Читать книгу Harp of Burma - Michio Takeyama - Страница 9

THE SINGING COMPANY

CHAPTER ONE

WE CERTAINLY did sing. Whether we were happy or miserable, we sang. Maybe it’s because we were always under the threat of battle, of dying, and felt we wanted to do at least this one thing well as long as we were still alive. Anyway, we sang with all our hearts. And we preferred serious songs, songs with depth, not the frivolous popular kind. Of course most of us had been only farmers or laborers, but we managed to learn some fine choral music. I still remember with pleasure how we sang on the shore of a certain lake.

We had been on a long march down a valley through dense forests. Suddenly a lake came into view, with white buildings dotting its shore. It was a village where an ancient Burmese king once had a summer palace. Clusters of white-walled houses on a small bay stood half submerged, meeting their reflections in the water. Exotic domes, spires, and bell towers soared into the sky—the dazzling tropical sky.

Have you ever seen an opal? Well, the Burmese sky has just that sort of white glow, tinted here and there with iridescent flecks of light. To see marble towers spiraling up against such a sky makes you feel as if you are dreaming.

During the three days we were stationed in that village we practiced singing every day. We sang hymns, nostalgic old favorites like “The Moon Over the Ruined Castle,” pleasant tunes like Sous les toits de Paris, and even difficult German and Italian songs. There beside that picturesque lake the captain waved his baton happily, while we soldiers, carried away by the sound of our own voices, sang from the very depths of our beings.

One day we ended by practicing the company song Hanyu no Yado over and over again, in four-part harmony. Hanyu no Yado—”My Home Sweet Home”—is a song of yearning, one that never fails to stir your heart. As we sang we thought of our families and wished we could show them this landscape and let them hear our song.

Afterward the captain said, “All right, men, that’s enough for today. Tomorrow at the same time we’ll try something new. Company dismissed!” Then he called to one of the soldiers. “Hey, Mizushima, have you got that our company, but he must have been born with talent since he made such rapid progress. Music was his one passion; he thought of nothing else. He built his own harp to accompany our chorus, and he played so well that he could soon work up an accompaniment to any tune.

It must seem odd that troops in a remote place like Burma would have musical instruments along. But we certainly had them—all kinds of them. If the various instruments belonging to our soldiers were gathered together you would have a really interesting collection. No matter where our troops went, as soon as there was any spare time someone would make an instrument. There were even craftsmen among us who could turn out surprisingly good ones from the most ill-assorted materials. Wind instruments ranged from a simple reed or bamboo pipe with holes bored in it, to a bugle made from parts of broken machinery. As for percussion instruments, I have seen tambourines of cat or dog hide stretched over wooden frames, and even a gasoline drum with one end covered with some kind of skin—a tiger skin, I was told. Anyway, that drum was the pride of its company, and made a tremendous vibrant boom. Some units even had violins and guitars, though it’s hard to imagine how they were made.

In our company the instrument we used most was a kind of harp, a copy of the harp that the Burmese play. Its body was made of a thick native bamboo, which was attached to another piece of bamboo, bent and strung with wires of copper, steel, and aluminum or duralumin.

Leather thongs were used for the lower notes. After a great deal of hard work we were able to produce a musical scale on this curious harp.

Corporal Mizushima was a master with this harp. He made up all sorts of pieces for it. When he played, tones halfway between a piano and a Japanese lute mingled and hung in the air. At first glance he was a comical sight: a sunburned soldier in a combat cap with his arms around this delicate instrument, playing it as if in a trance.

When Mizushima was asked about his accompaniment to Hanyu no Yado, he immediately struck it up. What he played was so elaborate and interesting that it seemed more like a solo piece. The other soldiers gathered around to listen, with arms folded and eyes closed.

The air was heavy and fragrant and very still. The music of the harp traveled out over the lake and echoed back across the water from the edge of the forest on the opposite side. It was a forest of huge teak trees. You could see monkeys frolicking there, and hear all sorts of birds chattering back and forth.

Just at that moment a peacock fluttered down from somewhere, paraded in front of us briefly, and then flapped away. Its wings beat the air noisily, and as it flew, its shadow glided across the surface of the lake.

That is a truly happy memory.

CHAPTER TWO

HOWEVER, the tide of war had begun to turn against us, and at last it was obvious to everyone that our situation was hopeless. We were reduced to fleeing from mountain to mountain through unknown territory, trying somehow to get over the eastern border range into Siam. Once we deliberately chose a steep bypath and spent hours scaling it. Another time we crossed a suspension bridge swaying in the wind over a deep gorge. One by one trucks had broken down, so that we finally had to pull our equipment along in oxcarts, or carry it on our backs. We lived by foraging everywhere we went. It was a wretched time for us, and one of great danger.

We had many harrowing experiences. There were moments when we thought we’d reached the end. But at such times, Corporal Mizushima’s harp worked miracles. One night, high in the mountains, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by the enemy. They closed in on us gradually and trapped us in a narrow ravine. We had lost our way and could see only by the starlight filtering through the trees above us. We were completely hemmed in

Enemy troops gathered along the mountain ridges on our right and left and signaled with lights as they searched for us. There was constant gunfire overhead. Shells screeched through the air with a noise like a silk cloth being ripped in two. And just as you thought it was gone, a terrifying explosion would thunder in our narrow little ravine, and rocks and earth would shower down on us.

Thinking we were sure to be wiped out, we huddled together under the trees on the dark, damp floor of the ravine. All of us were prepared to die. We sat there in breathless silence, with our backs hunched, staring wide eyed into the darkness. I could hear my own heart beating wildly, almost in my throat.

The lights on the ridges were flashing signals faster than ever, moving here and there. Then one of our men must have lost his nerve, for a voice at one side uttered: “Namu Amida Butsu (Praise the Lord Buddha).”

I heard a sharp reprimanding, “Shh.” It was Mizushima. “There may be an enemy scout around here,” he whispered.

Everyone was .silent again. Once more there was cannon fire overhead; star shells burst so close to us that we were almost blinded; now and then we heard a heavy rain of earth and rocks come pouring down, or a tree trunk splinter.

When that had subsided a little, Mizushima edged up to the captain and whispered something. A few moments later he began climbing up the face of the ravine all alone, carrying his harp. The stars were glittering in the sky; you could see his silhouette among the trees for quite a while, until it disappeared over the ridge.

I’m not sure how much later it was (it seemed like a short time) when we heard twigs crackling in a clump of trees about a dozen yards away. Then we heard someone coming through the underbrush. Two men were talking—in English.

“There’s nobody down here,” said a strong, young voice. “It must have been an animal.”

After a few moments’ silence the other one said, “I need a cigarette.”

“Too risky!” the first voice warned. “Forget it.” “What do you mean? It’s all right—they’re not around here.”

We heard the scrape of a match and saw a flare of light in that direction. Two British soldiers were sitting on a boulder. The match flame lit up their red cheeks and blue eyes. They were scouts. The match went out immediately. We held our breath and remained motionless. Even in the dark we could see each other distinctly , but the enemy soldiers didn’t notice us.

One of them began to whistle softly. The other joined him, humming along in a low voice. It was a tune which we knew as “The Firefly’s Glimmer.” Presently one of them sighed, and said, “I wonder how my family’s getting along.”

Just then we heard the sound of a harp coming from the other side of the ridge. At first it was a sad, quiet melody, but soon it became quite passionate, a wild improvisation.

The glowing tip of the cigarette bobbed up in surprise. “What’s that?” one of the scouts exclaimed. “Am I hearing things?”

“No, I hear it too. Whoever it is, he really knows how to play!”

We could see the lights on the mountain ridges swarm together for a moment and then head down into the other valley toward the harp.

In the darkness near us the enemy scouts were talking agitatedly.

“Let’s go have a look over there—it’s probably the Japs.”

“Don’t be stupid. That must be a native village. But maybe they know where the Japs are.” The two soldiers went scrambling up the ridge.

The harp stopped for a while, then started up again even farther away. When one of our men went to investigate he saw that the enemy lights were being lured farther and farther into the distance.

That is how we were saved. Corporal Mizushima returned to us the next morning covered with scratches and bruises.

During our flight we were often attacked by Gurkhas. These ferocious soldiers wore green uniforms and had curved daggers stuck in their leather belts. They would wait in the trees and, as we passed below, sweep us with a sudden burst of automatic rifle fire. We feared the Gurkhas more than anything, and whenever we heard they were in a nearby village we skirted around it to avoid them.

If we came to a forest that seemed dangerous, Corporal Mizushima always changed into Burmese dress and went scouting.

The Burmese look very much like us Japanese, except that they have light beards. However, Mizushima was only twenty-one, and had a light beard and large, clear eyes like a Burmese. His skin was deeply tanned. But above all, though he was a man of great courage and daring, he seemed to have the sad, contemplative expression that tropical peoples such as the Burmese often have, perhaps because of their oppressive climate. And when he wrapped the red and yellow patterned longyi around himself he looked just like a native.

He was so convincing in his Burmese outfit that we used to laugh and tell him, “Say, Mizushima, you ought to stay in Burma. They’d love you here.”

Mizushima would laugh too, and looking down at himself would put together a few scraps of Burmese. “I ... native of Burma. Burma is fine country.”

Dressed in that disguise he would take his harp and disappear into the forest. If he thought the road was safe, he played the harp and sang a native song. Then the rest of us came out of hiding and made our advance.

Once Mizushima walked right into a band of Gurkhas. In a giant teak tree directly ahead there was a Gurkha astride one of the branches. Biting a red lower lip shaded by a scraggly mustache, the man sat watching him with sharp eyes. As Mizushima took stock of the situation, he noticed more green-uniformed figures here and there in the tall trees, hiding among the leaves.

It was too late to get off the road. Mustering up his courage, he started singing a Burmese priest’s song and walked straight under the giant tree.

The Gurkha must have thought he was a traveling musician, for he threw a coin down to him. Four or five other soldiers followed his example and scattered down coins. Mizushima picked them up and bowed his thanks in the traditional Oriental manner, raising the coins to his forehead.

The soldier astride the branch swung his legs idly as he called out in a loud voice, “Hey, seen any Japs?”

Mizushima lifted his arm and pointed to a distant mountain. The Gurkha nodded, drew his curved dagger from his belt, reached out and cut off a fragrant fruit from the tree, and tossed it down to him.

Again Mizushima bowed his thanks. Then, standing under that tree infested with Gurkhas, he played them a tune—a tune we used as a danger signal.

Another time, something rather comical happened. Mizushima had been out scouting so long that we began to worry. Finally, just as we were getting ready to send out a second scout, we heard a faint song—it was our all-clear signal—coming from the depths of the forest.

With a sigh of relief we headed into the forest and found Mizushima crouching in some tall grass, strumming his harp dejectedly. When we came up to him we were startled to see that he was wearing a large banana leaf wrapped around his waist, instead of a longyi. The stalk jutted out in the back like a bird’s tail feathers.

“What happened to you?” we asked. He explained that a fearsome looking Burmese had jumped out at him from the side of the road and pointed a pistol at his head. It was one of the robbers who were beginning to appear everywhere, using arms abandoned by the Japanese troops. But since most Burmese can be robbed of nothing but their longyi, that’s what the man asked of Mizushima.

On a scouting mission disguised as a Burmese, Mizushima always went unarmed. To lose his life for the sake of a longyi would have meant to fail in his duty, so he did as he was told.

However, the curious thing about these robbers is that they carry a large supply of banana leaves. The Burmese wear nothing under their longyi, not even drawers. If you take away their longyi, you leave them in a pitifully shameful state; and so the robbers, out of sympathy for their victims, have a substitute ready to hand over to them. Their language is mild too. Pointing a pistol at you, they say, “Trade me your longyi for this banana leaf!”

Burma is a devoutly Buddhist country where the people are content with a very low standard of living. They are a gentle people—without greed, or, to put it less kindly, without ambition. That is one reason why they have lagged behind in the present-day world competition, despite their wealth in natural resources and their high level of education. Brutal criminals never existed in this country. Even these newly armed robbers behaved with the traditional gentleness.

It was lucky for us that the robber had his eyes on Mizushima’s longyi and not on the harp.

That is how we happened to find Mizushima there in the rank-smelling grass under the scorching sun, naked except for a banana leaf. We went up to him and slapped him on the shoulder saying, “What’s the meaning of this getup? Were you bewitched by a fox or something?” Mizushima gave an embarrassed laugh but returned our teasing. “A banana leaf makes a nice cool outfit,” he answered. “Why don’t you try it?”

CHAPTER THREE

WE TRAMPED on and on, over mountains, through valleys and forests. We were like the fugitives in the tales of old, frightened even by the sound of the wind.

British forces would parachute down into the villages along our route to block our advance. One village would send word to another about us, and hide their food. Sometimes when we put up in a village for a much needed rest we would find that the natives had informed the enemy and that we were under attack.

For months on end we were unable to relax our guard. However, a few of the native tribes were friendly, and with their help we made our slow progress over the mountains.

One day we came to a village at the top of a high cliff. Our Burmese guide assured us that we were at last out of danger. He was a tall man and his head was shaved clean—you could see the veins standing out on his scalp. “Look there,” he told us, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “You go over that pass. Then you are in Siam.” The vast panorama stretching out before us was really superb. As we stood looking at the view, the cold, bracing air of the mountains swept over us. In the direction the guide was pointing we saw a kind of bluish haze hanging over the dense forest in a sunlit stretch of the mountain range. Beyond that was the Japanese army.

“There are no British or Indian soldiers or Gurkhas around here,” the guide said. “Tonight you can have a good sleep.”

It certainly looked safe. We were quite a long way from the next village, and the sheer cliff before us dropped off into a deep gorge, where we could see a river with frothing white rapids far below. Behind the village was another high cliff, over which eagles soared in circles. In the center of the village was an open space, and on both sides of that the forest—a dark, fathomless tropical forest. You could hardly imagine a better hiding place for some fifty Japanese soldiers.

The captain said we would stay here for several days, resting and getting ready for the last stage of our march.

As we approached the village, the chief and many of his people came out to greet us. We were ushered to a large thatch-roofed house standing at the edge of the open space. A feast was prepared for us—there was even wine. We were overjoyed.

Until recently the Burmese were so strict in their observance of Buddhist commandments that they never drank alcoholic beverages. Although this custom had begun to break down in the cities, it is still very strong in the country; it was almost impossible to find any liquor along the battle front. But in this case the villagers seemed to have gone to great trouble to get it for us.

They treated us royally. Before we knew it, the feast turned into a lively party, with entertainment. About ten young people from the village stood in a row and sang us one of their folksongs. All of them had kinky hair, and their eyes were brilliantly clear. Yet they were not very dark skinned—we Japanese soldiers were darker. They were barefooted and naked, except for the gay colored longyi wrapped around their hips. At first their song sounded harsh, but when you listened carefully you could hear a plaintive undertone. The song seemed to have no end; just as you thought it was over, it would gather strength again and go on. It was the sad, languid, monotonous music of the tropics.

The guide translated the words for us:

“Far off among the clouds gleam the snows of the Himalaya—-

We bathe in a stream of melted snow.

Far, far off your heart is hidden—

I wish I could bathe my burning heart in that icy stream.”

All through the singing more and more delicacies were served. The ruddy-cheeked, white-bearded chief kept pressing wine on us.

One of our men turned to him and asked: “Can you see the Himalayas from here?”

The chief smiled, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. Then, absentmindedly stroking his long beard with both hands, he answered, “They cannot be seen from here. None of us has ever seen them. We only know them through the sutras and our legends.”

The Burmese become familiar with sutras and legends in childhood. We often heard the Himalayas mentioned in their songs and stories, and saw paintings or sculptures of these sacred mountains in their temples. They all think of that great mountain range as the home of their soul, and hope to make a pilgrimage to it before they die. People say that those snow-capped peaks among the clouds glow in the sun like marble or beaten silver—a vision of unearthly beauty. And at their foot, thousands of years ago, the lord Gautama meditated on a way to save mankind, and attained Enlightenment. All this is part of the vital faith of the Burmese. Listening with that in mind, we could detect a prayerful quality in their song.

When the villagers finished, we sang. After all, we were the famous “Singing Company.” We sang all sorts of songs, but the one most applauded was “The Moon Over the Ruined Castle.” That was a real masterpiece. No matter where we went or how primitive the audience, people were enchanted by it.

Drawn by the music, a large crowd of villagers gathered around. The Burmese love festivals. On the slightest occasion they bring out flower-decorated carts and sing and dance. From the time we entered this mountain village the people were in a festive mood, smiling as they vied with one another in devising ways to entertain us. We meant to thank them with our songs.

The villagers listened to us as attentively as if they were at a ceremony. Old people sat in the doorway. Children leaned against the window sills, propping their chins on their hands, and peered in. Under a palm tree in the open place in front of the house squatted women carrying their babies pickaback. All of them were sitting motionless, with their thin arms and legs folded in the peculiar Burmese crouch.

What they liked best was Corporal Mizushima’s harp. He sat on a chair with the harp between his knees, playing as passionately as ever. The harp was decorated with orchids and red feathers, and when he plucked the strings vigorously with both hands it made the flowers and feathers dance.

Suddenly, from among the listeners, a young girl stepped forward as lightly as if on air. She was about twelve years old, dressed in a tight-fitting skirt and jacket with curved, winglike ornaments attached at the waist. Her supple arms and legs shone glossily. Her hair was wound in a high, tapering coil, as if she wore a little pagoda on her head.

The young girl stood in the middle of the room, glanced around at her audience, and struck a dance pose. She cocked her head to one side, stretched her left hand out in front of her, fingers straight up, and put her right hand on her breast, palm out turned, forming a circle with her thumb and forefinger. Then, ready to spring into action at any moment, she turned her big black eyes imploringly on the harpist.

Mizushima started to play. The tune was an old school song which he had arranged as a march.

The girl began to dance. Slowly she turned her head from side to side, crossed and recrossed her legs, bent her elbows, her wrists, all her joints, making a series of right angles.

Her slender arms and legs moved with a snaky indolence. Her hands fluttered here and there. She leisurely traced circles with her feet. It was indeed a charming, exotic, unforgettable dance.

The young men of the village shouted her praises and threw flowers at her. They demanded encore after encore. When it was finally over, Mizushima went to a corner of the room and sat on the floor hugging his knees while the villagers cheered.

“How about it, Mizushima?” we asked him.

“Wouldn’t you like to stay here in Burma and play the harp for the rest of your life?”

Mizushima was always a man of few words, and this time too he only smiled and said nothing. Then he stared straight ahead as if lost in thought.

“Somehow, I like Burma,” he used to say. He seemed very much attracted by the tropics—the bright sunshine, the vivid colors, the varied forms of life, the strange customs of the people. He was proud that when he wore a longyi he couldn’t be distinguished from a native Burmese. And though he was a man who conscientiously carried out his duties, a natural, easy-going life seemed to have a great appeal for him. Whenever we passed a wandering Burmese musician, Mizushima would gaze after him with what was almost a look of envy. When he went scouting he usually disguised himself as a traveling musician. Our teasing about staying in Burma for the rest of his life may have touched him somewhere deep within.

It was time for us to sing again—” The Autumn Moon,” “Wild Roses,” all lovely melodies we had known since childhood. As we sang, we forgot our troubles. Every one of us had memories linked with these songs. People we loved came to our mind’s eye. “Ah, I remember now. Mother was there, and my brothers.... I remember how they looked, what they were saying ... ” Such were our thoughts as we sang under circumstances we had never dreamed of, hunted, in peril of our lives, high among the mountains of a strange land.

We sang on and on, each of us pouring our inexpressible feelings into our songs.

CHAPTER FOUR

SUDDENLY we noticed that we were alone. For some reason, all the Burmese had slipped away.

That little girl, the young men—even the chief who had been so busy feeding us was gone. So was our guide, who had promised to arrange for our night’s lodgings. We were alone in the house singing to the scattered chairs and remnants of the feast. Even outside, under the windows or in the open space, there were no Burmese to be seen. They had all simply disappeared.

Panic gripped us, and someone shouted, “Stop singing!”

It had often happened that our troops were warmly received in a Burmese village, after which the natives melted out of sight and the enemy attacked from ambush. That was what we seemed to be facing now.

We had to prepare to fight immediately. We had to take up battle positions, put our vital supplies in safe places, find cover for ourselves, dig fox holes. Some of the men started to head for their guns, or rush out of the building.

“Hold it!” the captain ordered. Then, in a low, steady voice, “Go on singing.”

After that he began whispering rapidly. “We can’t let on we know what’s coming. We’ve got to keep singing as if nothing is wrong—and get ready for them at the same time. It’s only been a few minutes since the natives cleared’ out of here, so the enemy may not attack right away. But once they realize we’re digging in, they’ll come after us.”

We saw that he was right. And we went on singing.

Meanwhile, several of our men crawled across the floor below the enemy’s line of sight to where our weapons had been piled, and brought them back to distribute among us. Singing as calmly and deliberately as we could, we put on our leggings, buckled on our cartridge belts, and took up rifles and a munition.

We finished “Wild Roses” and began another song.

As we sang, we crouched in the shadows and peered through binoculars at the forest. Already we saw a few Gurkhas and turbaned Indian soldiers. You could see them running from cover to cover, scattering among the trees to form a skirmish line. Still singing, we shivered with agitation. Our song was a sad, solemn one, and we sang it as if for the last time. All the while, the captain was busy whispering orders, dividing us into groups of ten, posting us in strategic places.

When the song ended, he ordered, “Clap your hands! Laugh!” We did as we were told, clapping and roaring with laughter.

“We can’t tell when they’ll open fire,” he went on, “but we need every minute they give us. Let’s try to keep them off their guard till dark, if possible. Now, once more-laugh!”

We clapped hands again and laughed. But it wasn’t easy—after all, machine guns were trained on us from the forest, ready to blaze away at any minute.

Finally, there was only one task left to do, but it was a critically important one. A cart loaded with ammunition cases stood out in the open, and we had to have it safe and close at hand. Furthermore, we had to move it without giving ourselves away to the enemy, though surely they were watching us through their binoculars.

How could we manage that? Still singing, we racked our brains to think of a way. If a single bullet hit that case, we would be finished. Our whole supply of ammunition would explode. We looked at Mizushima, who was good at solving problems like this. He was laughing and singing too, and playing his harp, but we could tell he was thinking as hard as he could. At last he began whispering to the captain.

The trick they agreed on had some of us file out of the house singing a cheerful tune. Mizushima led the parade, playing the harp as he went. The rest followed right behind him carrying flowers that the young men of the village had thrown at the dancing girl. Everyone laughed uproariously, and some even pranced and romped about, imitating a Burmese dance. We lifted Mizushima up on the cart. He stood on the ammunition cases, propped his harp on one knee, and began playing a gay, lively tune. We surrounded the cart, waving the flowers in our hands, and sang in chorus.

Our plan was to draw the cart in as if we were pulling along a festival float. In order to save our breath we picked a slow song-Hanyu no Yado.

Apparently the enemy troops had finished deploying, since you couldn’t see any movement in the forest. It had become deathly quiet.

We were literally singing for our lives. At any moment there might be a volley of gunfire from the forest. We would have to push the heavy cart as quickly as we could, and yet make it look as if we were doing it for fun. If a bullet flew out of the forest and hit the case it meant certain death—not only for Mizushima, who was standing on it, but for all of us.

The cart began to move. Sometimes we had to clear stones from its path, or heave it up with our shoulders as we pushed it forward. Straining, gasping for breath, still we did our best with Hanyu no Yado. On top, Mizushima kept playing his special accompaniment as vigorously as ever. Hanyu no Yado is a slow, mournful melody that would touch anyone’s heart. Our voices harmonized, low and high parts blending, following, intermingling with one another.

At last the cart had come within four or five yards of our destination.

Suddenly it was night. In the tropics the border between day and night is sharp; as soon as the sun drops below the horizon it becomes pitch-dark. This was an immense advantage to us. All our other preparations were made. Here and there in the shadows little groups of our men crouched with their fingers on their rifle triggers. The captain had his hand on his saber and was staring hard in the direction of the enemy, waiting for the moment to give the command to charge.

Just as the cart reached a safe place, we came to the end of Hanyu no Yado.

Instantly the captain drew out his saber. Those of us who had brought the cart stopped singing and took up our rifles. During that brief interval of stillness you could hear, quite distinctly, the river flowing in the valley far below. The birds that had been busily twittering until a few minutes ago were now all fast asleep.

The captain raised his saber. The soldiers were poised, ready to shout their battle cry and charge. But just then the captain checked his command and stood transfixed. An extraordinary thing was happening. Out of the forest soared a voice—a high, clear voice, fervently singing Hanyu no Yado.

The captain grabbed one of our men who had started forward, and blocked others by spreading out his arms.

“Wait!” he shouted. “Listen to that!”

The voice in the forest was joined by two or three more, and then by voices from here, there, and everywhere. It was Hanyu no Yado sung in English: “Home, home, sweet home ... ”

We looked at each other in astonishment. What could this mean? Weren’t the men in the forest the dreaded enemy soldiers who were out to kill us? Were they only the villagers? In that case, we needn’t have been so anxious. We gave a sigh of relief and lowered our guns.

Now the forest was full of singing voices. A chorus arose even from the base of the cliff hanging over the river. We joined in and sang too.

The moon was shining. Everything was dyed blue in its cool light. There seemed to be luminous pillars of glass between the trees. One by one, shadowy figures came running out of that forest into the open space.

They were British soldiers.

Gathering into little groups here and there, they sang “Home Sweet Home” with true feeling. We had always thought Hanyu no Yado was a Japanese song, but it is actually an old English melody. Englishmen sing it out of nostalgic pride and longing for the joys of their beloved home; whenever they hear it, they think of their childhood, of their mothers, of the places where they grew up. And so they were astonished and moved to hear their enemy—the dangerous enemy they had surrounded high in the mountains of Burma-singing this song.

By this time we were no longer enemies. The battle never began. Before we quite knew what had happened, we were all singing together and coming up to one another to shake hands. Finally we built a bonfire in the middle of the open space and sat around it singing in chorus under the baton of our captain.

A tall Indian soldier pulled out a photograph of his family and gazed at it by the light of the fire. He was a stately, dignified looking man with a white turban and a black beard, but his eyes were as gentle as a lamb’s. He showed us the photograph—of his wife and two children smiling under a palm tree. It turned out that he was a businessman from Calcutta.

A soldier whose nationality we couldn’t tell asked us to show him our family pictures. One of our men pulled out a picture of his mother; the other soldier looked at it with tears in his eyes.

A ruddy-faced English soldier began to sing “If a body meet a body ... ” He was joined by one of our men, singing in Japanese. Then the Englishman put his arm around our man’s shoulder and they strode about together. The Japanese soldier sang at the top of his voice. We all joined in once again.

Mizushima improvised a beautiful accompaniment for this song too. Even the Englishmen applauded him loudly. Looking at the side of his face lit up by the firelight, you could see that tears were streaming down his cheek as he played. There were tears in everyone’s eyes as we sang together.

That night we learned that the war had ended three days earlier. Having no way to let their ferocious enemy know, the British troops thought they might have to annihilate us in order to mop up resistance. We threw down our guns.