“We came down this road when it was only a path. You were in ragged shorts and I was barefoot.” Than Shwe laughed.
“We were retreating from Burma,” the colonel chuckled. “A ragged handful of us.”
“But we were singing as if we had just won the war. We were singing for the future, colonel!” The little nurse was as happy as her chief.
“Yes, Than Shwe, we were singing for the future. That time the Japs beat the tar out of us. We had a ragged army of untrained Chinese soldiers and a few English troops, all fine fighters, but scattered all over the map. The Japs drove us out.”
“But now,” the colonel’s voice rose, “Now we’ve got what it takes—tanks, guns, planes and men—thousands and thousands of well-trained men. We’ve got the power and we’re going back. Back to Burma, back to Rangoon, yes, and back to Mandalay! With God’s help we’re going back to Mandalay!”
At that the colonel’s aide, who had a splendid baritone voice, sang:
“Come ye back to Mandalay, where the flying fishes play.”
At once the entire group—it was a large eating place packed with soldiers—roared out:
“Come ye back to Mandalay
Where the old flotilla lay