Chapter 9 Chapter Seven (2)

3 A small oil lamp was lit on the ground, and the two huddled against the wall, watching me.One had a light machine gun and one had a rifle, but they were just as terrified as I was.They looked like middle-school students, but with Vietnamese, age drops suddenly, like the setting sun—they're boys, and then they're old again.I'm glad that the color of my skin and the shape of my eyes are a passport - now they won't shoot even out of fear. I went upstairs and talked to them and reassured them that my car was outside and that I was out of gas.Maybe they have a little gasoline to sell me.I looked around with my eyes wide open, and it seemed unlikely that there was any gasoline.There is nothing in this small circular room, only a box of ammunition for a light machine gun, a small wooden bed, and two backpacks hanging on a nail.There was still some rice and a few wooden chopsticks left on the two plates, which showed that they didn't have much appetite for dinner.

"Just a little so we can drive to the next big bunker, okay?" I asked. One of the two sitting close together—the one with the rifle—shakes his head. "If you don't have gas to sell, then we'll have to stay here overnight." "Oestdfendu." "Who can't tell." "You are a commoner." "No one can let me sit out on the side of the road and have my throat slit." "Are you French?" Of the two sentries, only one spoke.The other sat there with his head turned to the side, watching the crack in the wall.He couldn't see anything but a patch of sky: he seemed to be listening, and I began to listen too.The silence became filled with sounds: noises you couldn't name—a crackle, a creak, something like a cough, something like someone whispering.Then I heard Pyle's voice: he must be at the foot of the ladder. "Are you all right, Thomas?"

"Come on," I said back to him.He began to climb the ladder.The silent sentry raised his submachine gun—I don't believe he caught what we were saying: it was a dangerous, hasty movement. I realized he was paralyzed with fright.I snapped him off like a sergeant major, "Put the gun down!" I added a French obscenity, and I thought he'd understand.He obeyed mechanically.Pyle climbed up and into the watchtower.I said, "They let us stay safe and sound in this watchtower till dawn." "Great," Pyle said.His voice sounded a little bewildered.He said, "Shouldn't one of these two fools go watch the post?"

"They don't want guns. I wish you had something stronger instead of lime juice." "I think I'll definitely bring it next time," Pyle said. "We've got a long night ahead of us." Now that Pyle's with me, I don't hear that sound anymore.Even the two sentinels seemed relieved. "What would happen if the Viet Minh came and attacked them?" Pyle asked. "They'll just shoot and run. You read about it every morning in the Far East Daily. A post southwest of Saigon was temporarily captured by the Viet Minh last night." "The outlook isn't great."

"Between us and Saigon, there are forty watchtowers like this. It's not necessarily our fault." "We're hungry with these sandwiches," Pyle said. "I do think one of them should go watch." "He was afraid a bullet would go in." Now, the two Vietnamese breathed a sigh of relief now that we both sat down on the ground as well.I feel quite a bit of sympathy for them: it's not a good thing to have two poorly trained soldiers sitting in this watchtower, night after night, never sure when the Viet Cong will cross the rice paddies and onto the road relaxing work.I said to Pyle, "Do you think they know they're fighting for democracy? We should get York Harding here and explain it to them."

"You always make fun of York," Pyle said. "I laugh at anyone who spends so much time writing about something that doesn't exist—some spiritual concept." "Those things exist, as far as he's concerned. Don't you have any mental conception? God, say?" "I have no reason to believe in a God. What about you?" "I have a reason. I'm a Unitarian." "How many gods do people believe in? Even a Roman Catholic believes in many different gods when he is frightened, happy or hungry." "Perhaps, if there were only one God, he would be so vast and so different in the eyes of all men."

"Like that big Buddha in Bangkok," I said. "You can't see all of him at once. He's not moving at all anyway." "I think you're just trying to be tough," Pyle said. "You must have some faith. A man cannot live without some faith." "Oh, I'm not a believer in Berkeley. I believe my back is against this wall right now. I believe there's a submachine gun over there." "I didn't mean that." "I believe in the things I report in a way that most of you American journalists don't." "Want cigarettes?"

"I don't smoke--only opium. Give one to the Sentinels. We'd better make friends with them." Pyle stood up, lit cigarettes for them, and turned back.I said, "I wish cigarettes had a symbolic meaning, like salt." "Don't you trust them?" "No French officer," said I, "would like to spend a night alone with two terrified sentries in such a watchtower. Well, I've heard that even a platoon of soldiers has ever delivered their officers to each other. There are Back then, the Viet Cong were more successful with megaphones than bazookas. I don't blame them. They didn't believe anything either.

You and your kind want to fight a war and ask for help, but these people are not interested at all. " "They don't want communism." "They need enough rice to eat," I said. "They don't want to be cannon fodder. They want to be equal to everyone else one day. They don't want us white people around them telling them what they need." "If Indochina is lost..." "I know this record. Siam will lose it. Malaya will lose it. Indonesia will lose it. What does it mean to lose it? If I believe in your God and believe that there is an afterlife, then I would rather take my next life Bet Xiangxin with your harp and your golden crown that there may not be New York or London in five hundred years, but these people will still plant seedlings in these rice fields, and they will still wear pointed hats and pick their crops Grain goes to the market. Little boys still sit on buffaloes. I like those buffaloes, they don't like our smell, the European smell. And remember - from the buffalo's point of view, you are a European too ."

"They will be forced to believe what others tell them, and they will not be allowed to think for themselves." "Ideas are a luxury. Do you think farmers go back to their mud huts at night and sit down and think about God and democracy?" "You say it as if the whole country were peasants. What about the educated? Will they be happy?" "Oh, no," I said, "we've brought them up with our ideas. We've taught them some dangerous games. That's why we're waiting here, hoping ours won't be taken away." Throats slit. We'd deserve it if our throats were slit. I wish your friend York was here. I don't know how he'd appreciate it."

"York Harding was a very brave man. For example, in Korea..." "He wasn't on active duty, was he? He had a round-trip plane ticket. With a round-trip plane ticket, courage became an intellectual exercise, like a monk whipping himself. See how much I can take? Those poor The guy couldn't catch the plane home. Hey, "I'll call those two sentinels," what's your name?" I thought, getting acquainted might make them join in the chat too.They didn't answer: they just stared back at us sullenly, with a cigarette end in their mouths. "They thought we were French," I said. "That's the problem," Pyle said. "You shouldn't be against York, you should be against the French. against their colonialism. " "Ism, ism. Get some facts. A rubber plantation master beats his workers—well, I'm against him. He didn't beat people like that. He didn't order him to do that from the Colonial Minister. In France, I expected him to He would beat his wife. I also met a priest who was so poor that he couldn’t even change his pants. In a cholera-endemic area, he went from house to house to visit, worked hard for fifteen hours a day, and only ate rice and salted fish. Live, say mass in an old cup - a wooden plate. I don't believe in God, yet I support this priest. Why don't you call this colonialism?" "It's colonialism. Good administrators often make bad systems hard to change," York said. "The French are dying every day anyway - that's not a spiritual concept. They don't lead these people with half-truths like your politicians - and ours. I've been to India , Pyle, I know the damage done by the Liberals. We don't have a Liberal Party anymore - Liberalism has infected all the other parties. We're all either Liberal Conservatives or Liberal Socialists Author: We all have a good conscience. I would rather be an exploiter, fight for what he exploits, and die for exploitation. Look at the history of Burma. Let's invade that country: The local ethnic groups support us: We're victorious: But, like you Americans, we weren't colonialists in those days. No, we made peace with the king, returned his provinces, and left our allies persecuted and sawn In two. They are innocent. They thought we would not withdraw. But we are liberals and we don't want to have a bad conscience." "That was a long time ago." "We're going to do the same thing here. Encourage them, then leave them, with a little equipment and an insignificant industry." "Insignificant industry?" "Your plastic industry." "Oh yes, I see." "I don't know why I'm here to talk about politics now. Politics doesn't interest me, I'm a journalist. I have no position. " "You don't?" Pyle said. "For a debate — to kill a boring night, that's all. I'm not on either side. I'll still cover mine, no matter who wins." "If they win, then what you report is a lie." "There's always a detour, and in our paper I don't notice how much the truth is taken seriously." I think the fact that we sat there talking emboldened the two sentinels: maybe they thought our white voices—because voices have colors too, yellow voices sing, black voices like gargles, our voices just talk ——It will give people the impression that there are a large number of people, so that the Viet Minh cannot come.The two of them picked up the plate and started to eat again, scratching with chopsticks, but looking at Pyle and me from the edge of the plate. "So, do you think we've lost the battle?" "That's not what I'm going to talk about," I said. "I don't particularly want to see you win. I just want these poor fellows here to be happy--that's all. If they don't have to sit in the dark at night and worry about it." "To be free, you have to fight." "I don't see a single American fighting here. As for liberty, I don't know what it means. Ask them." I said in French across the floor to the two sentinels, "La Libert6—questcequecestlallberte ?” They were engrossed in eating, and when they heard this, they turned their heads and looked at me intently, without saying anything. Pyle said: "Do you want everyone to be cast in the same mold? You're arguing for debate's sake. You're an intellectual. You assert the importance of the individual, just like me and like York." "Why did we just find out about this today?" I said. "Forty years ago no one was talking like that." "Back then, the importance of the individual was not threatened." "Our personal importance wasn't threatened then, oh no, but who cared about the individuality of the farmer back then - who cares now? The only thing that treats the farmer as a human being these days is politics committee member. He would sit in the farmer's hut, ask his name, listen to his complaints, and he would sacrifice an hour every day to teach him—no matter what he taught, he always treated the farmer as a human being. Be a person of value.Stop yelling in the East, like parrots, talking about threats to one's soul.Here, you will find that you are on the wrong team - they represent individuals, and we represent only Soldier 23987, a member of the Global Strategic Force. " "You don't mean half of what you say," Pyle said uneasily. "Probably means three-quarters of a mile. I've been here a long time. You know, luckily I'm not involved, and there are things I might be tempted to do—because here in the East—dark, I don't Don't like Ike. I like—well, these two.This is their country.What time is it now?My watch stopped. " "It's past eight thirty." "Ten hours more, and we shall be able to go." "It's going to get pretty cold at night," Pyle said, shivering. "I never thought it would be this cold." "Water all around. I have a blanket in the car. Go get it and you'll be fine." "Go down and get it, isn't it dangerous?" "It's still early, the Viet Minh won't come yet." "I'll go." "I'm more used to being in the dark." As soon as I stood up, the two sentries stopped eating.I told them, "Jereviens, toutdesuite." I stretched my legs down the trapdoor, found the ladder and climbed down.It was strange how reassuring conversation should be, especially on abstract subjects: it seemed to normalize even the most unusual circumstances.I no longer feel frightened: as if I had left a room to go back to debate—this watchtower seemed to be Catena Street, the bar at the Majestic Hotel, or even Gordon Square in London A nearby house. I stood at the foot of the watchtower for a while to recover my eyesight.The sky is full of stars, and there is no moonlight.Moonlight reminds me of morgues and the washing of an unshaded bulb with cold water on a marble slab, but starlight is alive and never static, almost as if someone in that vast space managed to convey Like a friendly message, because even the names of the stars are friendly.Venus is our beloved woman, and Irene is our childhood bear toy.I think the Southern Cross, for someone of faith like my wife, might be a particularly beloved hymn, or a bedside prayer.I shuddered too, as Pyle had done before.However, that night was actually quite hot, but the shallow paddy fields on both sides of the road added a touch of coolness to the warmth.I started walking towards the car.When I stopped on the highway, for a moment I thought the car was gone.This shook my confidence, and though I remembered later that it had broken down thirty yards away, I still felt uneasy.I couldn't help walking forward with my shoulders slumped: I thought it would be less conspicuous that way. To get the blanket, I had to open the trunk in the back of the car.That click and creak also startled me in the silence.There must have been people everywhere that night.I don't like making noises just because of me.Once I got the blanket, I draped it over my shoulders and closed the suitcase more carefully than before.Then, as soon as the box buckle was fastened, the sky on the Saigon side suddenly brightened, and the sound of explosions rumbled all the way from the other side of the road.The sound of the explosion has not yet passed, and there are two rows of light machine gun shots.I thought, "Somebody's got it right now," and there was a voice in the distance, a cry of pain, fear, maybe even victory.For some reason I kept expecting an attack from behind along the road we had just traveled.For a moment I felt indignant that the Viet Minh had come in front of us, between us and Saigon.It's as if we're driving toward the danger unconsciously instead of away from it, just as I'm walking in the direction of the danger right now, with my back to the watchtower.I took steps because walking was always quieter than running, but my body wanted to run. At the foot of the ladder, I looked up and called to Pyle, "It's me—Fowler." (Even then, I couldn't use my Christian name to him.) The scene on the watchtower had changed.The plates of food were returned to the floor, and a sentry sat by the wall with a rifle in his hand, watching Pyle.Pyle was kneeling not far from the opposite wall, staring at the submachine gun.The LMG was placed between him and another sentry.He seemed to have begun to crawl towards the gun, but then someone stopped him.Another sentinel's hand was reaching for the gun: no one was scuffling, not even threatening, like the kind of game children play: you can't be seen moving or you'll be sent back where you came from, Restart. "What's this for?" I said. Two sentries looked at me.Pyle jumped across and dragged the LMG to his side of the building. "Is it a game?" I asked. "I'm not sure he's got the gun," Pyle said, "in case they call." "Ever used a light machine gun?" "Not used." "That's great. I haven't used it either. I'm glad it's loaded—we don't know how to reload it." The two sentries accepted the loss in silence.One sentry lowered his rifle across his lap, another leaned against the wall and closed his eyes like a child who believed himself hidden in the dark and could not be seen.Maybe he's glad he doesn't have to be responsible now.Somewhere in the distance, the light machine gun fire began again—three bursts in succession, followed by silence again.The second sentry narrowed his eyes, closing them tighter. "They didn't know we weren't going to use the gun," Pyle said. "They're supposed to be on our side." "I thought you weren't on either side." "TOOCo" I said. "Wish the Vietminh knew that." "What happened outside?" I quoted again the headline of the "Far Eastern Daily" tomorrow: "A sentry post 50 kilometers outside Saigon was attacked last night and was temporarily occupied by Vietminh guerrillas." "Do you think it's safer in the fields?" "The fields are very wet." "You don't seem to be worried at all," Pyle said. "I've been numb to scares—but things are better than they could be. They usually attack more than three sentry posts in one night. We've been lucky." "what is this?" It turned out that a heavy vehicle was coming along the highway, heading towards Sai Kung.I went over to the embrasure and looked down, just in time to see a tank go by. "It's the patrol," I said.The guns on the tank turrets turned one way, then the other. I want to call out to them, but what good is that?They don't have space in their tanks for two useless civilians.The ground on the watchtower shook a little as they passed, and they passed. I looked at my watch—it was eight fifty-one, and then I waited until the fire flashed, and then I looked at my watch again.It's like judging the distance of lightning by the speed of thunder.Almost four minutes passed before the cannon was fired. I think at one point I heard a bazooka return fire, and then everything went quiet again. "When they come back," said Pyle, "we can send them a signal for a ride back to the barracks." An explosion shook the floor of the watchtower. "If they ever get back," I said. "It sounds like a landmine." When I looked at my watch again, it was past nine fifteen.That tank never came back.No more gunfire was heard. I sat down next to Pyle and stretched my legs out. "We'd better try to get some sleep," I said. "We have nothing else to do." "I'm not very happy with the two Sentinels," Pyle said. "As long as the Viet Minh don't come, they're going to do nothing. Keep that submachine gun under your lap, it's safer." I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that I was somewhere else—in Before Hitler came to power, I sat in a fourth-class carriage of a German train. I was young enough to sit all night without being unhappy. The dreamlike experience was full of hope, not fear.Now is the time for Feng'er to prepare to burn the night smoke for me.I was wondering if there was a letter waiting for me—I hoped not, because I knew what the letter would be like, and as long as there was no letter, I could imagine impossible situations. "Are you tired?" Pyle asked. "tireless." "Do you think we should pull the ladder up?" "That's when I started to understand why they didn't pull the ladder up. That was the only way out." "I hope that tank will come back." "It's not coming back." I try to wait a long time to look at my watch, and every time I feel that it has been a long time, I only look at my watch for a while.Nine forty-five, ten-twelve, ten-thirty-two, ten-forty-one. "Are you awake?" I said to Pyle. "Wake up." "What are you thinking about?" He hesitated. "Fenger," he said. "Really?" "I was just wondering what she was doing right now." "I can tell you that. She probably already decided that I'm going to spend the night in Xinyuan - this is not the first time. She was lying in bed, burning a coil of mosquito coils to repel mosquitos, perhaps reading an old Paris Match. Like the French, she is also very interested in royal life. " He said thoughtfully, "It must be a wonderful thing to know so well," and I could imagine at that moment what his gentle dog eyes looked like in the dark.They should have called him Fido not Alden. "I really don't know—but it's probably true. What's the good of being jealous when you can't do anything about it. There's nothing in the stomach." "I don't like the way you talk sometimes, Thomas. Do you know what she looks like to me?—she's fresh, like a flower." "Poor flower," I said. "There's a lot of weeds around it." "Where did you meet her?" "She used to dance in the big world." "Back dancer," he yelled, as if the thought was painful. "It's a very respectable profession," I said. "Don't worry about it." "You've had a lot of life, Thomas." "I'm also much older than you. When you're my age..." "I haven't had a girl yet," he said, "never been properly approached. No real experience as you would call it." "A great deal of your American energy seems to be devoted to whistling." "I've never told anyone that." "You're young. It's not something to be ashamed of." "Have you approached many women, Fowler?" "I don't know what you mean by many. Only four women have ever meant anything to me—or, I've meant to them. The other forty or so—I don't Understand why I mess with them. From hygiene, from the concept of personal social duty, it's all wrong." "Do you think that's wrong?" "I wish I could make up for those nights. I'm still in love, Pyle, but I'm such a piece of shit. Oh, sure, I was a little complacent. It'll be a long time before we stop feeling, It's okay to be proud of having needs. Though God knows why we should be complacent when we look around and see other people have needs." "You don't think there's something wrong with me, do you, Thomas?" "No, Pyle." "That's not to say I don't need, Thomas, to be like all the others. I'm not a queer one." "Honestly, none of us need it as much as we say. There's a lot of narcissism in it. Now that I know, I don't need anyone—just the wind. But it's going to take a while A learned thing. If Feng'er hadn't been there, I could live in peace for a year now without restless nights." "But she's there," he said in a voice I could barely hear. "A man always flirts everywhere at the beginning, but later he is loyal to a woman like his grandfather." "I guess it seems pretty naive to start that way..." "not necessarily." "It's not in the Kinsey Report." "So isn't that naive?" "You know, Thomas, it's nice to be here talking to you like that. Now, somehow, it doesn't seem dangerous anymore." "We always felt that way during the massive German air raid on London," I said, "when the bombing stopped. But it didn't take long before it came back." "If someone asked you what was the most profound sexual experience, what would you say?" I know the answer to this sentence. "One early morning, lying in bed, watching a woman in red pajamas comb her hair." "Joe said it was in bed with a Chinese woman and a black woman at the same time." "When I was twenty, I would think of that scene." "Joe is fifty." "I don't know what their mental age was for him during the war." "Is that woman in red pajamas Feng'er?" I wish he hadn't asked that question. "No," I said, "that woman was earlier. That was right after I left my wife." "What happened next?" "I left her too." "why?" Seriously, why? "When we were in love," I said, "we were fools.—I still don't know if she was really changing, but I couldn't stand the uncertainty any longer. I ran to the finish line like Like a coward running to the enemy and earning a medal. I want to die in one shot." "die?" "That was also a kind of death. Then I came to the East." "Did you meet Feng Er?" "right." "Don't you think Feng'er is the same now?" "It's different. You see, the other woman loves me. I was afraid of losing her love. Now, I'm afraid of losing Feng'er." Why did I say these words?He doesn't need me to encourage him to take Feng'er away. "But she loves you, doesn't she?" "It's not like that. That's not in their nature. You'll find out for yourself. It's a cliché to call them children—but one thing is pretty childish. They love you for your thoughtfulness, for your kindness. They have the security and the gift you gave them - they hate you for hitting them because of you, or for doing something unfair to them. They don't know what love is - just walk into a room to a room, and in love with a stranger. That's quite safe for an old man, Pyle—she won't leave home and run away, so long as it's a happy home." I had no intention of breaking his heart.When he said sullenly, "Maybe she'd rather have greater security or more consideration," I realized I'd hurt him. "Maybe so." "Aren't you afraid of her leaving?" "Not as scared as that one." "Do you really love Feng'er?" "Yes, Pyle, of course love her. But like the other one, I only loved once." "Aren't those more than forty women nothing?" He said to me again hastily. "Below the Kinsey Report average, I believe. You know, Pyle, women don't want chastity. I'm not sure we men do either, unless we're sick people." "I'm not saying I'm a virgin," he said.My conversations with Pyle seemed to all go in weird directions.Was it because he was sincere that our conversation went off the rails?His conversation was never too sharp. "You can hang out with a hundred women and end up with a virgin, Pyle. Most of your soldiers who got hanged for rape in wartime were virgins. We don't have that many in Europe. I'm very Glad. This virgin does a lot of damage." "I just don't understand what you're saying, Thomas." "It's not worth explaining. I'm tired of the subject anyway. At my age, sex isn't a big deal. I only care about old age and death. When I wake up, I think about old age and death, not about women. Flesh. I just don't want to be alone for the last ten years of my life, that's all. I don't know what to think about all the time. I'd rather have a woman in my house - even if I don't love Yes—in the same room with me. But if Fenger leaves me, will I have the energy to find another?  …" "To you, she's nothing more than that..." "But that's it, Pyle? Wait until you're afraid of spending the last ten years alone, with no company and a little nursing home waiting for you. At that point, you'll start running around, even leaving that The woman in the red pajamas, find a woman, any woman, who will stay with you until you die." "Then why don't you go back to your wife?" "It's not easy living with someone you've already broken her heart." There was a long volley of light machine gun fire—couldn't have been a mile away.Perhaps one of the sentries was overwhelmed and fired at the shadows: perhaps another attack had begun.I hope it's another attack - it increases our chances of escape. "Are you afraid, Thomas?" "Of course I'm afraid. I'm instinctively afraid. But intellectually, I know it's better to die this way. That's why I've come to the East. Here, death is at your side." I look at my watch.It's already eleven o'clock.There are eight hours left in the night, and then we can relax.I said, "We seem to have talked about almost everything, except God. Let's save him till the wee hours." "You don't believe in God, do you?" "Do not believe." "Without God, everything would be completely meaningless to me." "With him, nothing makes sense to me at all." "I read a book in the past..." I never knew what book Pyle was reading. (Probably not York Harding or Shakespeare or that anthology of modern poetry or The Physiology of Marriage—perhaps The Triumph of Life.) Then a voice came into our watchtower, It seemed to be the voice of the shadows by the trapdoor—a voice from a hollow speaker saying something in Vietnamese. "We've met now," I said.The two sentries were also listening, their faces turned to the rifle hole, their mouths both open. "What is it?" Pyle asked. Walking towards the watchtower loophole, it was like walking through that sound.I looked out quickly: nothing in sight—not even the road to make out, and by the time I looked back into the watchtower, the rifle had been aimed, and I wasn't sure if it was pointing at me or the loophole. .But as I moved against the wall, the rifle moved too, hesitated, and aimed at me: the voice outside said the same words again.I sat down and the rifle was lowered too. "What's he talking about?" Pyle asked. "I don't know. I guess they found our car and are telling these two guys to hand us over or kill us. You better get that submachine gun before they make up their minds." "He'll shoot." "He's not sure yet. When he's sure she's going to shoot anyway." As soon as Pyle moved his leg, the rifle came up. "I'm walking along the wall," I said. "When he blinks, you aim your gun at him." As soon as I got up, the voice stopped: the silence made me jump up.Pyle snapped, "Put the gun down." I had just time to wonder if the LMG was loaded--I hadn't bothered to look at it earlier--and the sentry had dropped the rifle. I went over and picked up the rifle.At that moment the voice began to speak again—as if, I think, the voice had not changed a single syllable.Maybe they used a phonograph.I don't know when this ultimatum will expire. "And what happens next?" Pyle asked, like a high school student watching an experiment in a laboratory: as if he had nothing to do with it. "Maybe a bazooka, maybe a Viet Minh coming up." Pyle checked the LMG in his hand. "There doesn't seem to be anything mysterious about this thing," he said. "Shall I put it in a row?" "不，就让他们犹豫不决。他们情愿不放一枪就拿下这个岗楼。这给了咱们时间。咱们最好尽快离开。" "他们也许正等在楼下。" "Maybe." 那两个人注视着我们——我写下是两个"人"，不过我很怀疑他们两个之间是否积累有四十年的生活经验。"那么这两个家伙呢？"派尔问，接着他又直截了当地加上一句道，"我开枪干掉他们，怎么样？"也许他是想试试那支轻机枪。 "他们并没有干什么坏事。" "他们要把咱们交出去。" "他们干什么不呢了？"我说。"这儿又没有咱们的事。这是他们的国家。" 我把步枪里的子弹取出来，然后把枪放在地面上。"你总不见得把枪就丢在这儿吧，"派尔说。 "我年纪太大啦，拿着枪跑不动。而且这又不是我的战争。走吧。" 这的确不是我的战争，不过但愿这时候黑暗中的那些人也明白这一点。我把油灯吹熄了，从活板门那儿把腿伸下去找梯子。我可以听见那两个哨兵在悄声交谈，像低吟歌手那样，他们的语言就像一支歌。"下去笔直向前，"我对派尔说，"目标是稻田。记住，田里有水——水有多深，我不知道。准备好了吗？" "准备好了。" "谢谢你陪着我。" "挺乐意，甭客气，"派尔说。 我听见那两个哨兵在我们身后移动：我不知道他们手里是否有刀。这时候，扩音器里的那个声音又咄咄逼人地说话了，仿佛在给我们最后一个机会似的。下面黑暗中有个什么东西在轻轻移动，也许是一只老鼠。我有点儿踌躇。"但愿我喝了杯酒，"我小声说。 "咱们下去吧。" 有件什么东西正沿着梯子往上来：我没有听见什么，但是梯子却在我的脚下摇晃起来。 "你怎么不动啦？"派尔说。 那一阵悄悄的暗中的接近，我不知道自己为什么会以为是一件什么东西往上来。 只有人会爬梯子，然而我又无法认为那是一个像我自己一样的人——那好像是一个动物正爬上来吃人，悄悄地、确凿无疑地，具有另一类生物的凶残。梯子摇来晃去。 我想象着自己看见了它的眼睛向上闪耀。突然，我再也忍不住了，我跳下去，下面压根儿什么也没有，只有软绵绵的地面。我的脚踝在地面上扭了一下，像有谁用手扭了它一下那样。我可以听见派尔爬下梯子来，我这才认识到我是一个吓慌了的大傻瓜，自己在发抖也不知道。我还以为我这个人顽强，不会想入非非，完全具有一个坦率的观察家和记者所应具备的一切。我一下站起身，几乎痛得又跌下去。我拖着一条腿向田边奔过去，听见派尔跟在我后面奔来。就在这时，一颗火箭筒炮弹在岗楼上爆炸开，我又伏到了地上。 4 "你受伤了吗？"派尔问。 "有个什么击中了我的腿。没有什么了不起。" "咱们快往前走吧，"派尔催促我。我仅仅看得见他，因为他似乎满身都是纤细的白色粉末。接着，他干脆不见了，像银幕上的一幅画面在放映机的灯泡坏了时那样：只有影片的声带还继续在响。我小心翼翼地用我的好膝盖跪起，竭力想站起身，而又不让受了伤的左脚踝用力。接着我又倒下，痛得喘不过气来。原来不是我的脚踝出了毛病：是我的左腿。我不能再发愁——疼痛使我什么也不在意了。我一动不动地躺在地上，希望不再疼痛。我甚至屏住呼吸，像牙痛时那样。我没有想到那些越盟分子会马上到岗楼的废墟上来搜索：另一枚炮弹又在岗楼上爆炸开来——他们在过来前要确信敌人已经给打垮了。这耗费多少钱啊，痛苦一减退我就这么想，就为了杀死几个人——杀死几匹马还比这要便宜得多。我这时不可能是完全清醒的，因为我开始想到我好像闯进了一个老马屠宰场。在我出生的那个小镇上，老马屠宰场是我小时候最害怕的地方。我们常常认为自己听见了那些马惧怕地惨叫，还听见了那种无痛杀马器械的爆炸声。 隔了好一阵，疼痛又来了。这时，我静静地躺着，屏住呼吸——这在我看来，似乎同样重要。我心里很明白地想着，我是否该向水田边爬过去。那些越盟人员也许没有时间搜索得很远。这时候，另一个巡逻队可能就要出来，设法跟先前那辆坦克的人员取得联络。但是我更怕痛，而不大怕游击队，所以我还是躺着不动。四处，听不见一点儿派尔的声息：他一定已经跑到了田里。这时候，我听见有人在哭。哭声从岗楼那边传来，或者说从先前还是岗楼的地方传来。它不像是一个大人在哭：像一个害怕黑暗，又不敢大声叫喊的小孩儿。我想大概是那两个年轻小伙子中的一个——也许他的同伴给打死了。我希望越盟人员不会割断他的喉咙。你何必跟孩子们打仗呢？这时候，沟里那个蜷曲着的小身体又回到了我的心上。我闭上眼睛——这有助干使痛苦离我远些——等候着。一个人声喊出了一句我听不懂的话。我几乎觉得我可以在这片黑暗、孤寂和没有痛苦的境界里睡去。 接着，我听见派尔小声说道，"托马斯。托马斯。"他对于摸路的本领学得很快：我压根儿没有听见他转回来。 "快走开，"我也低声回答。 这时候，他找到了我，平躺在我身旁。"你为什么不过来？你受伤了吗？" "我的腿。我想是断啦。" "挨了子弹吗？" "不，不是。是一段木头。是石头。是岗楼上落下来的一件东西。并没有流血。" "你得尽力撑着往前走。" "你走吧，派尔。我不想撑下去，大痛啦。" "是哪条腿？" "左腿。" 他爬到我身边来，把我的一只胳膊放在他的肩上。我想哭泣，像岗楼上的那个小伙子那样，接下去我又生起气来，可是悄声说话时是很难表达出怒气的。"妈的，派尔，别管我。我要留在这儿。" "你不能。" 他把我半边身子拉过去伏到他的肩上，那阵痛苦简直使人受不了。"别充什么大英雄啦。我不要走。" "你得配合，"他说，"要不咱们俩都给逮住啦。" "你……" "别出声，要不他们会听见的。"我苦恼得哭了——你不能用一个比"苦恼"这个词更强的表达方式。我靠在他的身上，让我的左腿半悬着——我们像一对行动笨拙的竞赛人在参加一场三条腿竞走那样。如果不是在我们刚起步时，一支轻机枪在公路那头向着下一座岗楼急速短促地一连放了几排，那么我们就不会有机会逃脱了。也许，有一支巡逻队正冲上前来，也许他们正在完成摧毁三座岗楼的任务。那一阵枪声掩盖了我们缓慢、狼狈逃跑的声音。 我不大清楚这段时间里我是否清醒着：我想，在最后那二十码路上，派尔管保几乎是完全背着我走的。他说："当心。咱们要下水稻田啦。"干燥的谷子在我们四周沙沙作响，脚底下的烂泥也吱吱咯咯响着，直往上翻。水淹到我们腰部的时候，派尔停住了。他在喘气，气一哽住时，他就发出像牛蛙那样的声音来。 "连累你，很抱歉，"我说。 "我不能丢下你不管，"派尔说。 第一个感觉是轻松：田里的水和烂泥柔和而又牢固地托住了我的腿，就像一条绷带，但是不一会儿那阵寒冷又使我们得得打战。我不知道是否午夜已经过了：要是越盟人员没有发现我们，我们就得在这儿待上六小时。 "你能不能把身体稍微移动一下，"派尔说，"就一会儿？"一听到他这话，我的毫无理智的怒火又冒上来了——我说不出别的借口，只是因为疼痛。我并没有请求谁来救我，也没有要谁把死亡这么痛苦地延长下去。我怀念着我在那干硬土地上的卧处。这时候，我像一只白鹤那样，一条腿站着，不把全身重量压在派尔身上，好使他松上一口气。我刚一动，稻秆就搔得我痒痒的，又刺痛了我的皮肤，还噼噼啪啪响个不停。 "你在那边救了我的命，"我说，派尔连忙清了清嗓子，准备客套地回答一句，而我接着说，"让我好死在这儿。我倒情愿死在干燥的土地上。" "最好别说话，"派尔像对一个残疾人那样说。 "到底谁叫你来救我的命的？我到东方来就是为了来寻死。这就是你们该死的不讲理的地方……"我的身体在泥淖里摇晃着。派尔把我的胳膊又扛到了他的肩头上。"放松点儿，"他说。 "你看过不少战争电影。咱们又不是两个海军陆战队的士兵，你也没法赢得一枚军功勋章。" "嘘——嘘。"脚步声都可以听见了，有人正朝田边走来。公路前边的轻机枪已经停止开火了。除了这脚步声和我们呼吸时稻秆的轻微的沙沙声外，什么声音也没有。这时候，脚步声也停了：似乎离我们不过一间屋子那么远。我觉察到派尔的手正按住我身体没负伤的那边，把我慢慢按下去。我们一块儿很慢地在泥里陷下去，不让稻秆发出一点儿响声。我用一边膝盖跪着，尽力把脑袋向后仰，总算可以把嘴保留在水面上。腿又痛起来了，我想"如果我在这儿晕过去，那么我就会给淹死"——我一向厌恶和害怕淹死这个念头。为什么一个人不能选择自己的死法呢？现在，什么声音也没有了。也许，二十英尺外，他们正在等着一阵沙沙声，一声咳嗽，一个喷嚏——"啊，上帝，"我想着，"我就要打喷嚏了。"要是派尔不来管我那就好啦，我就只对我自己的性命负责——不会连累他——他是想活的。我把空着的几个手指紧紧接住我的上嘴唇。这是我们小时候玩捉迷藏时学来的，但是喷嚏还是留在鼻子里，等着打出来，而那帮人在黑暗中默不则声，就等着这一声喷嚏。喷嚏就要打，就要打，打出来了…… 然而就在我打喷嚏的那一刹那，那些越盟人员用轻机枪放了一排枪，一串火光射过稻田——枪声以锐利的哒哒声像一架机器在钢板上钻孔那样，把我的喷嚏声掩盖住了。我深深地吸了一口气，又缩进泥淖里——一个人对他所爱的东西如此出于本能地躲躲闪闪，跟死神调情，就像一个女人要求她的情人强奸她那样。稻秆给子弹扫射过后，垂下来盖住了我们的头，这场暴风雨又过去了。我和派尔同时伸出头来吸口气，只听见脚步声朝岗楼那边走去。 "咱们成功了，"派尔说。即使在疼痛中，我也不知道我们什么事成功了：对于我来说，是老年，编辑的职位以及孤独寂寞，对于他来说，我现在知道他说得太早了点儿。接下去，我们在寒冷中安定下来等候着。在通往新渊的公路上，一堆黄火突然燃烧起来：火光像在一场庆祝会上那样欢快地燃烧着。 "那是我的车子，"我说。 派尔说，"真可耻，托马斯。我最恨看到人家浪费。" "车子油箱里一定还有一点儿油，正够他们放火烧车。你也像我一样冷吗，派尔？" "我冷得不能再冷啦。" "咱们爬出田去，平躺在路上，怎么样？" "再过半小时吧。" "我整个身子全压在你的身上。" "我忍受得住，我年轻。"他本来是想把这句话说得幽默点儿，但是它听起来却跟水田里的泥一样冷。我原来打算向他道歉，因为我的疼痛使我话说得那么凶，可是这时候疼痛又使我说话了。"你年轻，没问题。你本钱厚，经受得起等待，是吗？" "我不明白你说点儿什么，托马斯。" 我们一块儿似乎消磨了六七个夜晚，不过他对我的了解只不过跟他对法文的了解差不多。我说："你不管我只有更好。" "那我就没脸去见凤儿啦，"他说，这个"凤儿"一说出口，就像一个银行家喊出标价那样。我立刻接受了挑战。 "原来是为了她，"我说。使我的嫉妒显得更为荒唐、丢脸的是，我只好用最低声的耳语来表达我的嫉妒——它没有音调，而嫉妒是喜欢装腔作势的。"你以为你这些英勇行为就可以得到她。你多么大错特错啊。我要是死了，你倒可以得到她。" "我可没有那意思，"派尔说。"在你恋爱的时候，你总希望你的行为光明正大，就是这么回事。"这话倒是真的，我想，不过并不像他表达得那么天真。恋爱就是像别人看你那样来看你自己，是去爱你自己得意的虚假形象。在恋爱中，我们是没法讲什么荣誉的——那场英勇的行为也只不过是在两个观众面前演演戏而已。 也许我已经不再恋爱了，不过我还记得。 "假如是你的腿断了，那我早丢下你走啦，"我说。 "不啊，你不会，托马斯。"他又用令人受不了的沾沾自喜的神气加说道，"我比你更了解你自己。"我生起气来，想离开他，自己撑着站起身，但是疼痛又来了，像一列火车在隧道里那样吼叫着奔回来。在我瘫到水里去以前，我的身体更重地压到了他身上。他用两只胳膊搂住我，把我抱起来，然后他开始一点一点地把我搀扶向田埂和公路边。等他把我扶到那儿以后，他把我平放下，让我仰面躺在田边田埂下、浅浅的泥淖里。等疼痛退去以后，我睁开眼睛，大大松了一口气，这时候，我只看见满天星斗这项精心制作的密码——一种我读不出的外国密码：这些不是家乡的星星。派尔的脸在我的上面转过来，把那些星星遮住了。"我要沿这条公路走下去，托马斯，去找巡逻队。" "你别做傻瓜，"我说。"他们还没弄清楚你是谁，早就开枪把你打死了。就算越盟人员没有干掉你的话。" "这是唯一的机会。你不能在水里躺上六小时。" "那么就把我放在公路上。" "把轻机枪留给你没有什么用处吧？"他迟疑不决地问。 "当然没有用。要是你决心做一位英雄，至少得慢慢地穿过稻田。" "那么我还来不及打招呼，巡逻队早就走过去了。" "你又不会讲法语。" "我就大声喊着说，JesuisFrongsals．别担心，托马斯。我会很小心的。"我还没来得及回答，他已经跑远，没法悄声对他说话了——他按着他所知道的那样尽力悄悄地移动，不时停上一下。我借着汽车燃烧的火光，可以看见他，不过并没有听见有谁开枪，不久，他就走到火光另一边去了，很快寂静又填满了脚印。是啊，他的确很小心，就像他上次撑着小船驶下河流到发艳去那样，他那份谨慎小心活像一个儿童冒险故事中的英雄，而他对自己的谨慎小心又十分得意，像对一枚童子军徽章那样，同时他又糊里糊涂，不明白自己的冒险多么荒唐，多么可笑。 我躺在那儿，仔细听着有没有越盟人员或外籍兵团巡逻队开枪的声音，但是一声也没有——或许派尔要走上一小时，甚至不止一小时，才能走到一个岗楼，假如他到得了的话。我尽力转过头去看看我们那座岗楼的残迹，一堆泥土、竹子和支梁。 等汽车的火焰低落下去后，那堆东西似乎缩得更矮了。等痛苦消失以后，有一片安宁——仿佛是神经的一种"休战日"似的：我想要高歌。我想到，这多么奇怪啊，干我这种职业的人对这一夜惊险，竟然只能在报上发表一、两行新闻——这只是普普通通的一夜，唯一奇怪的就是我自己。这时候，我听见一个低沉的哭声又从岗楼残迹那边传来了。有一个哨兵一定还活着。 我心想："可怜的家伙，要是我们的车不是在他的岗楼外边抛锚，那么他一听见那扩音器喊话，本来就可以投降，像他们几乎所有的人那样，再不就逃走了事。 可是我们在这儿——两个白人，而我们手里又拿着冲锋枪，他们不敢乱动。等我们离开后，已经太晚了。"我对那个在黑暗中哭泣的声音是负有责任的：我一向对自己超然事外，不属于这场战争很得意，但是这两个人的死伤是我造成的，就仿佛我使用了那柄轻机枪，像派尔原先想干的那样。 我挣扎着想翻过田埂，爬上公路去。我想爬去和他会合。这是我所能做的唯一的一件事，去分担他的痛苦。但是我自己的疼痛又使我退却。我再也听不见他的哭声了。我一动不动地躺着，什么也听不见，可是我自己的一阵阵疼痛像一颗巨大的心那样跳动着。我屏住呼吸，向我不相信的上帝祈祷："让我死吧，不然就让我昏晕过去。让我死吧，不然就让我昏晕过去。"随后，我想我大概昏晕过去，什么也不知道了。后来，我梦见我的眼皮凝结在一起，有人正用一支凿子来撬开我的眼皮，我想告诫他们不要伤了下面的眼球，但是我说不出话来。凿子凿进来了，一支火把正照在我的脸上。 "咱们成功了，托马斯，"派尔说。这句话我记得，不过我不记得派尔后来对别人讲述的那一番话了：他说我当时朝着错误的方向不停地挥手，告诉他们说岗楼里还有一个人，叫他们一定得去照料他。好歹我不可能多愁善感地臆想到，派尔会编造出那一套来。我很知道我自己，我知道自己多么自私。要是有谁在痛苦受罪，而且看得见、听得出、摸得到的话，那么我就不可能悠闲自在（而渴望悠闲自在，正是我的主要愿望）。有时候，天真的人会以为这是我大公无私，其实我所做的只是牺牲一点儿小利益——在这件事上，是请人家推迟一点儿来照料我的痛苦——去换取一种大得多的利益，在我需要单单考虑到我自己的时候，享有一种内心的安宁。 他们回来告诉我说，那个小伙子已经死了。我也很高兴——在那一针吗啡打进我的腿以后，我甚至用不着再忍受多大痛苦了。