"Yes," Tenzing agrees.
"He has been in the resistance since the start."
"He trained in Saipan, didn't he?"
"Yes," Tenzing nods, "One of the six to go to Saipan with the CIA. He received radio communications training there. That is why he is so convinced that we," he points at the boy and then at himself, "need the training. I think he is too young."
Mac nods his head solemnly. "I thought I saw your mood change." Tenzing interrupts, "To me, he is just a boy." Both men look at the boy who is glaring at Tenzing. He knows he is being talked about and he does not like it. He tries to follow the conversation, but he does not understand.
"I don't think he likes being seen by you that way, though, as a boy. While he is here, Tenzing, you must think of him as a man. Your life may depend on him one day. This is the first part of your training. We do not have a lot of men, here, to work with. Any one of these men," he points around the table, "could save your life and many others. We can not keep the cover on the boy because he's young. I won't mollycoddle anyone here."
"I wanted him to tend the animals, learn his lessons in the monastery school, become a monk. You know, things happened."
"That's why you're here," Mac says and takes a drink of beer.
"Heck, that's why I'm here. New Year's Eve, not with the wife and kids. Your brother is able bodied, Tenzing, and he will learn to fight. He will learn to fight like a man; you may as well let him be a man." Tenzing pauses while Mac lights a cigarette and watches his reaction to these words. Finally Tenzing looks at his little brother, as if he is trying to see him as Mac has suggested, a line of smoke curling toward the boy.
"I suppose you're right," says Tenzing watching the smoke twist and turn, "I almost lost him once, you know. I'm not going to lose him again."
1956 Litang.
A thick haze of mist around the Himalayan peaks nestles down for the night in among the streets and buildings of Litang as dusk approaches. Tenzing huffs and puffs carrying a large bag, a monk beside him carries one too. A door is opened for the two of them, and they huff and puff the two bags up onto a table surrounded by a group of men. A group of Tibetans, some of them monks, dressed in the garb of resistance fighters, tear open the bags pulling out ammunition, swords, antique rifles and several antique muskettes. One of the men counts the guns and rubs his chin. He looks at Tenzing.
"This is everything?"
"Yes." Tenzing says.
"All of it?" he asks.
"Yes." Tenzing answers. "Did you think there would be more than this?"
"I'd hoped so," the man admits.
"There isn't," Tenzing says. The man is Tenzing's older brother, Danthra. Danthra has been officially trained as a resistance fighter.
He is one of five resistance fighters trained by the CIA - the Americans - on an island in Saipan. Danthra has radio technology training. He learned it in Saipan, along with the art of war, taught to him by the best fighters of the world, the Americans. No one in the room doubts Danthra. He does not feel this is enough weaponry for the attack, and so, the mood is a somber one.
"Send word by radio," Danthra says to one of the men at the table, "this is not enough for us." He is one of the five men who was trained in Saipan with Danthra. The six of them parachuted from the sky, that day of their return, down into the center of the Himalayas, down into Litang. A heroes welcome. An exciting day. Tenzing remembers. Danthra counts again, the numbers of guns, knives, and swords. He thinks. Everybody in the room waits quietly.
The man next to Danthra who had parachuted home with him and stands next to the radio says, "Maybe we should not attack tonight. Maybe we should wait."
"No," Danthra says after a long pause of thinking. "We will attack tonight. We must not wait. We have no surveillance, and we have already found tonight's encampment. We can not afford to lose this one. They may retreat after tonight, toward Lhasa," he rubs his chin. Tenzing watches. There is no doubt in Tenzing's mind that Danthra knows what he is doing. Danthra has received the training of the CIA, the most widely known Intelligence fighters in the world. Tenzing stands up taller.
Tenzing offers his support of his brother's opinion loudly, "We go tonight!" he says and makes a fist toward the center of the table. Many other fists reach out.
"Tonight!" some say in unison and the mood of the room changes from the solemn slight of weaponry to one of cooperative aggression. The attack will take place from the gumption in the room, for the love of Litang, and not from the stability of obvious might, or strength, or numbers. When it comes to numbers, the Litang monks and resistance fighters do not hold up to the encampment of Chinese intruders, but when it comes to heart and soul, Tenzing thinks, even the mist of the Himalayas is with the Tibetans tonight. It has settled low, just in time. It will shroud the attackers in secrecy and confidence. It will camouflage the Tibetans.
"Ghostly attackers of the night," Tenzing thinks to himself. "The Chinese will not know what hit them," he says out loud. Danthra looks at him. He takes his hand from his chin, his eyes from his solemn counting of weapons and pats his brother on the back.
"We will attack tonight," he says; and then, on a piece of paper that hangs on the wall, Danthra draws out the encampment's whereabouts and the avenues the ghostly attackers will use to descend upon the encampment.
Each man in the room, each Tibetan attacker, takes a weapon from the table. A gun, a rifle, a muskette, a knife, an axe, a sword and so forth until each man has an arm with which to fight. A rousing cheer and chant from Danthra gets the 'blood-up' of the men in the room of monks and fathers, boys and shepherds, tradesmen and business people; up enough to fight the numbers of Chinese, up enough to 'charge' down through the hills, ripping and avenging, mutilating and cutting, harming and shooting, death dyfing and killing the sleeping Chinese; until killed or retreating into the mist, the shrouded hills, from which they had come out that night as ghostly killers on a war path against the intrusion of their homeland, against the Chinese invaders. And these killers of the night come out victorious. They head home from the attack, those who have lived, marching and carrying the wounded, no longer under seige from the Chinese. They have, they think, effectively conquered and chased away intruders on what little they had to fight with, victorious in battle.
Comes the dawn; the sun just peaking above the jagged tip-tops of the world's steepest mountains sending light and color out over a land steeped with mystery and traditions as untouched by the outside world as most of the valleys between the mountain tops for century after century, greeting the warriors as they morph along the trails, toward their front doors, back into fathers and monks, shepherds and artisans, all marching from battle, all changing; all of them, forever changed. Once again, inside his home, Tenzing washes the blood off his hands. He does not say a prayer, as he does when he has killed an animal. Tenzing does not pray with the blood he washes down the drain. He was a ghostly attacker, and he has killed. He has protected the enemies of Buddism by killing them, and with that, he has delivered Buddism from threat; all knowing gods of Buddha. Tenzing washes the blood from his face. It is not his own blood. Tenzing has been victorious and he is proud.
"This is not a false pride," he thinks, not a lie, but the pride that comes from protecting what one loves and lives for. Tenzing changes his blood stained clothing, but the blood does not wash away completely. Tenzing remains a secret brother of the night's misty attack, and he is changed, in slight, forever.
Later that day, without sleep at all, Tenzing tells his little brother of the battle at the afternoon meal. He tells him with as much detail and fervor as Tenzing can muster.
His brother's face lights up watching Tenzing intently as he embellishes the tale, swishing a fake sword through the air, "Whack!" and mocking his opponent, "Uhh!" as a fake sword stabs straight into the air.
"Did you get three of them for me?!" his brother asks excitedly. "Yes," Tenzing says smiling, noticing for a moment, thinking,
that his little brother is looking up to him.
"Just as if you were there with me," he says patting his little brother on the shoulder.
"I would have liked to be there."
"But you are too young."
"No," his brother objects, "my friend was there. He is only two years older than me."
"Two years is two years," Tenzing says.
After a restless sleep, that night, of many dreams, Tenzing wakes to his little brother pulling on his arm. At first Tenzing incorporates the pulling into his dream. He dreams he has a gun in his hand that is being pulled away from him. Tenzing tugs the gun back and the pulling begins again.
"Tenzing! Tenzing!" his brother urges him to wake up. Another noise, Tenzing hears it in his dream. The gun has gone off; he has shot his little brother.
"Tenzing! Tenzing! Wake up," his brother rouses. Tenzing awakens to the wide eyed face of his brother urging him out of bed and realizes he has just had a bad dream. Rubbing his eyes to full wakefulness, Tenzing hears it, again.
"A gunshot!" Tenzing says.
"Yes," his brother continues pulling Tenzing's arm 'til he is standing.
"Get down!" he says in a sharp tone to his brother, his feet on the ground, standing half way. "Where is it coming from?"
"Outside," his younger brother points to the window facing the East, "Men in coats, outside."
Toward the window, Tenzing moves, crouching, staring straight ahead, the moon no longer shining in the night sky, the dark before the dawn staring back at him, blankness broken by shouts and gunshots.
"Get dressed!" Tenzing commands his younger brother, scrappling for shoes. "Warmly!" he adds. "You're going to run." He stomps his foot into his shoe. He stuffs bread into his brother's pockets.
A gunshot hits the window.
"Where's my sword?!" Tenzing's voice reaches a pitch that sounds panicked, alarmed.
"Here, I got it already for you," his younger brother hands the sword to him.
"Out! Out! Let's go!" He rushes his brother out the door.
"This way," he says leading his younger brother along the back way, away from the fighters, away from the men in coats who stand, their backs to the East, raining bullets and vengeance upon everything the boy holds sacred and dear.
"But I want to fight!" the boy insists.
"You have no weapon."
"I found this axe," the boy admits showing what he has grabbed onto.
"No!" Tenzing barks out not willing to hear the boy's plea.
"I want to fight," the boy says quietly.
"Go!" Tenzing shouts and shoos him with his hand. Tenzing follows after him ten paces until his brother's foot just barely steps upon the soil of the first field outside the monastery. Then Tenzing turns for battle, with all the ego of his victory the night before, he turns to fight the attacking invaders with only a sword.
"Run!" Tenzing shouts hearing the approaching invaders, hearing shots and shouts approaching nearer; and at the sound of the word, his brother does as commanded. He runs. Tenzing turns, his sword held high. He slips in behind a building's wall and waits, sword drawn, waiting for the moment to attack the invader's backside, his sword being no match for a gun without cunning.
Tenzing's younger brother does as he is commanded, but he does so with a heavy heart. He does not want to leave Litang. He wants to stand and fight. In his thoughts, he punishes Tenzing for sending him away.
"He never lets me do anything. I want to fight! I could do it," he thinks, "I'm like the wind." His young legs carry him swiftly, the adrenaline surges as the sound of the invaders grows louder. The boy turns to glance behind him as he runs, he nearly stumbles. A group of Chinese invaders right on his tail.
"I'll defeat them," the boy thinks, his eyes now straight ahead, a black horse in his line of sight. He jumps it; onto its backside.
"They should have given me a gun. I'll kill them! from above, from up here on this horse." And the boy imagines telling Tenzing, "You never let me fight. I am so angry. They are attacking my home, my family. You're shooing me out of the way. I want a gun so I can fight. I won't 'run' down this trail. There is no use. Stupid plan, probably be shot."
And the boy begins to turn the horse, back toward the attackers, back toward the battle, thinking, "Could've given me a sword. I'd fight. I could kill them from up on this horse, like lightening." And the boy's heels bounce against the belly of the horse. He lays onto it's shoulders as the horse begins to run, and just as the sun peeks over the mountain tops, Tenzing's younger brother sees the eyes of his attacker. The attacker's gun goes off. The horse is shot. A scream of pain. The horse topples down onto the tundra. But the boy somehow does not go with it, like the image of lightening the boy has in his head, he defies the gravity of his attackers. As the horse topples and slams against tundra, Tenzing's younger brother slips from the side of the horse's belly, his feet lighting down at full moving speed. The boy runs. Like lightening. And the attacker nearly misses out on seeing him completely. Just a flash. The boy is gone. The attacker searches near the horse's body for the boy. Giving in after several minutes, the attacker kicks the belly of the horse, turning back to his group of fighters, back toward Litang.
From behind the wall Tenzing jumps, lashing, the moment chosen precisely, stabbing two Chinese before running off again behind a wall to wait, avoiding counter attack. Tenzing's heart pounds from fear as the group of men move toward the first field. And then Tenzing hears it. A gunshot and the sound of a horse in pain; horsemen call it the horse's scream, and Tenzing, although not knowing why, shivers from a chill that runs deep within his spine. He fears for his younger brother and this fear causes Tenzing to make his first mistake in combat; he runs into the first field, uncovered and without a gun. Tenzing makes it to the dead horse by the grace of some spirit known to those as lucky as Tenzing that day, unnoticed by the intruders who have moved on to the second field.
"Dead," he thinks, "or captured." But Tenzing has not long to wait, he touches the horse, the blood bursting from a bullet wound, and then he runs, over the crest of a hill on the rise, away from the second field, away from the returning intruders who are marching back toward the monastery, back toward Litang, with guns and ammo and, Tenzing thinks, with the dead or alive body of his little brother. Tenzing runs into the Himalayas, toward the outreaching color of the morning sun cast upon the tip-tops of the mountains.
With water running from the corners of his eyes; Tenzing blinks and thinks, "If he's out here, I'll find him." Tenzing runs along the steepest, most treacherous terrain in the world, where any swift motion is the equivalent to running in the heart and lungs of a human. All along the trail he punishes himself, in his thoughts, for turning back before his brother had hit the underside of the hillcrest.
"Too arrogant," he says silently, "too big-headed. I should have stuck with him." Suddenly filled with the same kind of heroism, but this time to 'save' his little brother and not himself, Tenzing heads into the dawn of a Himalayan day as quickly as the altitude allows, on the trail outside of Litang, 400 meters above Lhasa - the city known to be the highest city in the world - 310 days of sunshine a year, at least when it is not inside the clouds.
Along the route of Tenzing's escape, every footstep beats a rhythm to the spoken-word worry-song running through his mind, "Did Tiyo run? Is Tiyo captured? Is he dead? Is he dead?" The if's and should's join in, "If only I had run with him, if only I had hidden him. I should have hidden him. I should have taken him."
And the chorus repeats silently in rhythm to his breathing and his stepping, "I should have never turned my eyes away. Let them water, with the unblinking, watch your child, watch this way, do your day and watch this way." Tenzing hurries, thinking, stepping, running when he can; and he looks past rocks, along forked roads, at every escaping passerby intently. But Tenzing does not find his little brother. All the way to Lhasa, Tenzing runs on the shoes upon his feet fueled by the crusts of bread stuffed into his p
ocket. Tenzing endures the treachery of descending roads that lead away from a city among the clouds. His city and his home, the home he would have fought for, but has retreated from to find his little brother.
After the first twelve hours of escape, however, Tenzing does stop to rest and sleep; waking after only four and a half hours, to walk again, his muscles sore from the sudden onslaught of strain to his body's stamina. His plan is to knock on the door of his older brother, well known resistance fighter - Khampa - at his Lhasa residence. Thinking that his brother who led the recent night murade of the Chinese encampment might not be at home but in Litang, Tenzing plans to break a window if he has to, taking the news of his little brother's capture and the attack on Litang to his oldest brother's neighbors enlisting any help from the Khampas who reside there.
Thirty three hours later, Tenzing nearly stumbles into Lhasa on swollen, tired feet, blistered from the hours of walking - day into night, night into day.
Near the door of Danthra's Lhasa home, Tenzing sees a monk in the familiar cloth of crimson stopping passers as they walk by. As Tenzing approaches, he sees the young monk is Lhosta a student from Litang monastery, nearly the same age as his younger brother. Lhosta grasps the hand Tenzing extends and the two exchange exhausted hellos.
Leadville: 300 Days Away Page 3
