The monsoon was coming and the jungle air was saturated with the all-pervading damp, and with a sense of disaster. On a winding, roller-coaster trail hurried a pitiful file of refugees, fleeing from destruction, despair and defeat. At the head of the line, setting the pace with a brisk 105 steps to the minute, trudged a slight, bespectacled old man wearing a World War I campaign hat. Malaria, cholera, the heat and exhaustion had plucked younger men from the line, but Uncle Joe, then 59, never faltered. He refused to ride one of the...
To continue reading: or Log-In