It was at this moment that she heard voices. When she came in sight of the soldier, she saw surrounding him a crowd of other soldiers, who had apparently come from nowhere. They were staring down at the wounded soldier, whose eyes were now closed.
“Where did you get this Japanese, Old Mother?” they shouted at her.
“What Japanese?” she said, coming to them.
“This one!” they shouted.
“Is he a Japanese?” she said, coming to them.
“This one!” they shouted.
“Is he a Japanese?” she cried in the greatest astonishment. “But he looks like us. His eyes are black, his skin—“
“Japanese!” one of them shouted at her.
“Well,” she said quietly, “he dropped out of the sky.”
“Give me that bread!” another shouted.
“Take it,” she said, “all except this one for him.”
“A Japanese pilot eat good bread?” the soldier shouted at her.
“I suppose he is hungry also,” old Mrs. Wang replied. She began to dislike these men. But then, she had always disliked soldiers.
“I wish you would go away,” she said. “What are you doing here? Our village has always been peaceful.”
“It certainly looks very peaceful now,” one of the men said, grinning, “as peaceful as a grave. Do you know who did that, Old Mother? The Japanese!”
“I suppose so,” she agreed. Then she asked, “Why? That’s what I don’t understand.”
“Why? Because they want our land, that’s why!”
“Our land!” she repeated. “Why, they can’t have our land!”
“Never!” they shouted.
But all this time, while they were talking and chewing the bread that they had divided among themselves, they were watching the eastern horizon.