The Ugly American (2 page)

"I am an American intelligence agent here to fight the Japanese," Colvin had said rapidly in Sarkhanese. "I am surrounded by a Japanese patrol and if I cannot find a hiding place in a few moments they will capture me. Can you help me?"

Deong, from his seat on the water buffalo's shoulders, looked down at Colvin for a moment. Then he slid off the water buffalo and walked over to Colvin.

"I will help you," Deong said, his eyes shining with excitement.

Colvin nodded and at once Deong took his arm and started to run with him toward a broad shallow ditch. With one hand he snatched three hollow reeds from the edge of the ditch, and with the other hand he pushed John into the water.

"Breathe through the reeds, do not move your head even the least bit, and do not come out of the water until I pull the reeds from your mouth," Deong said.

He pushed Colvin into the water and put a large stone on Colvin's chest to hold him under. The ditch was two feet deep and held enough water so that John was covered by six inches.

For a few seconds he felt real panic. Then he relaxed and discovered to his enormous relief that he could breathe through the reeds.

Five minutes later, three of the soldiers from the Japanese patrol came into the clearing. John could dimly hear them talking, and was able to tell when they had left. He stayed where he was for ten more minutes; and then he felt a gentle tug on the reeds. He sat up, muddy water dripping from his face and body. Deong was grinning at him.

In the next eight months the two men roamed over most of Sarkhan. In that time they blew up twelve Japanese munitions trains, demolished six military bridges, and put time bombs on the hulls of eight armed Japanese river patrol boats.

During that time, as if the chance of death made every impression more penetrating, Colvin came to know Deong and also to know the people of Sarkhan. Once the two of them had to hide from a Japanese patrol in the mournful and exquisitely beautiful Plain of the Tombs where generations of Sarkhanese lay buried under intricately carved pieces of rock. Ringing the plain was a magnificent fringe of cypress trees. For eight hours they had crawled among the tombstones, always keeping a row or two of the stones between them and the Japanese patrol, until, at dusk, the Japanese patrol broke off the search.

On another day they hid in a Sarkhanese temple on the shores of the beautiful Orange River, this time from no ordinary platoon of Japanese troops, but from a special detail of antiespionage troops that had been flown in from Indonesia for the specific purpose of running Colvin to ground. Colvin didn't want to hide in the temple; its back was on the river, which closed off a possible avenue of escape. Deong didn't argue; he insisted, with complete confidence, that the temple was the safest place for them.

The temple was presided over by two monks in saffron-colored robes. They were kept company by an enormous number of sacred monkeys who swarmed in and out of the magnificent, decaying stone of the temple. The two priests were in the midst of a long morning prayer when Deong and Colvin came trotting into the temple. They did not look up when Deong and Colvin climbed high up into the temple and hid themselves among the heavy stone rafters where normally only monkeys dwelt, and they did not look up when the Japanese patrol arrived. The two priests, their shaven heads gleaming in the sun, continued to bend over their folded hands, and their chant continued on above the harsh questions of the Japanese lieutenant. Even when the lieutenant, his face contorted with anger, placed a pistol against the head of one of the priests, their voices did not cease. When the lieutenant pulled the trigger and the brains and bloody fragments of bone shot in a savage gout across the steps of the temple, the other priest did not stop praying. In the presence of such single-mindedness, the Japanese lieutenant was helpless. He led his detail away from the temple after a fruitless and perfunctory search.

They remained among the stone rafters long after the Japanese had left, talking softly. Deong patiently explained the beauty and grandeur of death in the land of Sarkhan; but he also explained, with equal patience, why he did not wish to die that day. Deong was a country boy and he came from a simple family, but he wanted to live in a city and to find out about bigger and more exciting things.

In his eight months in Sarkhan Colvin came to love the people of this strange country. They were small, delicate people, their skins a lovely shade of brown, all of their motions graceful and restrained. Even people of the meanest caste had a dignity and charm which impressed Colvin enormously. They were all very generous. They had given him food, and information, and help. They had run great risks on his behalf, and the only request they made was that he discuss philosophy with them. The word
philosophy
in Sarkhanese, Colvin learned, covered questions of life and death, cruelty and generosity, good manners, the rearing of children, the delights of strong wine, and the possibility of a life after death.

Just before the liberation, John taught Deong about ipecac. They received instructions via radio to meet a submarine in an isolated cove. The submarine arrived on schedule and the captain told them that the United States Marines would land in Sarkhan in five days. He gave them a 25-pound tin of ipecac, and told them to make every effort to introduce the powder into the food at the Japanese army camp the morning of the landing.

John explained why to Deong. Ipecac was the most powerful emetic known to medicine. Until it was eliminated from a person's body he had energy for only one thing: vomiting. If he were given enough of it, a person could actually die from the spasms.

With the aid of the Sarkhanese cooks in the Japanese army camp, they were successful. The next day they waited in a clump of bushes outside the camp. At 7:30 a.m. the Japanese ate breakfast. At 8:00 a.m. the Marines landed. At 8:10 a.m. the Japanese came staggering out of the camp.

For a few moments it had been funny—a road full of soldiers who stopped running to vomit. But the exertion compounded the effects of the ipecac, and men began to stagger and fall. Their bodies heaved and racked and twisted as they vomited with nothing left in their stomachs. An hour later, when the first Marine patrols approached the camp, the road and the grass beside it were covered with bloody and exhausted men too weak to lift their heads.

It was the last thing Deong and Colvin did together. Three weeks later Colvin was flown back to the United States. A year later he had resigned from the O. S. S. and was running his family's business in Wisconsin, buying bulk milk, drying it into powder, and packaging the powder. It was a good business and a sound one, and Colvin ran it well.

About 1952, the newspapers reported that the country of Sarkhan was having internal difficulties and was leaning toward Communism. Colvin could not believe it. He wrote long letters to his Congressman explaining the elaborate fabric of Sarkhanese culture; and suggesting how the Sarkhanese should be handled. He got back polite letters informing him that his suggestions had been forwarded to the State Department. But the policy of the United States did not change. When the border difficulty with the Communist country to the north of Sarkhan began, Colvin could not restrain his impatience.

He was convinced that the Sarkhanese situation was being handled badly. He was also convinced that he had a personal responsibility in the situation. He came up with an ingenious plan.

The rainy hillsides of Sarkhan were covered with a tough, low growing, and very thick grass. This grass was so rugged and its root structure so detailed that it was often impractical to clear it from otherwise usable land. Colvin sent for samples of the grass and discovered that it was edible by a short-legged, agile, and fast-growing breed of cattle that had been developed in Texas. If the people of Sarkhan could be taught to use milk and its byproducts, there was no reason why the cattle would not prosper on land that was otherwise useless. Also, there were good markets in Asia for the byproducts. The butter could be reduced to
ghee
and sold to India, the leather could be tanned and made into finished goods by the artisans of Sarkhan, the entrails could be used in the native medicines preferred by non-Christians.

But first the Sarkhanese had to be exposed to milk. Colvin did this part himself. He was in Sarkhan to sell milk made from powder. When the Texas cows began arriving a year later, the switch would be made to fresh milk. Once the business was established and running, Colvin intended to sell out his shares and leave.

Colvin knew that the thing was risky; the first thing he did when he got back to Sarkhan was to try to locate Deong. Deong had vanished. So Colvin, without Deong's help, set up the first milk-distribution center outside of the city of Haidho. He had been operating it only two weeks, and it was a success despite the embassy's saying the project was impracticable. In fact, Louis Sears, the American Ambassador, had, after several conferences, washed his hands of the whole thing.

Then suddenly, Deong appeared from nowhere, and pulled a gun on Colvin. Lying in the sun and quiet of the hospital room, Colvin remembered how he had felt the muzzle of the gun pressing cold against his skin, and how unreal it had seemed in the normal routine around him. The soft jungle breeze moved through the open warehouse, and outside the long queue of Sarkhanese women waited patiently for their milk, their voices a low and undeniably real murmur beyond the door. Next to Colvin stood the huge Atlas Automatic Milk-Mixer ready for the 100-pound tin of powdered milk. But in the midst of these ordinary sounds and sights were unrealities—the package of ipecac on the floor behind the mixer, and Deong, his old companion, behind him with a gun held against Colvin's ribs.

Deong broke the silence.

"Come on, John. Start your machine and put in the milk and ipecac."

"Deong, you're crazy," Colvin said. "Put away the gun."

"Perhaps whenever a man is about to die he always thinks his executioner is crazy," Deong answered softly. "But you're wrong. There's a reasonable time for everyone to die, and this may be your time."

"What's reasonable about it?" Colvin asked. "I'm not in politics, I'm just trying to organize a milk distribution center for your country. Your people need it."

"John, powdered milk and cattle are part of politics, and therefore part of history," Deong said. "Hurry up. Put the powdered milk and the ipecac in the machine. I don't have much time."

"No," Colvin said. "I won't put ipecac in the milk, you know what it does."

"Of course I know," Deong said. "You taught me."

"Deong, those people might die from the ipecac," Colvin pleaded. "They're your people."

"You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs," Deong said. "Come on, John. Don't stall. Start the mix going. If I knew how to work it, I'd do it myself. But if you don't do it by the time the doors are opened in about three more minutes, I'll shoot you and tell everybody that
you
were planning to mix the ipecac in the milk."

"But what good will it do? Who will it help?"

"Look, John, I told you milk is part of history. If you get this crazy milk and cattle scheme of yours going, it could in time change the economic balance in Sarkhan."

"What's wrong with that? That's what I want to do."

"Nothing. It's a good idea. Out in the bush we've talked it over a lot. But you're the wrong person to be permitted to do it. If it succeeded, the Sarkhanese would believe that America was their savior."

Colvin understood.

"Deong, you're a Communist," Colvin said.

"As if there were a choice," Deong replied softly. "Look, John, you took me off the back of a water buffalo and taught me about the big outside world. And I learned that the side with the most brains and power wins. And, John, that's not your side anymore. Once it was, but not now. America had its chance and it missed. And now the Communists are going to win."

"Look, Deong, you trusted me once," Colvin said quickly. "I can tell you that our side is going to win. We've still got the power and the will."

"No, you haven't got the power or the will or anything," Deong said, and his voice was rock hard with assurance. "You've done nothing but lose since the end of the war. And for a simple little reason: you don't know the power of an idea. The clerks you send over here try to buy us like cattle. You people are like the fable of the rich man who was an idiot."

Colvin knew then that there was no chance of persuading Deong. He realized sickly that he could now only save himself.

"Hand me the ipecac," Colvin said bitterly.

"Pick it up yourself and put it in the mixer," Deong said.

For the first time Colvin felt the muzzle of the gun removed completely from his back. With a quick whirling motion Colvin spun his body and hacked his hand through the air, aiming for the base of Deong's neck just where it joined the shoulders. If he hit in exactly the right place, Deong's gun-hand would be paralyzed. But although the blow lit with a terrific force, it was slightly off the mark. Colvin came to his feet in a half-crouch—but the gun was still in Deong's hand and now it was aimed at Colvin's chest. There was a look of excruciating pain on Deong's face, and he appeared to be trying desperately to keep himself from fainting. Colvin dove for a stack of powdered milk drums and at the same moment Deong fired. In that split instant, as he was falling to the floor, Colvin was aware of two things. First, that the bullet had hit him in the right forearm and had probably broken the bone. Second, that Deong was about to drop the gun because of the accumulated pain of his blow.