第二部 第二章　戰(zhàn)前訓(xùn)練（續(xù)）

PART TWO Chapter Two War Training (continued)

The new pigeons gradually learned to fly farther and farther away from the house as day followed day. At the end of a month they were taken a distance of fifty miles and more and uncaged, and with the exception of two who apparently fled home to their previous owner, all returned to me under Gay-Neck's leadership.

The question of an undisputed leadership was not an easy one to settle. In fact, a serious battle had to be fought out between Gay-Neck and two new males, Hira and Jahore. The last named was a pure-black tumbler. His feathers shone like panther's fur. He was gentle and not fierce, yet he refused to submit to Gay-Neck's leadership of the entire flock. You know how quarrelsome and full of display carriers generally are. On my roof all the carrier males used to strut, coo and talk as if each one of them was the monarch of all he surveyed. If Gay-Neck thought himself Napoleon, Hira (Diamond), the white carrier—as white "as the core of sunlight," to express it poetically—considered himself Alexander the Great, while Jahore (Black Diamond), though not a carrier, let it be known that he was Julius Caesar and Marshal Foch rolled into one. Besides those three, there were other conceited males, but they had already been beaten in battle by one or the other of the above three. Now it was necessary to fight out the question of absolute leadership of the entire flock.

One day Hira was seen preening his wings and talking nonsense in the presence of Mrs. Jahore, a beautiful jet-black creature with eyes as red as bloodstone. Matters had hardly gone any distance when from nowhere came Jahore, and fell upon Hira. The latter was so infuriated that he fought like a fiend. Beak against beak, feet against feet, and wings pitted against wings. All the other pigeons fled from the ring where the two males were engaged in trouncing each other. Gay-Neck stood over them, calm as an umpire over a tennis match. At last, after half a dozen set-tos, Hira won. Puffing himself to the uttermost limits of his conceit, he went over to Mrs.Jahore as much as to say: "Madame, your husband is a coward. Behold what a fine fellow I am. Buk, bukoom, kumkum." She gave him one crushing look of contempt, and flapping her wings withdrew to her husband in their home. Hira looked crestfallen and sulky in turn; then in a sudden paroxysm of anger he fell upon Gay-Neck tooth and nail. The latter, taken unaware, was very nearly knocked out at the first fury of the attack. Hira pecked and slapped him till he felt too dizzy to stand up, so Gay-Neck ran away pursued by the mad fellow. They ran in a circle, spinning like two tops. I could hardly see which was pursuer and which pursued. They went at such high speed that I could not see when they stopped and started to peck and slap each other. The explosive sound of wing hitting wing filled the air with an ominous clamour. Now feathers began to fly in every direction. Suddenly, beak to beak and claw in claw they wrestled and spun on the floor—two birds became a single incarnation of fury. Seeing that they could not reach any decision that way, Gay- Neck extricated himself from his rival's grip and flew up in the air. Hira followed, flapping his wings tremendously fast. About three feet above the ground Gay-Neck put his claws like talons around Hira's windpipe, and set to squeezing it more and more tightly, and at the same time kept up a terrific cannonade of wing-beats that, like flails of steel, threshed out a shower of snowy feathers from his opponent's body. Now, hid in that falling blizzard of feathers, the two rolled on the ground, pecking each other with the virulence of two maddened serpents. At last Hira let go and wilted like a torn white flower on the floor. One of his legs had been dislocated. As for Gay-Neck, his throat and neck had hardly any feathers left. But he was glad that the struggle had been settled one way or another. And he knew full well that had Hira not first expended half his strength fighting Jahore, he, Gay-Neck, might not have won the battle. However, all is well that ends well. I bandaged and did all that was necessary to Hira's leg. In another thirty minutes all the pigeons were eating their last meal of the day, utterly oblivious of what had happened so recently. No sulking and bearing of grudges in their blood—no doubt they all came from a fine set of ancestors! Good breeding prevailed even among the smallest of them, and needless to add, Hira took his defeat like a gentleman.

By now January had come, with cool weather and clear skies, and the competition for pigeon prizes began. Each man's flock was tested on three points: namely, team-work, long-distance flight and flight under danger. We won the first prize on the first point, but I am sorry to say that owing to a sad mishap, which you shall learn of in its proper place, my pigeons could not compete for the other two.

This is the nature of the team-work competition. The various flocks of pigeons fly way up from their respective homes. Once they are beyond the reach of whistling and other sounds that indicate their master's voice, the diverse flocks coalesce. Then spontaneously they agree to fly under the leadership of a pigeon whom they consider fit. All this happens up in the air where pigeon-wit and pigeon-instinct prevail, and the bird who flies forward and is allowed to lead does so without ever realizing the nature and the reason of the honour that has been bestowed on him.

The temperature dropped to forty-five. It was a fine cold morning for our part of India, in fact the coldest day of the year. The sky above, as usual in the winter, was cloudless and remote, a sapphire intangibility. The city houses—rose, blue, white and yellow—looked like an army of giants rising from the many coloured abyss of dawn. Far off, the horizons burned in a haze of dun and purple. Men and women in robes of amber and amethyst, after having said their morning prayers to God, were raising their arms from the house-tops in gestures of benediction to the rising sun. City noises and odours were unleashed from their kennels of the night. Kites and crows were filling the air with their cries. Over the din and clamour one could yet hear the song of the flute-players. At that moment the signal whistle blew that the contest had begun, and each pigeon-fancier waved from his roof a white flag. Instantly from nowhere innumerable flocks of pigeons rose into the sky. Flock upon flock, colour upon colour, their fluttering wings bore them above the city. Crows and kites—the latter of two species, red and brown—fled from the sky before the thundering onrush of tens of thousands of carriers and tumblers. Soon all the flocks—each flying in the shape of a fan—circled in the sky like so many clouds caught in large whirlpools of air. Though each moment they ascended higher, for a long time each owner of a flock knew his own from the others; and even when at last the separate flocks merged into a single unit and flew like a solid wall of wings, I could pick out, by the way they flew, Gay-Neck, Hira, Jahore and half a dozen others. Each bird had personal characteristics that marked him as he flew. When any owner wished to call the attention of any one of his pigeons, he blew a shrill whistle with certain stops as a signal. That attracted the bird's attention if he was within reach of the sound.

At last the whole flock reached such a height that not even the blast of a trumpet from any pigeon-fancier could reach it. Now they stopped circling in the air and began to move horizontally. The competition for leadership had begun. As they manoeuvred from one direction of the heavens to another, we, the owners below, had to look up intently in order to make sure of the characteristics of the one whom the pigeons had trusted to lead their flight. For a moment it looked as if my Jahore would lead. But hardly had he gone to the head of the flock when they all turned to the right. That brought about a confusion in the ranks, and, like horses on a race-course, all kinds of unknown pigeons pushed forward. But in time each one of them was pushed back by the rest of the flock. This happened so often that we began to lose interest in the contest. It looked as though some nondescript pigeon would win the coveted leadership prize.

Now suddenly rose the cry from many house-tops: "Gay-Neck, Gay-Neck, Gay-Neck!" Yes, many of that pigeon-fanciers were shouting that name. Now I could see—without the slightest shadow of error—my own bird at the head of the vast flock—a leader among leaders—directing their manoeuvres. Oh, what a glorious moment! He led them from horizon to horizon, each time rising a few feet higher, till by eight in the morning not a pigeon could be seen in any corner of the sky. Now we furled our flags and went downstairs to study our lessons. At midday, when again we went above, each man could see the entire wall of pigeons descending. Lo! Gay-Neck was still leading. Again rose the shout "Gay-Neck, Gay-Neck!" Yes, he had won the palm, for he had remained in leadership for more than four hours, and was coming down as he had gone up—a master!

Now came the most dangerous part of the flight. The Commander of the vast concourse gave the order to disband, and flock after flock split from the main body, each separate flock flying away to its home. But not too quickly. Some must guard the sky above them while the others flew homeward. Gay-Neck held my little flock in a kind of umbrella formation to protect the rear of the receding pigeons belonging to other contestants. Such is the price of leadership—the other name of self-sacrifice.

But now began a horrible climax. In India during the winter the buzzards called Baz come south. They do not eat carrion; like the eagle and the hawk the Baz generally eats what he kills with his own talons. They are mean and cunning—I think they are a class of low born eagles—but they resemble kites, although their wings are not frayed at the ends. They fly in pairs slightly above a flock of kites and are hidden by them from their prey, which, however, they can see in this way without ever being seen themselves.

On that particular day, just when Gay-Neck had won the leader's laurels, I perceived a pair of Baz flying with a flock of kites. Instantly I put my fingers in my mouth and blew a shrill whistle. Gay-Neck understood my signal. He redistributed his followers, he himself leading the centre, while Jahore and Hira he ordered to cover the two ends of the crescent, in which shape the flock was flying. The entire group held together as though it were one vast bird. They then began to dip down faster and faster. By now the task for which they tarried in the heavens was done. All the other flocks that they had played with in the morning had gone home.

Seeing them dip down so fast, a Baz fell in front of them like a stone dropping from a Himalayan cliff. Just when he had descended to the level of my birds, he opened his wings and faced them. This was no new tactic, for it has been used in the past by every Baz in order to strike terror into a flock of pigeons. That it succeeds in ten cases out of eleven is undeniable, for when it happens the terror struck pigeons lose their sense of solidarity and fly pell-mell in every direction. No doubt that was what the Baz hoped for now; but our wily Gay-Neck, beating his wings, flew without a tremor under the enemy about five feet, drawing the whole flock after him. He did it, knowing that the enemy never pounces upon a solidly unified group. But hardly had he gone a hundred yards forward when the second, probably Mrs. Baz, fell in front of the pigeons and opened her wings as her husband had done. But Gay-Neck paid no attention. He led the whole flock straight toward her. It was inconceivable. No pigeon had dared do that before, and she fled from their attack. Hardly had her back been turned when Gay-Neck and the rest of the pigeons dipped and swooped as fast as they could go. By now they were hardly six hundred feet from our roof, and then, as fate would have it, Mr. Baz, like a shell full of high explosives, fell again, this time right in the middle of the crescent, and opened his wings and beak like forks of fire, crying and shrieking with fury. That produced its effect. Instead of one solid wall of pigeons, the flock was cut in two, of which one half followed Gay-Neck, while the other, smitten with abject fear, flew none knew whither. Gay-Neck did what a true leader does in great crises. He followed that panic-stricken flock until his section overtook it, and in no time, lo, they had merged into a single group once more. Hardly had that taken place when Mrs. Baz in her turn descended like a thunderbolt between him and the other pigeons. She almost fell on his tail, and cut him off from the rest, who now, deprived of their mentor, sought safety in flight, paying no heed to anything. That isolated Gay-Neck completely, and exposed him to attacks from every side. Still undaunted, he tried to fly down to his retreating followers. Ere he had descended a dozen feet, down before him swooped Mr. Baz. Now that Gay-Neck saw the enemy so near, he grew more audacious, and tumbled. It was a fortunate action. Had he not done so, Mrs. Baz, who had shot out her talons from behind, would have captured him then and there.

In the meantime the rest of my pigeons were beating on, and had almost reached home. They were falling on the roof as ripe fruits fall from a tree. But one among them was not a coward. On the contrary, he was of the very essence of bravery. It was Jahore, the black diamond. As the whole crowd settled down on our roof, he tumbled and flew higher. There was no mistake about his intentions. He was going to stand by Gay-Neck. Seeing him tumble again, Mr. Baz changed his mind. He gave up pursuing Gay-Neck and swooped down after Jahore. Well, you know Gay-Neck—he dipped to the rescue of Jahore—circling and curving as swiftly as a coil of lightning, leading Mrs. Baz panting after him. She could not make as many curves as Gay-Neck, no, not nearly so many. But Mr. Baz, who was a veteran, had flown up and up to take aim; this put Jahore in danger. One more wrong turn, and Mr. Baz would have him. Alas! poor bird, he did the thing he should not have done. He flew in a straight line below Mr. Baz, who at once shut his wings and fell like a thunderclap of Silence. No noise could be heard, not even "the shadow of a sound." Down, down, down, he fell, the very image of death. Then the most terrible thing happened. Between him and Jahore slipped, none knew how, Gay-Neck, in order to save the latter and frustrate the enemy. Alas! Instead of giving up the attack, the Baz shot out his talons, catching a somewhat insecure hold of the intruder. A shower of feathers covered the air. One could almost see Gay-Neck's body writhing in the enemy's grip. As if a hot iron had gone through me, I shrieked with pain for my bird! But nothing availed. Round and round, higher and higher that Baz carried him, trying to get a more secure hold with his talons. I must admit something most humiliating here. I had been so intent on saving Gay-Neck that I did not notice when Mrs. Baz fell and captured Jahore. It must have happened very swiftly, right after Gay- Neck was caught. Now the air was filled with Jahore's feathers. The enemy held him fast in her talons, and he made no movement to free himself. But not so Gay-Neck; he was still writhing in the grip of Mr. Baz. As if to help her husband to grasp his prey more securely, Mrs. Baz flew very close to her lord. Just then Jahore struggled to get free. That swung her so near that her wing collided with her husband's. The fellow lost his balance. As he was almost over-turned in the air, with another shower of feathers Gay-Neck wrenched himself free from his grip. Now he dropped down, down, down.… In another thirty seconds a panting, bleeding bird lay on our roof. I lifted him up in order to examine his wound. His two sides were torn, but not grievously. At once I took him to the pigeon doctor, who dressed his wounds. It took about half an hour, and when I returned home and put Gay-Neck in his nest, I could not find Jahore anywhere. His nest, alas, was empty. And when I went up to the roof, there I found Jahore's wife sitting on the parapet, scanning every direction of the sky for a sign of her husband. Not only did she spend that day, but two or three more in the same manner. I wonder if she found any consolation in the fact that her husband sacrificed himself for the sake of a brave comrade.