Knock at every alien door-Chp 11-1

About the author: Joseph Harris has written thirty-four short stories and over a thousand poems in literary journals and other magazines. His work has appeared in thirteen anthologies and in numerous biographies of poets and writers. He is a member of The Academy of American Poets and also a member of Poets and Writers, with a book of poetry published by Furman University Press. He retired as Headmaster of two schools – and lives in South Carolina.

"Knock at Every Alien Door" is a narrative of his stay in India, where he went in 1944 on duty with the US Army. This was his first visit to India.

Chapter 11

RESCUE

Mark and I saw the plane go down at the same time. We had just completed our morning duties at the hospital and were on our way to the mess hall for lunch when we heard the sputtering sound of an engine in distress. Looking up, we saw the B-24 -- dubbed "flying coffins" by some who flew them -- coming down in a steady descent not too far, by our hasty estimation, from the base.

In the heat of the day there seemed to be no other witnesses about, or so we reckoned as we both decided at that moment to go in search of the plane instead of the mess hall. We hurried to the main gate where the Gurkha guard, knowing us well, passed us through with a smile.

We ran down the dusty road in the direction of Rum Ruin's village where, by our best calculation, we thought the plane must surely have crashed. We knew the village was over a mile away, and our hope was that it had not come down there. Although there had been few such mishaps on or near the base, we were well aware of the dire statistics of the planes lost in early days when "flying the hump" was more hazardous. We ran on, feeling the prickly heat on our backs and necks, not at all sure what we would do exactly when and if we found the plane. At least, we reasoned, we could pinpoint the scene for those more equipped for rescue.

When we reached the village, we saw nobody around and took that as a good sign that the plane had not crashed there. We walked on beyond the village, through a small thicket, and into a large area that was a patch work of rice paddies looking like small lakes due to the recent rains. We were about to turn back to the village when we saw a small figure running toward us along the narrow bank of a paddy. His waving arms quickly attract ed our attention, and as he approached his features, chillingly like those of Rum Rum, became distinct. Mark and I looked at one another in astonishment at his remarkable likeness to our little lost friend.

"Sahib, Sahib," he shouted, breathless in an effort to communicate, "big plane -- it fall down."

"Where?" I asked, knowing he was our best hope of finding it. "Did you see it?"

The Indian boy, his frail body already sleek with sweat, set off in a nervous trot and we followed after him in the burning heat of the noonday sun. Overhead the ever-present vultures circled.

Running in such heat was exhausting to Mark and me,but we were determined to follow our guide as we crossed the levee of one paddy only to be confronted by another, larger and more forbidding.

Mark stopped abruptly and called to the running boy.

"Hold it a minute. What's your name?"

The boy halted a few yards away and turned to us. "Sayram, Sahib. My name is Sayram."

"You speak very good English, Sayram."

The boy's dark face made a wreath of a smile. "I learn good from English Memsahib. She teach me the English."

"Well, you're a smart boy, Sayram,".Mark said, but where are you taking us? Did you really see the plane?"

"I see plane fall down. Sahib."

"What about the explosion," Mark said, "you know, big bang-bang, fire, smoke? He tried to simulate an explosion with his hands.

For a moment Sayram looked puzzled, and then he understood. "No big bang-bang. Sahib. Plane fall down in water."

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