"That is why I am unfortunate. I have lost my papers."
The chieftain was a sharp cookie, a tough rustic. His type appeared in all nations: the local man who had no education but much wit. When revolution stirred a country, this species floated right up to the top. Dugan realized that he would have to be careful.
"When the Great Red Army of Great Soviet Union withdrew from this area, I was left behind." He gestured. The sweep of his arm took in the Chinese village, the irrigation ditch along the good Japanese-built Manchurian road, the power-line pylons in the background.
"How left behind?" asked the leader.
"Left behind because of drunkenness. I was not conscious of myself."
"Then," said the Chinese, "you are a bad soldier. You are a bad Communist."
"You are a much better Communist than I," said Dugan cheerfully, "and I would be glad to learn from you. Give me a rifle and I will show you whether I like capitalists, imperialists, or landlords."
The Chinese kept to the point. "Come into the village. If you are a spy, I will shoot you. If you are a deserter, I will turn you over to our Russian friends and your own people will punish you. It is not decent to be so cheerful. Why do you laugh?"
"Comrade," said Dugan, "I am no Russian."
"But you told me you were a Soviet soldier." The Chinese looked puzzled.