I never knew his Hindu name. He was known to us only as Charlie Gonzales,the man who came with Corporal Waldrop to meet us, and also brought Rafik Mian to me. I thought it strange that an Indian should be so named, until I learned that he was one of Father O’Brien’s Christian converts. Father O’Brien’s mission in India is a story in its own right, and it is my intention to write about him at another point in this book. For the purpose of this tale, suffice it to say that Charlie had received this name from the good priest, presumably to signify his rebirth.

Charlie performed the most menial of labors around our quarters, and I can still see the toothed smile that was his perennial response to every command or request. When something needed doing Charlie’s name was on everyone’s lips.

Rafik Mian was a British-educated Indian who spoke English fluently and was attuned to any personal needs I might have, but he was acutely aware of the pecking order where Charlie was concerned and treated him accordingly. There was a sensitive shadow-line in the division of labor that had nothing to do with the religious caste system, and one had to be careful not to cross it. It was simply understood by everybody that Charlie’s position was at the bottom of this division.

As a Christian, Charlie was a pariah in his native village. He was one of a handful of Father O’Brien’s converts who lived in crude huts near our quarters. He lived with his wife and two daughters, whom we never saw around the base.

For some reason Charlie took a liking to me, perhaps because earlier when I had decided to buy a new wristwatch I gave him my old one. I am convinced he never knew how to tell time, but he wore the watch constantly, flaunting it like some gonfalon among his peers. If work was slack after he had done his tasks, he would often follow me around and remind me what a good Christian he was as if somehow I could make special intercession for him with the Almighty. On occasion he would hum or sing, " Jesus Loves Me" in a passionate monotone to emphasize his piety.

Charlie would go into genuflections of gratitude over any gift, however slight, I might give him. But his response to one gift stands out as the most memorable expression of gratitude I have ever known.

During a particularly heavy monsoon rain, I noticed Charlie seemed uncharacteristically quiet and subdued. When I inquired as to the reason for his low spirits, he told me that his roof was leaking and his family was suffering as a result of it. He spoke with a kind of fatalism that implied it was simply a thing to be endured.

I knew his hut was of the crudest sort, but never having been inside it had assumed it was adequate against the elements, even with the poor layer of thatch that covered the top. Yet unsure what I could do about it, I said nothing, made no promise.

The dilemma nagged me until I finally decided on a course of action. I thought of my friend, Sgt. Baker, affectionately known to all as the Scrounger. There was usually such a character in every outfit, and he was our man in charge of missions impossible. To Baker every request was a challenge, and his reputation was such that I knew I could count on his giving it his best shot.

I found him indulging his second talent, playing poker in his quarters. He hardly looked at me as he chewed his cigar and maneuvered his poker hand while he listened to my appeal. His only response was: "I’ll pick you up at your place tonight at eight."

The Indian moon was bright and the night was cool when Baker skidded the jeep to a stop where I waited for him. He was very unceremonious, so it was with hardly an acknowledgment of my presence as he waited for me to get in. He drove off like a racing driver at the starting line, taking a little traveled road that skirted the perimeter of the compound, past the hospital and mess hall, and into a clump of trees where some sort of construction was underway. Sacks of cement, lumber, and sheets of corrugated metal were stacked in abundance in that isolated spot. Baker pulled the jeep to an abrupt halt, and in the same motion jumped out. His were the actions of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Without hesitation he yanked two pieces of corrugated metal from the pile and hoisted them across the back of the jeep. "That ought to do it, " was his laconic pronouncement.

"What are they building here?"

He shrugged. "New Officer’s Club."

"Should we -- " I hesitated.

He peeled a new cigar, jammed it in his jaw, and gave me a look of complicity. "There’s plenty". He climbed back into the jeep and waited for me to do the same. I wondered why we had encountered no Gurkha, of the many employed as guards by the Army. But when I said something to that effect, Baker merely grinned.

All the way back I wrestled with a slight pang of contrition for our pilfered prize, but when I thought of the poverty of Charlie Gonzales the pang became less and less. If the resourceful Sgt. Baker felt any prick of conscience, it was certainly not evident. So we raced along with our bounty, the clattering of the metal sheets breaking the stillness of the Indian night. At one point, because of Baker’s race-car driving, I had to sit on the metal to prevent it falling off.

I directed Baker to Charlie’s hut, where Charlie himself alerted by me for the delivery, greeted us with his biggest gat-toothed grin. When we tossed the sheets on the ground, Charlie went into his usual seizures of gratitude which somehow seemed to embarrass Baker, who turned aside to me and muttered: "Damned crazy wog." This was a term he had picked up from the British, and he used it frequently in referring to the Indian workers.

Although Charlie protested any need for my help with his new roof, I insisted that I would be on hand the next day. In my heart of hearts I knew that it was an ulterior motive, not altruism, that moved me to such a decision. I wanted to make sure the corrugated metal was well covered with thatch.