King Rat (21 page)

“No. I’ve been there a couple of times. Been all over.”

“Where’s your home?”

The King shrugged. “My pa moves around.”

“What’s his work?”

“That’s a good question. Little of this, little of that. He’s drunk most of the time.”

“Oh! That must be pretty rough.”

“Tough on a kid.”

“Do you have any family?”

“My ma’s dead. She died when I was three. Got no brothers or sisters. My pa brought me up. He’s a bum, but he taught me a lot about life. Number one, poverty’s a sickness. Number two, money’s everything. Number three, it doesn’t matter how you get it as long as you get it.”

“You know, I’ve never thought much about money. I suppose in the service — well, there’s always a monthly pay check, there’s always a certain standard of living, so money doesn’t mean much.”

“How much does your father make?”

“I don’t know exactly. I suppose around six hundred pounds a year.”

“Jesus. That’s only twenty-four hundred bucks. Why, I make thirteen hundred as a corporal myself. I sure as hell wouldn’t work for that nothing dough.”

“Perhaps it’s different in the States. But in England you can get by quite well. Of course our car is quite old, but that doesn’t matter, and at the end of your service you get a pension.”

“How much?”

“Half your pay approximately.”

“That seems to me to be nothing. Can’t understand why people go in the service. Guess because they’re failures as people.”

The King saw Peter Marlowe stiffen slightly. “Of course,” he added quickly, “that doesn’t apply in England. I was talking about the States.”

“The service is a good life for a man. Enough money — an exciting life in all parts of the world. Social life’s good. Then, well, an officer always has a great deal of prestige.” Peter Marlowe added almost apologetically, “You know, tradition and all that.”

“You going to stay in after the war?”

“Of course.”

“Seems to me,” the King said, picking at his teeth with a little thread of bark, “that it’s too easy. There’s no excitement or future in taking orders from guys who are mostly bums. That’s the way it looks to me. And hell, you don’t get paid nothing. Why Pete, you should take a look at the States. There’s nothing like it in the world. No place. Every man for himself and every man’s as good as the next guy. And all you have to do is figure an angle and be better than the next guy. Now that’s excitement.”

“I don’t think I’d fit in. Somehow I know I’m not a moneymaker. I’m better off doing what I was born to do.”

“That’s nonsense. Just because your old man’s in the service —“

“Goes back to 1720. Father to son. That’s a lot of tradition to try to fight.”

The King grunted. “That’s quite a time!” Then he added, “I only know about my dad and his dad. Before that - nothing. Least, my folks were supposed to have come over from the old country in the ‘80’s.”

“From England?”

“Hell no. I think Germany. Or maybe Middle Europe. Who the hell cares? I’m an American and that’s all that counts.”

“Marlowes are in the service and that’s that!”

“Hell no. It’s up to you. Look. Take you now. You’re in the chips ‘cause you’re using your brains. You’d be a great businessman if you wanted to. You can talk like a Wog, right? I need your brains. I’m paying for the brains — now don’t get on your goddam high horse. That’s American style. You pay for brains. It’s got nothing to do with us being buddies. Nothing. If I didn’t pay, then I’d be a bum.”

“That’s wrong. You don’t have to be paid to help a bit.”

“You sure as hell need an education. I’d like to get you in the States and put you on the road. With your phony Limey accent you’d knock the broads dead. You’d clean up. We’ll put you in ladies’ underwear.”

“Holy God.” Peter smiled with him, but the smile was tinged with horror. “I could no more try to sell something than fly.”

“You can fly.”

“I meant without a plane.”

“Sure. I was making a joke.”

The King glanced at his watch. “Times goes slow when you’re waiting.”

“I sometimes think we’ll never get out of this stinking hole.”

“Eh, Uncle Sam’s got the Nips on the run. Won’t take long. Even if it does, what the hell? We’ve got it made, buddy. That’s all that counts.”

The King looked at his watch. “We’d better take a powder.”

“What?”

“Get going.”

“Oh!” Peter Marlowe got up. “Lead on, Macduff!” he said happily.

“Huh?”

“Just a saying.”It means ‘Let’s take a powder.’”

Happy now that they were friends once more, they started into the jungle. Crossing the road was easy. Now that they had passed the area patrolled by the roving guard, they followed a short path and were within quarter of a mile of the wire. The King led, calm and confident. Only the clouds of fireflies and mosquitoes made their progress unpleasant

“Jesus. The bugs are bad.”

“Yes. If I had my way I’d fry them all,” Peter Marlowe whispered back.

Then they saw the bayonet pointing at them, and stopped dead in their tracks.

The Japanese was sitting leaning against a tree, and his eyes were fixed on them, a frightening grin stretching his face, and the bayonet was held propped on his knees.

Their thoughts were the same. Christ! Utram Road! I’m dead. Kill!

The King was the first to react. He leaped at the guard and tore the bayoneted rifle away, rolled as he twisted aside, then got to his feet, the rifle butt high to smash it into the man’s face. Peter Marlowe was diving for the guard’s throat. A sixth sense warned him and his clutching hands avoided the throat and he slammed into the tree.

“Get away from him!” Peter Marlowe sprang to his feet and grabbed the King and pulled him out of the way.

The guard had not moved. The same wide-eyed malevolent grin was on his face.

“What the hell?” the King gasped, panicked, the rifle still held high above his head.

“Get away! For Christ’s sake hurry!” Peter Marlowe jerked the rifle out of the King’s hands and threw it beside the dead Japanese. Then the King saw the snake in the man’s lap.

“Jesus,” he croaked as he went forward to take a closer look.

Peter Marlowe caught him frantically. “Get away! Run, for God’s sake!”

He took to his heels, away from the trees, carelessly crashing through the undergrowth. The King raced after him, and only when they had reached the clearing did they stop.

“You gone crazy?” The King winced, his breathing torturing him. “It was only a goddam snake!”

“That was a flying snake,” Peter Marlowe wheezed. “They live in trees. Instant death, old man. They climb the trees, then flatten their bodies and sort of spiral down to earth and fall on their victims. There was one in his lap and one under him. There was sure to be more ‘cause they’re always in nests.”

“Jesus!”

“Actually, old man, we ought to be grateful to those bloody things,” Peter Marlowe said, trying to slow his breathing. “That Jap was still warm. He hadn’t been dead more than a couple of minutes. He would’ve caught us if he hadn’t been bitten. And we should thank God for our quarrel. It gave the snakes time. We’ll never be closer to pranging! To death! Never!”

“I don’t ever want to see a goddam Jap with a goddam bayonet pointing at me in the middle of the goddam night again. C’mon. Better get away from here.”

When they were in position near the wire, they settled down to wait. They couldn’t make their dash to the wire yet. Too many people about. Always people walking about, zombies walking the camp, the sleepless and the almost asleep.

It was good to rest, and both felt their knees shaking and were thankful to be alive again.

Jesus, this has been a night, the King thought. If it hadn’t been for Pete I’d be a dead duck. I was going to put my foot in the Jap’s lap as I smashed down the rifle. My foot was six inches away. Snakes! Hate snakes. Sons of bitches!

And as the King calmed, his esteem for Peter Marlowe increased.

“That’s the second time you saved my neck,” he whispered.

“You got to the rifle first. If the Jap hadn’t been dead, you’d’ve killed him. I was slow.”

“Eh, I was just in front.” The King stopped, then grinned. “Hey Peter. We make a good team. With your looks and my brains, we do all right.”

Peter Marlowe began to laugh. He tried to hold it inside and rolled on the ground. The choked laughter and the tears streaming his face infected the King, and his laughter too began to contort him. At last Peter Marlowe gasped, “For Christ sake, shut up.”

“You started it.”

“I did not.”

“Sure you did, you said, you said…” But the King couldn’t continue. He wiped the tears away. “You see that Jap? That son of a bitch was just sitting like an ape —“

“Look!”

Their laughter vanished.

On the other side of the wire Grey was walking the camp. They saw him stop outside the American hut. They saw him wait in the shadows, then look out across the wire, almost directly at them.

“You think he knows?” Peter Marlowe whispered. “Don’t know. But sure as hell we can’t risk going in for a while. We’ll wait.”

They waited. The sky began to lighten. Grey stood in the shadows looking at the American hut, then around the camp. The King knew from where Grey stood he could see his bed. He knew that Grey could see he wasn’t in it. But the covers were turned back and he could be with the other sleepless, walking the camp. No law against being out of your bed. But hurry up, get to hell out of there, Grey.

“We’ll have to go soon,” the King said. “Light’s against us.”

“How about another spot?”

“He’s got the whole fence covered, way up to the corner.”

“You think there’s been a leak — someone sneaked?”

“Could be. Maybe just a coincidence.” The King bit his lip angrily.

“How about the latrine area?”

“Too risky.”

They waited. Then they saw Grey look once more over the fence towards them and walk away. They watched him until he rounded the jail wall.

“May be a phony,” the King said. “Give him a couple of minutes.”

The seconds were like hours as the sky lightened and the shadows began to dissolve. Now there was no one near the fence, no one in sight.

“Now or never, c’mon.”

They ran for the fence; in seconds they were under the wire and in the ditch.

“You go for the hut, Rajah. I’ll wait.”

“Okay.”

For all his size the King was light on his feet and he swiftly covered the distance to his hut. Peter Marlowe got out of the ditch. Something told him to sit on the edge looking out of the camp over the wire. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Grey turn the corner and stop. He knew he had been seen immediately.

“Marlowe.”

“Oh hello, Grey. Can’t you sleep either?” he said, stretching.

“How long have you been here?”

“Few minutes. I got tired of walking so I sat down.”

“Where’s your pal?”

“Who?”

“The American,” Grey sneered.

“I don’t know. Asleep I suppose.”

Grey looked at the Chinese type outfit. The tunic was torn across the shoulders and wet with sweat. Mud and shreds of leaves on his stomach and knees. A streak of mud on his face.

“How did you get so dirty? And why are you sweating so much? What’re you up to?”

“I’m dirty because — there’s no harm in a little honest dirt. In fact,” Peter Marlowe said as he got up and brushed off his knees and the seat of his pants, “there is nothing like a little dirt to make a man feel clean when he washes it off. And I’m sweating because you’re sweating. You know, the tropics-heat and all that!”

“What have you got in your pockets?”

“Just because you’ve a suspicious beetle brain doesn’t mean that everyone is carrying contraband. There’s no law against walking the camp if you can’t sleep.”

“That’s right,” Grey replied, “but there is a law against walking outside the camp.”

Peter Marlowe studied him nonchalantly, not feeling nonchalant at all, trying to read what the hell Grey meant by that. Did he know? “A man’d be a fool to try that.”

“That’s right.” Grey looked at him long and hard. Then he wheeled around and walked away.

Peter Marlowe stared after him. Then he turned and walked in the other direction and did not look at the American hut. Today, Mac was due out of hospital. Peter Marlowe smiled, thinking of Mac’s welcome home present.

From the safety of his bed, the King watched Peter Marlowe go. Then he focused on Grey, the enemy, erect and malevolent in the growing light.

Skeletal thin, ragged pair of pants, crude native clogs, no shirt, his armband, his threadbare Tank beret. A ray of sunlight burned the Tank emblem in the beret, converting it from nothing into molten gold.

How much do you know, Grey, you son of a bitch? the King asked himself.

It was just after dawn.

Peter Marlowe lay on his bunk in half-sleep.

Was it a dream? he asked himself, suddenly awake. Then his cautious fingers touched the little piece of rag that held the condenser and he knew it was not a dream.

Ewart twisted in the top bunk and groaned awake.

“Mahlu on the night,” he said as he hung his legs over the bunk.

Peter Marlowe remembered that it was his unit’s turn for the borehole detail. He walked out of the hut and prodded Larkin awake.

“Eh? Oh, Peter,” Larkin said, fighting out of sleep. “What’s up?”

It was hard for Peter Marlowe not to blurt out the news about the condenser, but he wanted to wait until Mac was there too, so he just said, “Borehole detail, old man.”

“My bloody oath! What, again?” Larkin stretched his aching back, retied his sarong and slipped on his clogs.

They found the net and the five-gallon container and walked through the camp, which was just beginning to stir. When they reached the latrine area they paid no heed to the occupants and the occupants paid no heed to them.

Larkin lifted the cover off a borehole, Peter Marlowe quickly scooped the sides with the net. When he brought the net out of the hole it was full of cockroaches. He shook the net clean into the container and scraped again. Another fine haul.

Larkin replaced the cover and they moved to the next hole.

“Hold the thing still,” Peter Marlowe said. “Now look what you did! I lost at least a hundred.”

“There’s plenty more,” Larkin said with distaste, getting a better grip on the container.

The smell was very bad but the harvest rich. Soon the container was packed. The smallest of the cockroaches measured an inch and a half. Larkin clamped the lid on the container and they walked up to the hospital.

“Not my idea of a steady diet,” Peter Marlowe said.

“You really ate them, Peter, in Java?”

“Of course. And so have you, by the way. In Changi.”

Larkin almost dropped the container. “What?”

“You don’t think I’d pass on a native delicacy and a source of protein to the doctors and not take advantage of it for us, do you?”

“But we had a pact!” Larkin shouted. “We agreed, the three of us, that we’d not cook anything weird without telling the other first.”

“I told Mac and he agreed.”

“But I didn’t, dammit!”

“Oh come on, Colonel! We’ve had to catch them and cook them secretly and listen to you say how good the cook-up was. We’re just as squeamish as you.”

“Well, next time I want to know. That’s a bloody order!”

“Yes, sir!” Peter Marlowe chuckled.

They delivered the container to the hospital cookhouse. To the special tiny cookhouse that fed the desperately sick.

When they got back to the bungalow Mac was waiting. His skin was gray-yellow and his eyes were bloodshot and his hands shaking, but he was over the fever. He could smile again.

“Good to have you back, cobber,” Larkin said, sitting down.

“Ay.”

Peter Marlowe absently took out the little piece of rag. “Oh, by the way,” he said with studied negligence, “this might come in handy sometime.”

Mac unwrapped the rag without interest.

“Oh my bloody word!” Larkin said.

“Dammit, Peter,” Mac said, his fingers shaking, “are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Peter Marlowe kept his voice as flat as his face, enjoying his excitement hugely. “No point in getting all upset about nothing.” Then he could contain his smile no longer. He beamed.

“You and your blasted Pommy underplay.” Larkin tried to be sour, but he was beaming too. “Where’d you get it, cobber?”

Peter Marlowe shrugged.

“Stupid question. Sorry, Peter,” Larkin said apologetically.

Peter Marlowe knew he would be never asked again. It was far better they did not know about the village.

Now it was dusk.

Larkin was guarding. Peter Marlowe was guarding. Under cover of his mosquito net, Mac joined the condenser. Then, unable to wait any longer, with a prayer he fiddled the connecting wire into the electric source. Sweating, he listened into the single earphone.

An agony of waiting. It was suffocating under the net, and the concrete walls and concrete floor held the heat of the vanishing sun. A mosquito droned angrily. Mac cursed but did not try to find it and kill it, for suddenly there was static in the earphone.

His tense fingers, wet with the sweat that ran down his arms, slipped on the screwdriver. He dried them. Delicately he found the screw that turned the turner and began to twist, gently, oh so gently. Static. Only static. Then suddenly he heard the music. It was a Glenn Miller recording.

The music stopped, and an announcer said, “This is Calcutta. We continue the Glenn Miller recital with his recording ‘Moonlight Serenade.””

Through the doorway Mac could see Larkin squatting in the shadows, and beyond him men walking the corridor between the rows of cement bungalows. He wanted to rush out and shout, “You laddies want to hear the news in a little while? I’ve got Calcutta tuned in!”

Mac listened for another minute, then disconnected the radio and carefully put the water bottles back into their sheaths of green-gray felt and left them carelessly on the beds. There would be a news broadcast from Calcutta at ten, so to save time Mac hid the wire and the earphone under the mattress instead of putting them into the third bottle.

He had been hunched under the net for so long that he had a crick in his back, and he groaned when he stood up.

Larkin looked back from his station outside. “What’s the matter, cobber? Can’t you sleep?”

“Nay, laddie,” said Mac, coming out to squat beside him.

“You should take it easy, first day out of hospital.” Larkin did not need to be told that it worked. Mac’s eyes were lit with excitement. Larkin punched him playfully. “You’re all right, you old bastard.”

“Where’s Peter?” Mac asked, knowing that he was guarding by the showers.

“Over there. Stupid bugger’s just sitting. Look at him.”

“Hey, mahlu sana!” Mac called out.

Peter Marlowe already knew that Mac had finished, but he got up and walked back and said, “Mahlu sendiris,” which means “Mahlu yourself.” He, too, did not need to be told.

“How about a game of bridge?” Mac asked.

“Who’s the fourth?”

“Hey, Gavin,” Larkin called out. “You want to make a fourth?”

Major Gavin Ross dragged his legs out of the camp chair. Leaning on a crutch, he wormed himself from the next bungalow. He was glad for the offer of a game. Nights were always bad. So unnecessary, the paralysis. Once upon a time a man, and now a nothing. Useless legs. Wheelchaired for life.

He had been hit in the head by a tiny sliver of shrapnel just before Singapore surrendered. “Nothing to worry about,” the doctors had told him. “We can get it out soon as we can get you into a proper hospital with the proper equipment. We’ve plenty of time.” But there was never a proper hospital with the proper equipment and time had run out.

“Gad,” he said painfully as he settled himself on the cement floor. Mac found a cushion and tossed it over. “Ta, old chap!” It took him a moment to settle while Peter Marlowe got the cards and Larkin arranged the space between them. Gavin lifted his left leg and bent it out of the way, disconnecting the wire spring that attached the toe of his shoe to the band around his leg, just under his knee. Then he moved the other leg, equally paralyzed, out of the way and leaned back on the cushion against the wall. “That’s better,” he said, stroking his Kaiser Wilhelm mustache with a quick nervous movement.

“How’re the headaches?” Larkin asked automatically.

“Not too bad, old boy,” Gavin replied as automatically. “You my partner?”

“No. You can play with Peter.”

“Oh Gad, the boy always trumps my ace.”

“That was only once,” Peter Marlowe said.

“Once an evening,” laughed Mac as he began to deal.

“Mahlu.”

“Two spades.” Larkin opened with a flourish.

The bidding continued furiously and vehemently.

Later that night Larkin knocked on the door of one of the bungalows.

“Yes?” Smedly-Taylor asked, peering into the night.

“Sorry to trouble you, sir,”

“Oh hello, Larkin. Trouble?” It was always trouble. He wondered what the Aussies had been up to this time as he got off his bed, aching.

“No sir.” Larkin made sure there was no one in earshot. His words were quiet and deliberate. “The Russians are forty miles from Berlin. Manila is liberated. The Yanks have landed on Corregidor and Iwo Jima.”

“Are you sure, man?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who —“ Smedly-Taylor stopped. “No. I don’t want to know anything. Sit down, Colonel,” he said quietly. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can only say, Colonel,” the older man said tonelessly and solemnly, “that I can do nothing to help anyone who is caught with — who is caught.” He did not even want to say the word wireless. “I don’t wish to know anything about it.” A shadow of a smile crossed the granite face and softened it. “I only beg you guard it with your life and tell me immediately you hear anything.”

“Yes sir. We propose —“

“I don’t want to hear anything. Only the news.” Sadly Smedly-Taylor touched his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“It’s safer, sir.” Larkin was glad that the colonel did not want to know their plan. They had decided that they would tell only two persons each. Larkin would tell Smedly-Taylor and Gavin Ross; Mac would tell Major Tooley and Lieutenant Bosley — both personal friends; and Peter would tell the King and Father Donovan, the Catholic chaplain. They were to pass the news on to two other persons they could trust, and so on. It was a good plan, Larkin thought. Correctly, Peter had not volunteered where the condenser came from. Good boy, that Peter.

Later that night, when Peter Marlowe returned to his hut from seeing the King, Ewart was wide awake. He poked his head out of the net and whispered excitedly, “Peter. You heard the news?”

“What news?”

“The Russians are forty miles from Berlin. The Yanks have landed on Iwo Jima and Corregidor.”

Peter Marlowe felt the inner terror. Oh my God, so soon? “Bloody rumors, Ewart. Bloody nonsense.”

“No it isn’t, Peter. There’s a new wireless in the camp. It’s the real stuff. No rumor. Isn’t that great? Oh Christ, I forgot the best. The Yanks have liberated Manila. Won’t be long now, eh?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Maybe we should have just told Smedly-Taylor and no one else, Peter Marlowe thought as he lay down. If Ewart knows, there’s no telling.

Nervously, he listened to the camp. You could almost feel the growing excitement of Changi. The camp knew that it was back in contact.

Yoshima was slimed with fear as he stood to attention in front of the raging General.

“You stupid, incompetent fool,” the General was saying.

Yoshima braced himself for the blow that was coming and it came, openhanded across the face.

“You find that radio or you’ll be reduced to the ranks. Your transfer is canceled. Dismiss!”

Yoshima saluted smartly, and his bow was the perfection of humility. He left the General’s quarters, thankful that he had been let off so lightly. Damn these pestilential prisoners!

In the barracks he lined up his staff and raged at them, and slapped their faces until his hand hurt. In their turn, the sergeants slapped the corporals and they the privates and the privates the Koreans. The orders were clear. “Get that radio or else.”

For five days nothing happened. Then the jailers fell on the camp and almost pulled it apart. But they found nothing. The traitor within the camp did not yet know the whereabouts of the radio. Nothing happened, except the promised return to standard rations was canceled. The camp settled back to wait out the long days, made longer by the lack of food. But they knew that at least there would be news. Not rumors, but news. And the news was very good. The war in Europe was almost over.

Even so, there was a pall on the men. Few had reserve stocks of food. And the good news had a catch to it. If the war ended in Europe, more troops would be sent to the Pacific. Eventually there would be an attack on the home islands of Japan. And such an attack would drive the jailers berserk. Reprisals! They all knew there was only one end to Changi.

Peter Marlowe was walking towards the chicken area, his water bottle swinging at his hip. Mac and Larkin and he had agreed that perhaps it would be safer to carry the water bottles as much as possible. Just in case there was a sudden search.

He was in a good mood. Though the money he had earned was long since gone, the King had advanced food and tobacco against future earnings. God, what a man, he thought. But for him, Mac, Larkin and I would be as hungry as the rest of Changi.

The day was cooler. Rain the day before had settled the dust. It was almost time for lunch. As he neared the chicken coops his pace quickened. Maybe there’ll be some eggs today. Then he stopped, perplexed.

Near the run that belonged to Peter Marlowe’s unit was a small crowd, an angry, violent crowd. He saw to his surprise that Grey was there. In front of Grey was Colonel Foster, naked but for his filthy loincloth, jumping up and down like a maniac, incoherently screaming abuse at Johnny Hawkins, who was clasping his dog protectively to his chest.

“Hi, Max,” said Peter Marlowe as he came abreast of the King’s chicken run. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Pete,” said Max easily, shifting the rake in his hands. He noticed Peter Marlowe’s instinctive reaction to the “Pete.” Officers! You try to treat an officer like a regular guy and call him by his name and then he gets mad. The hell with them. “Yeah, Pete.” He repeated it just for good measure. “All hell broke loose an hour ago. Seems like Hawkins’ dog got into the Geek’s run and killed one of his hens.”

“Oh no!”

“They’ll hand him his head, that’s for sure.”

Foster was screaming, “I want another hen and I want damages. The beast killed one of my children, I want a charge of murder sworn out”

“But Colonel,” Grey said, at the end of his patience, “it was a hen, not a child. You can’t swear a —“