Never So Few: A Novel

By Tom T. Chamales

Set behind enemy lines in Burma, this New York Times bestseller is “easily one of the best novels to come out of World War II” (Los Angeles Times).

American soldiers and native Kachin troops battle Japanese forces behind enemy lines in the Burmese jungles. But during the brutal campaign to gain territory in the unforgiving tropical landscape, Captain Reynolds and his band of special operations soldiers and guerrilla fighters struggle to find self-awareness, and even love, in the midst of the trials of combat.
 
One of the youngest officers to serve in Merrill’s Marauders and OSS Detachment 101—precursors to the Green Berets and Central Intelligence Agency—author Tom T. Chamales brings an unparalleled level of authentic detail and raw intensity to this work of fiction based on his real-life experience in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Never So Few is “an extraordinary and powerful book,” unflinching in its portrayal of wartime sacrifice and violence (Kirkus Reviews, starred).
 
The basis for the movie starring Frank Sinatra and Steve McQueen, it offers “dramatic, exciting, and concretely detailed accounts of battle action,” and joins the ranks of other classic war novels such as From Here to Eternity and The Naked and the Dead in bringing later generations to the frontlines and into the inner lives of the brave men who served (The New York Times).
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jul 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504045971

Tom T. Chamales

Born in ‪1924, Tom T. Chamales graduated from St. John’s Military Academy in Delafield, Wisconsin, in 1942, at the age of eighteen and immediately joined the army. Chamales attended basic training, Officer Candidates’ School, and the Infantry School at Ft. Benning, Georgia. He was the youngest officer to serve in Merrill’s Marauders and OSS Detachment 101. (The OSS was the precursor to the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) and the US Army Special Forces, commonly known as the “Green Berets,” trace their roots to Merrill’s Marauders.) At the age of twenty-one, he was a captain and stationed in Burma, where he commanded the 3rd Battalion of American Kachin Rangers. He was also the tactical commander when the main Kachin forces were joined (a force of about two thousand guerilla troops). He served the entire Burma campaign through the Lashio victory, and also took part in the invasion of Rangoon serving nearly two years behind Japanese lines. For his service, the Kachin people bestowed on him the title “Duakaba,” which means “high leader.” Col.Aaron Bank, the founder of Special Forces, wrote a personal inscription to Chamales on the inside cover of his copy of Never So Few, commemorating Chamales’s early contributions to Special Forces. In civilian life, Chamales had a variety of occupations including hotel manager, horse book operator, fishing guide, and manager of a fashionable restaurant in Newport, Rhode Island. Chamales tragically passed away in a fire on March 20, 1960, at the age of thirty-five.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

The sun departed in a last burst of gold and red. Down on the road in the valley the rancid odor of powder and smoke mingled with the purple color of death and the fired wet jungle sputtered in the dusk. The living things of day returned to their hovels and the living things of night stretched and tautened their muscles.

High above the jungle line in the pine forest of the Kachin Hills of North Burma after a swift nine mile uphill march the weary men returned to camp. There had been no wounded today and it had been several weeks since anyone had been killed.

The camp was on the side of a hill just off the top. To the north was a higher hill where they had a strong outpost. The Dua, which was what the little brown men called Con Reynolds, would have preferred to put his perimeter there but it had no water, so he had outposted it heavily. The Dua was a cautious man when caution did not cost anything. He had outposted all the trails that led down the two hills into the valley, and those that came from the south, and he had spotters in all the native villages to the north. All the men knew of these outposts and felt quite secure with their position on the hill. Now they formed a circular perimeter defense and when night came they would post guards after arguing about the password.

Con Reynolds sat on the ground, a bamboo cup of scotch in one hand a cigarette in the other. Between his legs rested his bush hat and on the hat was a map. He was looking at the map and dictating a message to Niven the radio operator:

19 DEC 43--POSITION UNCHANGED.

AMBUSH at 10.62–11.73 CO-ORDINATES. EXECUTED AT ELEVEN HUNDRED. ESTIMATED 24 JAPS KILLED. POSITIVE SIXTEEN KILLED. TWO SUPPLY TRUCKS DESTROYED. NO CASUALTIES. CAPTURED DOCUMENTS NOT DECIPHERED. AGENT BETTY REPORTS LARGE TRUCK AND TROOP CONCENTRATION AT 15.24–12.53 CO-ORDINATES. SUGGEST AIR. POSSIBLE AMMO DUMP.

WHERE IS THE PRIEST. THANKS FOR SCOTCH. TAKE AIR-DROP AS PLANNED.

REYNOLDS

Can you code it in time, Jim?

I think so, Niven said, looking up from his writing pad. He was a tall thin young man with smooth skin and gold rimmed glasses and gentle features. He got up from his squatting position and walked away.

And Nautaung from the opening in the clearing a little below the camp watched them. The old Kachin rested his back to a large flat rock from where he could see the road in the valley and the camp in the pines. His Mongolian eyes squinted into the departing sun now warm on his wrinkled brown face. It was the time of day when young unperceptive men would become lonely and talk loud. It was the time of day when the knowing man thought best.

Nautaung was an old man and an old soldier and very quick and very wise. He did not like this business that had come up between the Kachin Subadar Major La Bung La and the white Dua. Where La Bung La was there would always be trouble. Nautaung would have to give the Dua credit; his instinct was good. The white man had seen through La Bung instantly, but it was a dangerous thing for the Subadar Major and the white officer to hate as they hated. Something else bothered the Dua too. Something that had nothing to do with this guerrilla war. Was it the monkey? No. It was better since the Dua had the monkey. It was something else. The monkey was not a bad thing.

Nautaung studied the white man. The Dua had dark quick eyes and all day long his goatee had shone reddish brown in the sunlight but now in the darkening forest it appeared almost black. He was a tall slender man but large in the shoulders, with high cheek bones and square cut features.

Nautaung thought of his own years with the Burma Rifles and all the white officers he had served under and what a fine looking officer this American made. But he was different. Different from the British and different in many other ways too. White man, you are a river Nautaung thought. Did not your father teach you that? Where is the source from which you flow?

Con looked up from the map and reached into the breast pocket of his khaki shirt and pulled out a piece of paper. He read:

18 DEC 43 HDQS 1900 HRS

PEARSON TO DANNY AND CON:

YOU WILL BE GLAD TO KNOW STILWELL GIVEN COMMAND ALL CHINESE FORCES TODAY. URGE STEPPED UP OPERATION UNTIL CHINESE PUT INTO ACTION. LEDO NOW IN DANGER. YOU ARE ONLY ACTIVE FIGHTING ALLIED FORCES NORTH BURMA. DO BEST. SCOTCH IN NEXT DROP.

PEARSON.

Con folded the paper slowly, looking across the darkening valley to the other side of the Burma Road. He was thinking about Danny. Danny the Englishman with the shaved head and the monocle, over there somewhere with his three hundred men. Six hundred and fifty men between us while the American-fed Chinese 38th and 22nd Divisions sat on their ass on the India Burma border. Forty to fifty thousand battle seasoned sons of Nippon against six hundred and fifty Kachin Scouts and eight white men.

Con could hear the elegant voice of Danny now. It’s amazing, old chap. Simply amazing they don’t become pissed you know and come after us in force. No one, Con thought, could say pissed you know in a more cultured manner than Leftenant-Colonel Danny de Mortimer fourth cousin to The King himself. Step up the operation! Danny would do it. Well, so would he. Constantine Theothoros Reynolds would do it too. But please Mr. Stilwell put some pressure on soon or they will become pissed you know.

Con put the message back in his pocket and drank from the cup of scotch. He folded the map carefully and put the map into the map case and put the map case into the pack. Then he rested the pack on the large root of a big pine, set the angle of the pack correctly and stretched out full resting his head on the pack.

What day was it? Was it the day before or the day after in Chicago? What difference did that make now? The cool dampness of the earth penetrated through his khakis to his hot tired body sending a blanket of flesh bumps over him. This was a better feeling than he’d ever had on Michigan Avenue. And he’d never smelled fircones as sweet as this up in Wisconsin, but he’d been so busy there that he really never had time to notice it.

He’d better get some rest now. Oh God how good this damp earth felt. But rest. Tonight could be the bad night he’d been expecting; He searched with his hand for his bush hat. He found it and set it squarely over his face.

And Nautaung watched. The Dua was sleeping now. Or was he sleeping? The old man fanned himself slowly with his bush hat. He wore green jungle pants and blouse, the uniform of all the men, but he wore the pips of a Subadar and he had on shoes.

The Dua stirred restlessly, Nautaung saw. That was not good. So far they had been very lucky. The Dua had pressed his luck. That was good. That was the only way to stay lucky. It was when you tightened up and stopped pushing that things went bad. That is why it is bad for a soldier to worry. A soldier lost his feeling when he worried. That was when he tightened up. A man was either good or bad, Nautaung knew.

That was the way of his people. White men were different. He didn’t know why. Could it be that this man was good and that he was bad also. Never in his long life had Nautaung thought that it would be possible to be both. Not even with white men. It was confusing. Problems could be solved only when they were not hurried. He had always known that. Patience, his father had taught him, was the essential virtue. If you had patience and time you could solve any problem. For the benefit of his own people he must help the Dua.

The sun disappeared completely leaving a valid array of its color in the distant horizon. The wind began to change and the first north breeze swept cool across Nautaung’s face. Why did he like this white man above all that he had known? Even more than the missionary priest Father Barrett. Why did he feel that the white man was almost like a son to him? Didn’t the white man have a father of his own? Ayee! But how the Dua could fly through the jungle and on the trail. What fine ambushes he makes. His father would never believe a white man could make such fine ambushes. That was a real ambush today and they had been lucky.

The radio generator began to whrrr on the other side of the hill drowning out the excited voices of the young Scouts in the camp. The old Kachin set the bush hat on the back of his head and reached into his breast pocket and took out a cigarette. He inspected the cigarette almost tenderly and then lit it inhaling slowly. What fine cigarettes these Americans make, he thought. The British could not make cigarettes like these.

A stronger, cooler breeze came from the north and Nautaung knew it would be cold again tonight. Then he heard the crackle of a twig as someone approached. It came from the rear. He listened and knew in his mind before he really heard the footsteps that it was the Subadar Major himself.

Nautaung did not look up. The steps came nearer and nearer and then stopped beside him and out of the corner of his eye he saw the boots of La Bung La planted firmly to his left, only then did he look up slowly exhaling from his cigarette. He saw the clean jungle pants and it flashed through his mind that La Bung had bathed in the stream already. Then up to the green jungle blouse with the gold brocade pips of the Subadar Major and to the dark shiny face of La Bung the old man looked, then at the black British Infantry beret that La Bung wore cockily on the right side of his head.

La Bung smiled and the right corner of his mouth rose slightly higher and wider than the left and quivered. Old man, are you tired? he said archly.

It has been a long day, said the old Kachin looking directly at La, so that La Bung looked away from him and down into the valley where it was still smoking from the ambush.

Staring at the valley with his contemptuous, tyrannical eyes. That was a fine ambush I made today. Was it not old man? La Bung said earnestly still looking down into the valley.

So now it is his ambush, Nautaung thought. We were lucky, the old man said impassively.

La Bung lit a cigarette. It was getting very dark in the valley now. He looked at the old man fleetingly. Why didn’t you move those men to the flank when I pointed? You could have ruined the ambush. He threw his head back and looked over the old man waiting.

You could not see for the bush. I had placed two men there earlier, young Subadar Major, Nautaung said quietly.

What do you mean, old man?

I mean, young Subadar Major, that before you arrived from the rear I had men to protect our flank. But you were in such haste you did nothing but point. Nautaung looked up at La Bung. Why didn’t you come forward and tell me if you worried so?

La Bung half smiled and the right corner of his mouth quivered. He said very militarily: Subadar Nautaung. You should not move men without my permission. You’re an old soldier. You know that.

That was in the Burma Rifles and the Kachin Rifles. The regulars.

So? questioned La Bung hating the calm wiseness of the old man, wondering why they had ever let him come out of retirement.

This is a war of the hills. This is not line duty like the Rifles. The Dua says that each Subadar is responsible for his own men. I will protect mine, young Subadar Major, Nautaung spoke surely.

The Dua is a child. He knows nothing of soldiering. Look, he lets the men burn fires in plain view of the road in the valley. Two nights now he has let the men burn fires. He is dangerous, that white man, La Bung said intently.

He is a good officer, La Bung. He is young but he has learned much of hill warfare and jungle warfare. He thinks well. And he is not afraid. Are you afraid of the fires, young Subadar Major? the old man said fixedly.

It is not good policy. Suppose they come up in the hills after us. The book says not to burn fires.

There is no book now, young Subadar Major. This is not the Burma Rifles.

The white man is a fool. He is too familiar with the men, La Bung said spitting some tobacco from his mouth. Do you know we move in the morning?

Yes, the old man said.

How do you know this?

The Dua told me coming up the hill.

That was another reason La Bung hated the white man. He could not understand how he had become so close to Nautaung. White officers did not get close to Subadars. It was not done. But this white officer who did everything a new way talked long hours with Nautaung and even ate with him. The old man had sold him out. Now he felt that the white man could see through him just like the old man could. La Bung could not speak up to the white officer, because he had never been able to speak up to any officer. So he saved it up until it almost tied him in knots and then he would take it out on Nautaung, but he only felt worse when he was done with the old man and he could not understand this; yet in spite of his rage he came back to the old man again and again. Well, he was a Subadar Major and he had soldiered. When a soldier had it over a man with his rank and he handled it right he could get him just as sure as the bookmakers in Rangoon would get all your money if you bet them strong enough.

Do you know why we move, old man? La Bung asked glacially.

Yes, to take an air-drop, the old man said calmly.

Old man, I trust you only, La Bung said in preemptory tones. I must place you in charge of the mules again. And of the air-drop again. For there is no one else I trust.

The old Kachin had known this was coming and made mental preparation for the detail coming up the hill. He was tired now, he looked at La Bung La and the young Kachin looked away. Nautaung noticed that La Bung La did not have his binoculars hanging from his neck. He had never seen a military man love a piece of equipment like La Bung loved his American Army binoculars. Where, oh Subadar Major, are your pretty binoculars, Nautaung said concernedly.

La Bung groped to his chest turned his head right and left, up and down, his quivering mouth opened in lost surprise. He walked away rapidly and Nautaung could hear him yelling for a detail to go to the stream to hunt for his glasses.

To himself the old man laughed. Outwardly he did not laugh. In his eyes he smiled. They were making a monkey stew. It smelled good and he was hungry but he would not eat until late. Eating dulled his thinking and this was the best time of day to think.

Con Reynolds did not sleep but drifted into that mental blankness brought only by a great physical tiredness. The quality of his denials with himself for the past week had been of such immensity that now the silent impressions began to turn like the wheels of a locomotive. Slowly at first, becoming a spinning current of the intricate happenings of his youth until the train of his thinking gained traction and his mind was hummingly occupied.

Since he had come to the hills all his past was suddenly sublimated and the impetus and depth of old fortunes and misfortunes had clarified so that the fears and trouble were gone but the emotion remained and moved him now more than at their inception. It was only now that they began to embody reality, no longer thinking of the pleasures of life, rather of the despair. And in this facing of the past he learned a new kind of pain. At first it had frightened him but he knew that eventually he had to face it as he had to face everything else.

But what was that thing about him? This catalyst effect that he had on people and events so that as soon as he approached a scene things always began to happen? He knocked on a door and when he went in destiny walked beside him invisible and unannounced. Like the time he was in Chicago on his last leave before shipping out.

He had been with friends and they had been on the town. He was the only one in uniform, a man of patriotic devotion and destined for military glory they said, and he had gotten a little drunk and pretty soon he couldn’t stand their vagaries anymore.

They were in a night club in the loop when he had a sudden urge to talk to the only friend he had who was up in Wisconsin. It was in the middle of the summer. So at eleven o’clock he called Van Burbank on the phone and told him that he was shipping out and leaving Chicago the next day. Con had urged Van to come in so they could have that final drink together. Van said that he would leave within the hour and Con had waited all night in the club and when Van didn’t show he went home. At home there was a message that Van was in the hospital in Lake Forest and Con had rushed up there at once. When he walked into Van’s room he said Con was not to think it was his fault. Con didn’t know what he meant until Van told him that he and his mother had started to drive in and Van had fallen asleep at the wheel and his mother had been killed going through the windshield.

Con had one more day of leave but as soon as he knew that Van was going to make it he left town immediately.

It had always been that way with him. Like the summer camp where he was counselor one year. They hadn’t had a drowning at the camp in twentyone years but there were two that summer and he was on hand both times and somehow he knew that neither would have happened if he and his invisible companion had not been there.

Con felt that if he didn’t get it all clear now, that someday it would come through and ruin one of his plans. When he thought of this he could see a row of the little brown men twisted on the dank jungle floor as the flies gathered on their still contorted faces; and heard plainly the sound of the shovels as the burial detail uncovered the wet earth.

Then it would be too late. As much as he hated to he was forced to face it. But if it wasn’t for the old man Nautaung, he probably never would be able to face it at all. Whatever he had said to him always made sense running through him like a clear sounding bell and leaving him clean and confident inside. He had never known anyone like the wiry bent old man who could out-walk him on the trail and out-shoot the best of shots.

The old Kachin had said that men were like spiders weaving their own web and creating their own destiny. A spider that was afraid did not weave a web of quality. A man must be free and he could only become so if he mastered himself by looking into the mirror of his mind as often as he looked at himself in the mirror-pool of the jungle stream. And somehow Con understood it all and knew that the old man was right.

Times when Con felt strong and especially wanted to see how much he could take within himself he would put Nautaung and Margaret side by side in his mind and say one of you must die and the power of who was to live was within him. And it was always Nautaung that he had let live. Deep down this bothered him.

He loved Margaret Fitch but he never believed that anyone could really love without vanity or material want as Nautaung did, and sometimes he became irritated seeing his own weakness and the weakness of his woman, through the strength of this simple man.

The hills and the people of the hills were changing him. He could not place it but felt it surely and sometimes he didn’t think he had any idea where he was going. He would have to think some more of just how he was changing. He would have to talk that over with the monkey. It was getting cool now and he’d better get over to headquarters where the monkey waited for him. He got up slowly and stretched, dusting the back of his pants with the bush hat. He put the hat on his head and slung his carbine from one shoulder and his battle pack from the other. Then he looked up through the trees stretching again arms extended, hearing the whrrr of the generator he began to think about Niven.

And Nautaung watched as the goateed lean body unwound. Ahh! The Dua feels his youth, the old man thought.

CHAPTER II

Jim Niven sat on the ground on the opposite and blind side of the hill from Con Reynolds’ headquarters sending the evening message. Two young Kachin Scouts turned the handpumped radio generator between three tall trees and the puptent that housed the radio equipment and kept it dry.

Niven sent the message expertly, automatically, a small fire reflecting on his gold rimmed glasses and thin young face. The first north breeze chilled from the Himalayan snows felt cool to the back of his crewcut head, his light blue eyes stared out through the clearing to the flickering campfires, his mind a dreary carousel of spinning faces and scraps of talk. Then not ten feet away he saw the Filipino, Lau’rel smiling at him from the shadows.

Niven stopped sending: Come on over. I didn’t hear you.

Didn’t expect you to, old boy. That generator is rather noisy, you know, Lau’rel said in his neat English accent.

It shocked Niven again. Since the Filipino had joined them five weeks before, and his knowing from the radio before he met him that Lau’rel was a middle-aged native of Manila, it still had shocked Niven to hear the precise English accent.

Sit down. I’ll finish up here and we’ll have a drink, Niven urged, watching the hard and stocky Filipino, carbine slung, amble toward his fire.

A little later, old boy, José Francisco Piedro Lau’rel smiled whitely, scratching his temple near his greying hairline. I’m checking the perimeter. And I have to report to Con.

How about having dinner with me … here? Niven said a little anxiously, seeing the aristocratic Spanish structure of Lau’rel’s face glimmer in the firelight.

Excellent. I’ll meet you in … say … forty-five minutes. At Con’s headquarters?

Good, Niven agreed. I have to take the evening radio message there. And we’ll walk back here together.

Neat, Lau’rel nodded. The generator continued to whrrr and Lau’rel looked over at the two young Scouts pumping it laughingly, sweating in the cooling night. They couldn’t be over fifteen or sixteen. They really seem to enjoy pumping that generator, the Filipino said.

They love it, Niven looked at the Scouts. They always argue to see who gets to pump. They’re like small children, fascinated by anything shiny or noisy.

Well, I’ll get along, Lau’rel said touching the silver medallion that hung from his neck, then adjusting his carbine to his shoulder. See you at Con’s headquarters in fortyfive minutes.

You wouldn’t have a cigar would you? Niven asked, fingering his gold rimmed glasses.

Sony, old man. I never smoke them, Lau’rel said heading for the shadows.

Niven finished sending and took the short reply, breaking the message rapidly on the code machine. He typed it up on the portable field typewriter, then carefully he packed the typewriter and code machine and radio in the heavy canvas. He carried the equipment to the puptent, then he noticed the two young Kachins still turning the generator merrily.

You are finished, Niven said in their tongue. They stopped cranking and stood up slinging their M-1 rifles. The slung rifles were conspicuously too long for them, almost dragging on the ground.

Niven walked over and gave them each a cigarette and lit it for them.

Thank you, Du, said one.

Thank you, Du, the other said. They called the Filipino Lau’rel and all the white men Du. They called Con the Dua or Dukaba.

Go eat now, Niven commanded.

They saluted and started walking out of the clearing. One of them tripped on the generator and knocked it over. Niven stood awed momentarily, then he rushed down on one knee by the fallen piece of equipment, examining it severely but tenderly for a long time. Slowly he looked up at the two young Scouts, his gentle face twisted: You fools. You stupid shits, speaking in English, forgetting it was not coming in Kachin. Didn’t I tell you to watch this equipment. This is your life. You wouldn’t have any ammunition to shoot or food to eat without this .… this .… he said pointing.

They looked helpless. He did not realize they hadn’t understood what he was saying.

Goddamn you. Goddamn you both. Get out! Get out! Niven motioned with his arms. They walked out of the clearing with bowed heads, like two little boys caught playing hooky.

Niven pulled the generator over by the fire and examined it before packing it in the canvas and putting it in the puptent. He came out of the puptent carrying a battered comic magazine and curled up by the fire, beginning to read, the sweet scent of burning fircones drifting down the side of the hill. He sniffed the air delicately rolling the comic book in his hand, staring into the fire.

Maine.

Northeast Harbor. Sailing on the sound and the clean fresh smell of salt water. Bar Harbor. The summer evenings after the full days: dancing at the Yacht Club or sitting on the porch of Mother’s big house. That was the house she got from her second husband. Or was it the third? Father was the second. Jesus! At times he couldn’t remember anything anymore.

How much longer would this go on? Five months in these hills and jungle valleys and they were nowhere, getting nowhere. His brain was sick and powerless and everything of the real world that he had known was but a faint echo within him. Bar Harbor! then it was gone. The year Father ran for Governor when he was very small and Father had lost. Was that the year of the divorce? No. He remembered now, the divorce was the year after the election.

Niven laid his head on his arms and stretched out, listening to the beat of his heart as it came faster and faster, louder and louder. He braced himself slightly, feeling now the thumping beat in his ears.

Wasn’t it going a little too fast, a little too hard for a man who had just turned twenty-one? He pressed his hand to his chest firmly trying to slow it, feeling certain now that his breath too was coming strained.

He sat up shaking his head, then rushed over to the puptent, and came out carrying a flashlight and started up the hill towards Con’s headquarters. He would take the evening message early and talk to Con for a while. That would make him feel better. Talking with Con always made him feel better.

He walked rapidly up the hill, through the murky shadows of the camp and the treetops blowing in the night’s northwind, smelling the rich peppered, curried powdered air; the succulent stews of the cooking pots, past the patterned groups of laughing Scouts by their fires, wondering why Con had moved him out of the headquarters.

It was that goddamn monkey, he thought.

The monkey?

How could you blame it on the monkey really; it was Con who was acting strange lately.

For five months he had shared Con’s headquarters, his bread, his conversation and friendship; everything but his responsibilities and perils, and suddenly when they had reached this hill he had ordered Niven to make his own bivouac without any explanation at all.

But that wasn’t the end of it; even stranger still, Con had called in all the Subadars and Dus and ordered that the men be permitted to burn fires within sight of the Burma Road itself. And then they had attacked the road that morning. And now the fires blazed teasingly on the hill, which must look like a Christmas tree of a hill with all its patterned light.

Niven swung up through the brush now, up towards the top of the hill. He walked faster, the brush scraping his clothing, stinging his face, through the changing shadows that sometimes were not shadows but hamadryads and Russel’s vipers or tusk sharpened boars. Faster he walked over the top of the hill down through the picket line of small Mongolian mules and into the headquarters kitchen and supply dump.

Hallo, Du. Vat’s up? Niven heard the voice of Con’s No. 1 boy call from his left. He stopped and looked around the headquarters dump; the cooking pots of stew and rice, the mule packs and equipment scattered and piled on the damp ground, the blacksmith shaping a pony shoe, canvas being sewn for the equipment packs. Then the No. 1 boy Billingsly came toward him from beyond a large cooking pot.

Hello, Billingsly. How’s it going? Niven asked touching his gold rimmed glasses, smiling slightly at the middleaged Kachin muleskinner and gambler whom Con had named, and whom Niven had taught to speak with a Jewish accent.

Miss you, Du. Vhen you come back to headquarters, Du?

I miss you, Billingsly. I’ll ask Con, Niven said his voice sinking, then brightening slightly as he saw the bright red and outlandish purple of the native’s longi.

You back soon. Vhat a fine supper. You stay va supper?

No, Billingsly. I have dinner with the Du Lau’rel.

Thats niice, Billingsly said slurring out the nice, holding his arms extended, head tilted. Then ve play a lettle pokerr lata. Niiice lettle friendly game.

I’ll ask the Du Lau’rel, Niven smiled. I’ve got to get over to the CP now, Billingsly. I’ll see you later.

Jest a lettle friendly game among friends … Duuu. Billingsly said smiling gleefully as he always did when he talked about cards.

We’ll see, Niven said starting down the hill, wondering what kind of life Billingsly would lead after the war. He would certainly be a very rich man with all the money he had already won from the troops; that, and the rents he got from his mules, plus the flat pay he received for his headquarters crew of seven and his thirtyfour muleskinners. That would be something he would like to see, Billingsly returning to civilian life. What a colorful sight, Billingsly money lender and man-about-town.

It was the first time Niven had ever really thought about the war being over. He dismissed the idea swiftly, superstitiously.

You didn’t think about the battles you hadn’t won, Con had told him. Winning battles in your mind only made you worry about them when you had to face them. Worrying was a bad thing and could cause disaster and when a white man worried, no matter how deeply he buried it, the Kachins somehow worried too. It was a very contagious disease, Con had said.

Why didn’t he have his mother’s talent for ignoring everything that was unpleasant? That was her greatest wisdom, he thought resentfully, walking very slowly now seeing the light of Con’s big fire. He doused his flashlight and slowed his pace even slower. Then he stopped completely on the edge of the clearing.

Con was sitting on the ground his back to a rolled sleeping bag, the sleeping bag to a tree, his legs extended and the monkey between his legs. The monkey was doing back flips and screeching loudly while Con looked at her seriously, almost religiously, stroking his goatee.

Scheherazade, Con said humanly, warmly. The monkey continued her acrobatics. Scheherazade, he spoke louder.

The monkey looked up at him understandingly.

Niven wiped his brow and momentarily closed his eyes. Then he looked back. They were not more than twenty feet away. The monkey was drunk already.

Niven watched as Con reached over to his right and took a bottle of scotch and poured some into his bamboo cup. Con drank and the monkey began to screech and do more back flips, its little bare bottom a rouge red against the firelight. Smiling, Con took a little bamboo cup the size of a thimble and filled it with scotch and the monkey quieted down looking at her cup possessively.

Niven swallowed hard.

The monkey drank and coughed and made the most horrible little faces and sputtering sounds, then she drank again and hissed and spit and jumped around.

Con took her empty cup away from her and Scheherazade sat down on her tailless little bottom.

Niven wondered why the monkeys were tailless on this side of the Burma Road and why all those across on Danny’s side had tails. The whole country was queer, in one way or another.

The monkey wiggled her nose and scratched her chest, then inquisitively she examined her little nipples with her tiny little fingers watching with glazed eyes and puckered lips.

Niven wondered what he should do. Maybe he should come back a little later. He couldn’t seem to move. He had the strangest feeling. It was almost sexual, he thought, but it was a spooky feeling too. His hands felt wet and clammy now.

Scheherazade began to do back flips and then she landed on her feet and staggered around backwards, backwards, reeling, and then boom she collapsed on her red bottom, looking up at Con bewilderingly.

Con tilted his head sideways and the monkey tilted her head back; Jesus Christ, Niven thought, they do understand each other, watching Scheherazade throw her little hands over her eyes, hissing and spitting, then trying to get up. Finally she rolled over with her back to Con and pushed down her hands and got up staggering backwards against his thigh.

It reminded Niven of a movie he had once seen long ago. A sexy blonde had clambered out of a gutter and staggered drunkenly into a tall Hollywood type hero complete with white tie and tails, the blonde’s big glazed eyes had searched hungrily, wantonly with the same identical look the monkey had now.

Scheherazade reeled and staggered back again. Boom. Then looking up indignantly, putting her hands over her eyes fingers spread, then closing her eyes and shaking her head murmuring odd little sounds. Jesus, Niven thought. The monkey’s seeing double.

From down on the side of the hill a tiger roared and Scheherazade shook herself straight, her glazed eyes suddenly sobering. She put her tiny hands together and pressed her arms to her chest, looking up at Con fearfully.

The tiger roared again and several others grunted. Scheherazade began to shake. Con called to her. She crawled and staggered towards him and he scooped her up, holding her in his arms soothingly. She clutched his shirt and looked up at him and then reached up and began to pick out the little things from Con’s goatee. Con’s eyes stared across her into the fire.

Niven sighed and swallowed heavily with a dry throat. A tall gangling young man, he pressed his hand to his breast pocket feeling the message there. He touched his glasses and walked towards his commanding officer; Hi, boss, he said nonchalantly.

The monkey whirled shrieking at Niven, grabbing at Con possessively.

Hello, Jim, Con said. Sit down. I’ll tie Scheherazade up. And reaching over he tied the little collar to a piece of rope attached to a tree.

The monkey screeched loudly and Con held one finger up to her. You be quiet. No more scotch if you’re not quiet. The monkey hissed and continued to screech. Con picked up her cup and she screeched louder. Play with this and keep quiet, he said sternly, giving her the cup.

She looked at Con poutingly, then she looked at Niven. Niven turned quickly towards the fire feeling the lump in his throat swell, fleetingly remembering the time the maid had caught him peeking in the keyhole at the Palm Beach house.

He handed Con the message and sat down. Con passed him the scotch bottle and the monkey screeched again.

Quiet, Scheherazade, or I’ll cut you off, Con said loudly. She hissed and bared her teeth menacingly at Niven. Niven looked away and drank, setting the bottle down near Con. The monkey quieted and Con began to read the message.

19 DEC 43 HDQS

PULLING THE PRIEST OUT TOMORROW FROM DANNY’S AREA.

RAY

Con folded the message carefully. He gazed into the fire, then slowly put the message in his breast pocket. And silently Niven studied his commanding officer, seeing the layer of silken hair on his forearms and wrists, the eyes that were hard and brown, the square cut of his face and the straight nose.

How come they’re pulling the Burma Bum out? Niven asked artificially, carelessly, wondering how he should approach Con after having been kicked out of the headquarters. Con didn’t seem mad at him, he thought.

I don’t know Jim, it wouldn’t be too good if they kept him out long. Con pondered, stroking his goatee. The men won’t like it. He’s the only missionary that stayed in after the Stilwell walkout. That is, the only missionary who stayed right with his people. If they keep him out any length of time the Kachins won’t like it.

Doesn’t the Colonel know that? Niven said, warming with the soft steadiness of Con’s voice. The warmth in the voice that failed to hide its hardness, yet still gave you its undivided attention.

He must … maybe … never mind, Con hesitated.

What is it, boss? Niven asked. Do you think maybe they’re getting up an offensive?

Just hoping, Jim.

Son-of-a-bitch. An offensive! Niven exclaimed.

Come off it, Jim, Con snapped icily. We’ve no right to talk like that. We’ve no right to assume anything is coming. That attitude just gets the men worked up, then if nothing happens we will have trouble.

Sorry, Con, Niven bowed his head and puckered his lip slightly, looking suddenly almost comically young. Fleetingly he glanced at the monkey. She was sitting down. Instinctively she scratched herself between the legs, then inquisitively she scratched on. Niven turned away, looking back at Con. I understand, I know better.

Oh, hell, Con sighed. I’m hoping for an offensive just as bad as you are Jim. They can’t expect us to bear all the pressure much longer … anyhow, I’m glad to know the Priest is with Danny.

I like the Englishman, Niven said handing Con the scotch bottle. The monkey screeched. Con stared at her and she quieted down, then he grinned and winked at Niven.

Danny is the finest man I’ve ever known, Con said heavily, stroking his goatee. The finest.

Is it true, boss, that he’s a real Hindu Yogi?

Danny’s everything, I guess. Yes. And he’s a real Yogi.

He’s a smart son-of-a-bitch I’ll tell you that, Niven said authoritatively. He must speak five languages.

Yes, he’s smart that way too. He speaks twelve languages. Fluently, Con said. He knows over fifty dialects of Chinese alone. The only white man out here that knows more Chinese is Stilwell.

Jesus, Niven said taking off his thin gold rimmed glasses, wiping them with a khaki handkerchief. The way he just sits for hours. You know … with his legs crossed over his thighs and his back so rigid and straight, the Lotus Seat he calls it. It’s part of his religion, isn’t it?

Yes, Jim. Part of it, Con said sitting up straighter now, inhaling deeply of the fresh cool north wind, snow crisp from its passage from the Himalayas.

Why do they call it the Lotus Seat? Niven looked inquisitively, genuinely interested now.

Danny explained it to me once, it is the best position in which to concentrate really. The straightness of the spine allows a free and straight circulation from the stomach to the brain. The blood flows freely to each brain center and it’s also a very restful position.

It don’t look it. And why the name Lotus? Niven asked.

Well, years ago, Con replied, "Thousands of years ago the Indians used to chew lotus leaves. Actually they probably chewed opium or poppy leaves. They’d get high from the leaves … like people do from dope and get into a dream state.

When a yogi sits in such a position and concentrates he gets lost in some out of this world thought but he does it without drugs. He even gets in this state quicker than people can who take drugs and of course with no after effects or let down.

It looks like goddamn hard work, Niven said fingering his glasses.

Meditation is damn exhausting. It’s a world of bliss and a very ecstatic state and you have to know how to achieve it, Con smiled. The only thing that can be likened to it that we know about is a sexual orgasm. But it isn’t really that. These men who practice meditation can stay in it for hours, even days. How would you like to pop your nuts on a twenty-four hour basis, Jim?

Wheuu … Jesus! Niven said looking at Con admiringly. Where did you learn all this stuff?

From Danny.

And it’s on the level they get a sex kick like that?

Not a sex kick really, Jim. I only used that as a comparison, it’s much more than that. When you have a sexual orgasm a great part of the thrill is the fact that everything is momentarily blank. You leave the world. You escape from the reality of living, but only for a second. The Yogi learns to live in a vaster realm of understanding. They do not meditate to escape this world but to gain better ones. They understand this world better. Danny used the word ‘tolerate’ … you learn to tolerate and accept without being bitter.

I’ll be goddamned, Niven said putting his glasses on. That Danny is a smart son-of-a-bitch.

Down on the side of the hill the tiger roared and Scheherazade froze and the entire night sounds of the forest stilled. Con reached over and untied the monkey and held her to him as Lau’rel walked into the headquarters.

Evening, old chaps, Lau’rel said lightly. And Madame Scheherazade, Lau’rel withdrew his bush hat bowing slightly. How is the young lady?

The monkey looked up at Lau’rel understandingly, then clutched tightly at Con as the tiger roared below and several more answered with deep bellowing grunts.

Everything is fine, old boy, Lau’rel said looking down at Con.

Did you check the outpost on the north hill? Con asked.

As you directed. I ran into Nautaung up there.

Good. Did you give my message to the Subadar? Con asked.

As you directed, the Filipino smiled, his black and wavy hair shining and reflecting in the firelight.

Good boy, Lau’rel, Con said, the ancient Spanish face of the Filipino suddenly reminding Con of a painting he had once seen of an officer in the Spanish Crusades.

What was Nautaung doing up there? Niven asked.

What does Nautaung do everywhere? Con said stroking the back of the monkey’s neck. Making sure everything and everybody is all right … give Lau’rel a drink Jim, Con said still looking up at Lau’rel. Sit down José, Con invited in a warm yet firm voice.

Where’s that shit La Bung La? Niven asked. Why wasn’t he checking the outpost. Shit … how can you check anything when you’re always taking a bath.

Con’s eyes squinted, his broad forehead wrinkled.

What’s wrong with La Bung La? Lau’rel asked. He looks like a capable fellow.

Haven’t you noticed yet? Niven sniffed his nostrils knowingly.

There’s nothing wrong with La Bung La, José, Con interrupted.

That shit, Niven said sarcastically. That chicken shit son-of-a-bitch.

Shut up, Con said briskly and the monkey grabbed tight to his shirt. Just because I don’t like La Bung La personally doesn’t mean he isn’t a good soldier. Personal opinions are no good in this kind of army. In any army. Remember that. We’ve got enough troubles just existing … staying alive and in one piece, without you causing any dissension.

Niven flushed and spit into the fire. The fire hissed and the monkey registered unease.

Pass the bottle, Lau’rel, Con said. Lau’rel passed it to Niven and Niven held it out to Con. Con drank and then they all drank. The monkey refused.

I just saw Billingsly, Lau’rel said to Niven. He says we’re going to play some poker a little later.

Did you ever play with him before? Con asked and tossed a pack of cigarettes to Lau’rel. Lau’rel took one and passed the pack to Niven. They all lit up.

I haven’t had the pleasure of a game with him as yet, Lau’rel said touching the medallion that hung from his neck.

God help your pocket book! Con laughed, revealing teeth that were white and even.

He knows his cards, Niven said.

He’s not so hot, a voice spoke from behind.

They all looked around at the tall straight figure of Danforth, the American half Indian. They watched as the Oregon staff sergeant walked heavily around them.

Where are we going to play? he squatted warily by the fire next to Lau’rel. I could use a little extra.

Where are we going to play? Lau’rel asked Niven innocently.

I’m not sure I want to play now, Niven sulked.

What’s wrong, Pullmotor? Danforth spoke huskily, his eyes coldly hostile.

Funny boy, Niven said sarcastically. Why don’t you grow up and get off that Pullmotor business.

Put a log on the fire, Lau’rel, Con said evenly, looking penetratingly from Danforth to Niven, noting the intensity between them.

You don’t like it, Pullmotor? Danforth said to Niven slowly taking the trench knife from his scabbard, beginning to clean his nails. He was wide shouldered and narrow hipped and did not look Indian, or half Indian, or even a third Indian and certainly not enough Indian to have been born on the Klamath reservation.

Pullmotor. So you don’t like Danforth’s little joke, tasting in Niven’s irritation a depraved sort of pleasure. Well, you’ve earned that name. We can’t help it if the sight of you makes people want to give you air, Danforth said looking at Lau’rel and then at Con, gleefully half smiling, half seeking approval.

Niven glowered. He picked up a small stick twisting it into the earth, then threw it hard into the fire showering sparks. The monkey screeched, holding tight to Con.

That’s enough of that shit, Con spoke in a cold even voice, becoming at once the focal point of the group. Both of you are acting like a couple of kids.

Danforth ran the blade of his trench knife across the stubble beard of his chin scratchingly. But this punk.…

Enough, Con said sternly.

The half Indian eyed Con balefully.

Cut it out now. And for good, Con said. Or goddamn it something is going to happen to you both. We have no time or energy, in this business, to waste on enmity. He looked icily from one to the other. You’ve all got bigger jobs than to argue with each other.

Sure, old chaps, Lau’rel injected. "There’s no reason why we can’t have a friendly little poker together. Really."

Where will we play? Danforth asked furtively.

Let’s play at Billingsly’s then, Niven said gloomily.

They all looked at Con. The monkey was resting her head on his sinewy neck. Con nodded approvingly.

Fine, Lau’rel sighed. About eight thirty then. Come along, Niven. Let’s eat, he said rising. Niven stood up.

Niven, Con spoke calmly. Ask Billingsly for that box of cigars in my mule pack. I’ve quit chewing them for awhile.

A whole box?

Con nodded.

Gee, thanks Con, see you later. They started up the hill. A whole box, Lau’rel, Niven said joyfully, childishly.

Danforth put his knife in his scabbard, slowly getting up from his squatting position. He looked down at Con.

Take it easy on Niven, Con looked up eyeing him evenly. Jim’s been out here five months now, all the way, and he isn’t the healthiest guy around. And radio men like him don’t grow on trees. Niven’s the best.

Sure, Danforth said hesitatingly. Sure. I understand, he said reluctantly, then turned and walked heavily away.

Con stared into the fire feeling vaguely uneasy. The flaring tempers of Niven and Danforth had left an emotional resentment permeating the air. It seemed strange that it should hang there now that its initial energy had been spent. More and more he saw emotion play a predominant part, until he had become certain that it was the dominating force of his outfit’s character.

The Kachin people were in their own land, fighting their own war as they had for centuries warred since they had come down from the icy tundras of the Khans. They had evolved a resistance to emotion with regards to war, Con knew. But they were not immune to it. There was no positive immunity to fear.

It was the white men that worried Con. The Kachins looked up to them, depended on them. They could not serve their purpose if they continued to allow their feelings to become personal or run amuck. They must learn what they had never been taught in training, what they could not teach a man in training; to adapt themselves to the uncertainty of war’s situations, to adjust logically to whatever presented itself. What a successful leader of men needed most was composure, balance, and presence of mind.

Con put the monkey down abruptly and tied her to her rope leash. Slowly, deliberately he lit a cigarette.

Composure plus Balance plus Presence of Mind equalled Security. Security, the sedative of sensation. And what was the fear of death but the fear of loss of sensation, or of encountering a new unknown sensation? Give them a sense of security and men, whether at play or at war, will know no harm. It sounded simple. Very simple. Simple indeed. Too goddamn simple.

Explain it to Niven and Danforth. How can you explain it? You don’t try. You give it to them. You take it out of you, drain yourself of it if you must, but you give it to them, even if they don’t know it. They will pass it down. It was the only way. There just wasn’t any other way. The osmosis of the soul, Danny had once said.

The infiltration of his soul and the souls of the men. That was a fine thought. A beautiful thought. War wasn’t all dirty if it brought out things like that. If it lifted a man’s thinking up to a higher plane which he had never before considered, because he was too lazy to consider, because he had lived such a shallow life that he had never been forced to consider.

Danny was right. War was not a bad thing. The world had to evolve to progress and what changed things more than war. We are the seed of tomorrow. That was the way a man lived on after his death, Danny had said. That gives a man a purpose to live.

For the first time Con began to understand completely. He looked into the dark night, to the west where Danny was now, wishing that the Englishman was here with him. There were many things that he wanted to talk to Danny about. And Danny would understand, Con knew.

He reached over and took the map out of the mapcase and laid the map between his legs. Tonight had to be that night he was expecting. He leaned over tracing the map with his finger. The firelight glimmered and the shadows pulsated over the contour lines.

Now if I were Major Shigito Muzumoto.…

CHAPTER III

Danny de Mortimer, fourth cousin to King George (he was not in reality a cousin to the King but a distant relative of Lord Louis Mountbatten; however people seemed to derive a vicarious elevation in believing that Danny was of royal blood. This myth was so well established that at times he believed it himself.) Danny de Mortimer rubbed the top of his shaven head vigorously with clenched fists. Then he dropped the monocle from his right eye to his extended hand and cleaned it quickly on the fold of his shirt, replacing it deftly like a knife to its sheath.

Now he sat immobile, straightbacked with legs crossed over thighs in the Lotus Seat staring at the valley; the jungle smoking and sputtering in the dusk, the forest about him an array of ever increasing shadows.

Danny looked across the valley and the road of Con’s ambush to the hills where Con’s camp should be, wondering how it went, knowing somehow someway that the young American had been lucky with it.

What was that driving electric quality about Con that never gave him a moment’s rest, that throbbed through him intensely, generating that excessive vitality? What was the nature of his controversy, and if he knew, why did he keep it so buried? Was it the woman Margaret that tore at him?

Not five feet away the Priest snored loudly, his middle-height stockiness stretched to the slope of the hill, his dirty grey-white beard protruding from under the bush hat that covered his face, his arms folded childlike across a bottle of Irish whiskey tucked in his belt.

But what of Con? If it wasn’t the woman Margaret what in the bloody devil was it? It could be family, Danny thought. Con’s native sensitivity thwarted by the gentile’s curse of artificial love? That insane parental drive for greatness in the child? Family glory. The vicarious worship that would place their child above all men; rather than the real and true love of the child itself. Jews were different, Danny knew from his years in Palestine. They could never be driven to clan hatred by family antagonism. It was the one quality he admired in the Jews; it was the one thing in a way that helped to make up for their monumental selfpity.

High above him Danny heard the racing drone of a fighter plane streaking northward, straining to identify it until the sound faded away.

But Con.… Had he crossed the line and gone beyond such shallow conflict? Perhaps he had. Perhaps he was finding out that he had been living a life that was foreign to him, a life opposed to that to which his true nature was inclined, aware suddenly that he had piled distress upon distress, tribulation upon tribulation in defiance of a social and economic code that he did not understand … seeking with his defiance worlds of peace beyond the universal concept. A sensitive man who felt deeply and dealt in disorder because he really never had a talent for disorder at all.

Con Reynolds had the best chance of all to find his Dhrama, that Danny knew. Better even than the priest Father Barrett. Danny’s guru had taught him that it was men of wild extravagant beliefs and childlike minds into which true knowledge descended. The young American had not yet learned society’s law of limitation nor was he too educated. For what did education bring but sophistication and from that came only vanity, and what was vanity but idle wind, the holy man had said.

Danny stroked his moustaches twisting the long ends tightly, attuning his wandering mind to the sounds of his camp, aware suddenly that sometime during his thinking the generator had stopped. Now that his message was in, Danny knew, Con would be receiving his over across the valley.

Danny raised his hand at eye level and moved his thumb and forefinger back and forth, open and shut like a vise. In what life did he first use this pincer? How many generations of life-existence did it take to make a hand of this claw? To make this thumb function in the opposite direction? To make this tendoned creative instrument? He would have to discuss that with the priest. Evolution was always good material for a friendly argument with the priest.

The red and gold sun sank rapidly now and he lowered his eyes to the green sea of the jungle far in the valley below, and in his mind he saw the splendor of the life that abounded in it; the huge magnificence of its overarching pillared trees imprisoning the heat of day humidly like a giant green house; the life of its shadowed floor competing madly, proliferating with an unbelievable luxuriance.

It was an enchanting land, Danny thought; severed only by occasional plains and plateaus or a slow forever undulating river where great vines and massive blocks of vegetation rose out of the water shadowing the earth with dim and murky pockets. Here multicolored orchids lay hidden and a thousand kinds of trees groped upward, tall and flowering and bearing many and unknown fruits. It was a fairy land for reptilian life, teeming with turtles and tortoises, toads and lizards and snakes, and birds filling the jungle aisles with their shimmering cries, and partridges and peacocks good to eat. And in the quiet crystal clear pools of the river were speckled trout and catfish over five feet long.

It was all in the way you looked at it, Danny knew. It was beautiful, or you could see the jungle as that Danforth fellow of Con’s pictured it; stagnant pools and rank undergrowth, with the ever abounding life always as a threat to your own, seeing the jungle’s dark and hidden places as men would look upon death, afraid and unknowing.

Rapidly now it grew darker and Danny glanced toward the horizon seeing the final red and gold sun as it began to disappear beyond the hills.

He took the .32 from his holster, released the

Reviews for Never So Few

[dinadansfriend · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A rather formulaic study of coming of age while on an American-Kachin special operation deep in the jungles of Burma in WWII. I found it not quite so interesting as John Masters' Burmese front memoire "The Road Past Mandalay."