On Main Street, U.S.A., the goblins had their day and the witches made their annual ride on their broomsticks across the face of the moon - for it was that final fated day of October, day of the ringing doorbells and the missing shutters, and the snagged-toothed pumpkins - Hallowe'en 1945. But on Main Street, Burma - the Highway 66 of this jungle land, the Post Road of the Irrawaddy shore -
No witches, these - nor goblins, but the water buffalo crept deeper into the thickets and little Naga children trembled in their mothers arms, and even Shan the Tiger lay with his belly on the ground and fear in his heart. The land was still and only the ghosts walked. High in the Patkai Mountains there was a meeting and the hills sounded with the beating of the conversation - for it was the talk of battle of rifle ball and pistol slug, and the deeper, hurried thud of the mortars. The sky was dark, for the moon was on the other side of the world where the witches played, but the sky wasn't empty. There were ghosts up there in the dark, and the sound of their passing was the roar of 1,200 horses, and their calling cards dug deeply into the jungle with a boom and a flash. At Myitkyina there was quite a convention - ghosts with white faces met ghosts whose skins were darker and some whose skins were yellow with centuries of life in the Orient. They prowled along the grass-crown edges of the strip up there and they talked in their own way about Joe Stilwell and Frank Merrill and General Sun. On down the river at Bhamo they gathered in the dark - these Burma ghosts - and looked silently at the temples and the foxholes besides those temples. There were music lovers among them and these sat in the deserted bomb crater near the mission and remembered a gracious little lady from "Paree" who stood on a hot day in the broiling sun and sang until she could sing no more. There were the ghosts of Mong-Yu, where the Ledo trace runs into the Burma Road. These ghosts wore suits of armor - 1945 version - and behind them came four-legged ghosts with big flapping ears, and a bray straight from Hell and an inquisitive look straight from Missouri. They wore the scars of sores on their backs and their legs ached with the miles of the mountains. Yes, ghosts walked in Burma last night. It was Hallowe'en. But they'll walk again tonight, and tonight isn't Hallowe'en, and tomorrow night, and it won't be Hallowe'en either. They'll walk there until The Road that bore them is nothing but a memory, until the reason they were born and left to be ghosts of this land fill only two pages of a televised or microfilmed history book. We wish them well, these ghosts, because, but for the grace of God and the breaks that come to a man, we might have been with them, and we are glad we aren't. We hope that we'll remember them, and perhaps we will, but the memory of man is a treacherous thing, and the chances are we'll forget. Only on dark and stormy nights in a driving rain will we remember, and because we hate to remember things we didn't like we'll turn from that rain and the wind to the lights of home. But the ghosts are in Burma, and because they are there the world is a different place, and though we may forget, the ghosts of the Ledo Road will remember, and they'll know, and they'll be satisfied. |
Vol. IV No. 10 Delhi, Thursday, November 15, 1945 Reg. No. L5015 |
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