly,–astonished. They had begged for orders to run away but I had not the courage to order. They wanted to live, but I did not have the courage to give any order other than feigning death and lying still. And now I was ordering them to crawl on their bellies out of the trench and to rush those machine gun nests.

Disbelief rang in Amrik Singh’s voice as he asked, “Really, Sir, really? But they would mow us down like stalks of wheat.”

With clenched teeth I whispered, “That’s why we shall carry on the assault. Right now. We must immediately occupy those machine gun nests, turn them on their own trenches and start fire. Company…..advance.”

Thick darkness seemed to suffocate us all round. Still we started crawling towards the nests in deadly silence. Bereft of their leader, my Company was blindly following me as their leader. The space in my front seemed to be a moving lump of darkness. It seemed to be advancing just as I tried to catch up with it. Once I felt like passing water. Only once. But I suppressed the feeling. Tall cliffs with their heads held high into the sky were gazing at me with their steel blue eyes. On both sides the ground churned up by heavy bombing looked like wave after wave of shadow. How could I desecrate the earth below me in their mighty presence?

Following me crawled on their bellies Amrik Singh and Grewal and all the remainder of the Punjab Light Infantry Company. They had called me a coward, fed on rice and clad in dhoti. I had no courage even to order them to run away.

And farther behind probably somebody also was advancing. No. Not behind me but in my front. No. Not in my front but all round me. I supposed these are not the giant size chrysanthemums described by Bandana. For once I tried to remember her face but there was no time for that either. She was a prisoner behind the iron grills of her window. Liberate her I must. This was the supreme tryst of the mighty night of my youth.

Now we were almost face to face with machine guns. No more crawling on our bellies. Pressing my thighs with my hands I stood up straight. All of a sudden another Very light flew up into the sky. Everything became green. The green of hope. The green of assurance. We stood in front of machine guns. Right in their front. We turned their wheels and faced them towards the enemy line.

Face to face.

Absolutely face to face. Over there stood Bandana behind her iron grills. I had in my hands the weapon to rescue her from imprisonment. The heavy damp smell of the trench no longer troubled me. Nor did the chrysanthemums smell. What did it matter whether these were big or small!

All right. We won’t wait for the chrysanthemums.

Company! F-I-R-E!

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