King Rat (2 page)

“Very good.” Colonel Brant nodded, then looked at the King. “All right,” he said, “you can go. But dressed like that you’re asking for trouble! You’ve only yourself to blame!”

The King saluted smartly. “Thank you, sir.” He walked out, and once more in the sunshine he breathed easily, and cursed himself again. Jesus, that’d been close. He had nearly hit Grey and that would have been the act of a maniac. To gather himself, he stopped beside the path and lit another cigarette and the many men who passed by saw the cigarette and smelled the aroma.

“Blasted chap,” the colonel said at length, still looking after him and wiping his forehead. Then he turned back to Grey. “Really, Grey, you just must be out of your mind to provoke him like that.”

“I’m sorry. I - I suppose he — “

“Whatever he is, it certainly isn’t like an officer and a gentleman to lose your temper. Bad, very bad, don’t you think, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” There was nothing more for Grey to say.

Colonel Brant grunted, then pursed his lips. “Quite right. Lucky I was passing. Can’t have an officer brawling with a common soldier.” He glanced out of the door again, hating the King, wanting his cigarette. “Blasted man,” he said without looking back at Grey, “undisciplined. Like the rest of the Americans. Bad lot. Why, they call their officers by their first names!” His eyebrows soared. “And the officers play cards with the men! Bless my soul! Worse than the Australians — and they’re a shower if there ever was one. Miserable! Not like the Indian Army, what?”

“No. Sir,” Grey said thinly.

Colonel Brant turned quickly. “I didn’t mean - well, Grey, just because — “ He stopped and suddenly his eyes were filled with tears. “Why, why would they do that?” he said brokenly. “Why, Grey? I — we all loved them.”

Grey shrugged. But for the apology he would have been compassionate.

The colonel hesitated, then turned and walked out of the hut. His head was bent and silent tears streamed his cheeks.

When Singapore fell in ‘42, his Sikh soldiers had gone over to the enemy, the Japanese, almost to a man, and they had turned on their English officers. The Sikhs were among the first prison guards over the prisoners of war and some of them were savage. The officers of the Sikhs knew no peace. For it was only the Sikhs en masse, and a few from other Indian regiments. The Gurkhas were loyal to a man, under torture and indignity. So Colonel Brant wept for his men, the men he would have died for, the men he still died for.

Grey watched him go, then saw the King smoking by the path. “I’m glad I said that now it’s you or me,” he whispered to himself.

He sat back on the bench as a shaft of pain swept through his bowels, reminding him that dysentery had not passed him by this week. “To hell with it,” he said weakly, cursing Colonel Brant and the apology.

Masters came back with the full water bottle and gave it to him. He took a sip and thanked him and then began to plan how he would get the King. But the hunger for lunch was on him and he let his mind drift.

A faint moan cut the air. Grey glanced abruptly at Masters, who sat unconscious that he had made a sound, watching the constant movement of the house lizards in the rafters as they darted after insects or fornicated.

“You have dysentery, Masters?”

Masters bleakly waved away the flies that mosaiced his face. “No sir. At least I haven’t for nearly five weeks.”

“Enteric?”

“No, thank God. My bloody word. Just amebic. An’ I haven’t had malaria for near three months. I’m very lucky, an’ very fit, considering.”

“Yes,” Grey said. Then as an afterthought, “You look fit.” But he knew he would have to get a replacement soon. He looked back at the King, watching him smoke, nauseated with cigarette hunger.

Masters moaned again.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Grey said irately.

“Nothing, sir. Nothing. I must have…”

But the effort to speak was too much and Masters let his words slip off and blend with the drone of flies. Flies dominated the day, mosquitoes the night. No silence. Ever. What is it like to live without flies and mosquitoes and people? Masters tried to remember, but the effort was too great. So he just sat still, quiet, hardly breathing, a shell of a man. And his soul twisted uneasily.

“All right, Masters, you can go now,” Grey said. “I’ll wait for your relief. Who is he?”

Masters forced his brain to work and after a moment said, “Bluey - Bluey White.”

“For God’s sake, get hold of yourself,” Grey snapped. “Corporal White died three weeks ago.”

“Oh, sorry, sir,” Masters said weakly. “Sorry, I must have… It’s… er, I think it’s Peterson. The Pommy, I mean, Englishman. Infantryman, I think.”

“All right. You can go and get your dinner now. But don’t dawdle coming back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Masters put on his rattan coolie hat and saluted and shambled out of the doorless door, hitching the rags of his pants around his hips. God, Grey thought, you can smell him from fifty paces. They’ve just got to issue more soap.

But he knew that it wasn’t just Masters. It was all of them. If you didn’t bathe six times a day, the sweat hung like a shroud about you. And thinking of shrouds, he thought again about Masters and the mark that he had on him. Perhaps Masters knew it too, so what was the point of washing?

Grey had seen many men die. The bitterness began to well as he thought about the regiment and the war. Damn your eyes, he almost shouted, twenty-four and still a lieutenant! And the war going on all around - all over the world. Promotions every day of the year. Opportunities. And here I am in this stinking POW camp and still a lieutenant. Oh Christ! If only we hadn’t been transshipped to Singapore in ‘42. If only we’d gone where we were supposed to go - to the Caucasus. If only…

“Stop it,” he said aloud. “You’re as bad as Masters, you bloody fool!”

It was normal in the camp to talk aloud to yourself sometimes. Better to speak out, the doctors had always said, than to keep it all choked inside - that way led to insanity. Most days were not so bad. You could stop thinking about your other life, about the guts of it - food, women, home, food, food, women, food. But the nights were the danger time. At night you dreamed. Dreamed about food and women. Your woman. And soon you would enjoy the dreaming more than the waking, and if you were careless you would dream while awake, and the days would run into nights and the night into day. Then there was only death. Smooth. Gentle. It was easy to die. Agony to live. Except for the King. He had no agony.

Grey was still watching him, trying to hear what he was saying to the man beside him, but he was too far away. Grey tried to place the other man but he could not. He could see from the man’s armband that he was a major. By Japanese order all officers had to wear armbands with rank insignia on their left arms. At all times. Even naked.

The black rain clouds were building fast now. Sheet lightning flecked the east, but still the sun thrust down. A fetid breeze broomed the dust momentarily, then left it settle.

Automatically Grey used the bamboo fly-swat. A deft, half unconscious twist of the wrist and another fly fell to the ground, maimed. To kill a fly was careless. Cripple it, then the bastard would suffer and repay in tiny measure your own suffering. Cripple it and it would soundless scream until ants and other flies came to fight over its living flesh.

But Grey did not take the usual pleasure in watching the torment of the tormentor. He was too intent on the King.

“By George,” the major was saying to the King with forced joviality, “and then there was the time I was in New York, in ‘33. Marvelous time. Such a wonderful country, the States. Did I ever tell you about the trip I made to Albany? I was a subaltern at the time . . .”

“Yes, sir,” the King said tiredly. “You’ve told me.” He felt he had been polite long enough and he could still feel Grey’s eyes on him. Though he was quite safe and not afraid, he wanted to get out of the sun and out of the range of the eyes. He had a lot to do. And if the major wouldn’t come to the point, what the hell! “Well, if you’ll excuse me, sir. It was nice to talk to you.”

“Oh, just a minute,” Major Barry said quickly and looked around nervously, conscious of the curious eyes of the men that passed, conscious of their unspoken question - What’s he talking to the King for? “I — er, could I see you privately?”

The King gauged him thoughtfully. “We’re private here. If you keep your voice down.”

Major Barry was wet with embarrassment. But he had been trying to bump into the King for days now. And it was too good an opportunity to miss. “But the Provost Marshal’s hut is —“

“What have the cops to do with talking privately? I don’t understand, sir.” The King was bland.

“There’s no need - er - well, Colonel Sellars said that you might be able to help me.” Major Barry had only the stump of a right arm and he kept scratching the stump, touching it, molding it. “Would you — handle something for us, I mean me.” He waited until there was no one within hearing distance. “It’s a lighter,” he whispered. “A Ronson lighter. Perfect condition.” Now that he had come to the point, the major felt a little easier. But at the same time he felt naked, saying these words to the American, out in the sun, on the public path.

The King thought a moment. “Who’s the owner?”

“I am.” The major looked up, startled. “My God, you don’t think I stole it, do you? Good Lord, I’d never do that. I’ve kept it safe all this time, but now, well, now we’ve got to sell it. The unit’s all agreed.” He licked his dry lips and fondled the stump. “Please. Would you? You can get the best price.”

“Trading’s against the law.”

“Yes, but please, you — would you please? You can trust me.”

The King turned so that his back was towards Grey and his face towards the fence - just in case Grey could lip read. “I’ll send someone after chow,” he said quietly. “Password is ‘Lieutenant Albany said for me to see you.’ Got it?”

“Yes.” Major Barry hesitated, his heart pumping. “When did you say?”

“After chow. Lunch!”

“Oh, all right.”

“Just give it to him. And when I’ve looked it over, I’ll get in touch with you. Same password.” The King flipped the burning top off his cigarette and dropped the butt onto the ground. He was just about to step on it when he saw the major’s face. “Oh! You want the butt?”

Major Barry bent down happily and picked it up. “Thanks. Thanks very much.” He opened his little tobacco tin and carefully tore the paper off the butt and put the half inch of tobacco into the dried tea leaves and mixed them together. “Nothing like a little sweetening,” he said, smiling. “Thank you very much. It’ll make at least three good cigarettes.”

“I’ll see you, sir,” said the King saluting.

“Oh, um, well —“ Major Barry did not know quite how to put it. “Don’t you think,” he said nervously, keeping his voice low, “that, well — to give it to a stranger, just like that, how do I know that — well, everything will be all right?”

The King said coldly, “The password for one thing. Another thing, I’ve got a reputation. Another thing, I’m trusting you that it’s not stolen. Maybe we’d better forget it.”

“Oh no, please don’t misunderstand me,” the major said quickly, “I was just asking. It’s, well, it’s all I have left.” He tried to smile. “Thanks. After lunch. Oh, how long do you think it’ll take to, er, to dispose of it?”

“Soon as I can. Usual terms. I get ten percent of the sale price,” the King said crisply.

“Of course. Thank you, and thanks again for the tobacco.”

Now that everything had been said, Major Barry felt an enormous weight off his mind. With luck, he thought as he hurried down the hill, we will get six or seven hundred dollars. Enough to buy food for months, with care. He did not think once of the man who had owned the lighter, who had given it into his keeping when the man had gone to the hospital, months ago, never to return. That was in the past. Today he owned the lighter. It was his. His to sell.

The King knew that Grey had been watching him all the time. The excitement of making a deal in front of the MP hut added to his well-being. Pleased with himself, he walked up the slight rise, responding automatically to the greetings of the men - officers and enlisted men, English and Australian - that he knew. The important ones got special treatment, the others a friendly nod. The King was conscious of their malevolent envy and it bothered him not at all. He was used to it; it amused him and added to his stature. And he was pleased that the men called him the King. He was proud of what he had done as a man - as an American. Through running he had created a world. He surveyed his world now and was well satisfied.

He stopped outside Hut Twenty-four, one of the Australian huts, and poked his head through a window.

“Hey, Tinker,” he called out. “I want me a shave and a manicure.”

Tinker Bell was small and wiry. His skin was pigment-brown and his eyes were small and very brown and his nose was peeling. He was a sheep shearer by trade but he was the best barber in Changi.

“Wot’s this, your ruddy birthday? I gave you a manicure the day before yesterday.”

“So I get another today.”

Tinker shrugged and jumped out the window. The King sat back in the chair under the lee of the hut’s overhang, relaxing contentedly as Tinker put the sheet around his neck and settled him just right. “Look at this, mate,” he said, and held a little cake of soap under the King’s nose. “Smell it.”

“Hey,” said the King, grinning. “That’s the real McCoy.”

“Don’t know about that, mate! But it’s Yardley’s ruddy violets. A cobber o’ mine swiped it on a work party. Right from under the nose of a bloody Nip. Cost me thirty dollars,” he said with a wink, doubling the price. “I’ll keep it just for you, special, if you likes.”

“Tell you what. I’ll make it five bucks a time, instead of three, as long as it lasts,” the King said.

Tinker calculated quickly. The cake of soap would last perhaps eight shaves, maybe ten. “Strike a light, mate. I ‘ardly makes me money back.”

The King grunted. “You got taken, Tink. I can buy that by the pound for fifteen a cake.”

“My bloody oath,” Tinker burst out, feigning anger. “A cobber taking me for a sucker! Now that ain’t right!” Furiously he mixed hot water and the sweet-smelling soap into a lather. Then he laughed. “You’re the King all right, mate.”

“Yeah,” the King said contentedly. He and Tinker were old friends.

“Ready, mate?” Tinker asked as he held up the lathered brush.

“Sure.” Then the King saw Tex walking down the path. “Wait a minute. Hey, Tex!” he called out.

Tex looked across at the hut and saw the King and ambled over to him. “Yeah?” He was a gangling youth with big ears and a bent nose and contented eyes, and he was tall, very tall.

Without being asked, Tinker moved out of earshot as the King beckoned Tex closer. “Do something for me?” he asked quietly.

“Sure.”

The King took out his wallet and peeled off a ten-dollar note. “Go find Colonel Brant. The little guy with the beard rolled under his chin. Give him this.”

“You know where he’d be?”

“Down by the corner of the jail. It’s his day for keeping an eye on Grey.”

Tex grinned. “Hear you had a set-to.”

“The son of a bitch searched me again.”

“Tough,” said Tex dryly, scratching his blond crewcut.

“Yes.” The King laughed. “And tell Brant not to be so goddam late next time. But you should have been there, Tex. Man, that Brant’s a great actor. He even made Grey apologize.” He grinned, then added another five. “Tell him this is for the apology.”

“Okay. That all?”

“No.” He gave him the password and told him where to find Major Barry, then Tex went his way and the King settled back. Altogether, today had been very profitable.

Grey hurried across the dirt path and up the steps to Hut Sixteen. It was almost lunchtime and he was painfully hungry.

Men were already forming an impatient line for food. Quickly Grey went to his bed and got his two mess cans and mug and spoon and fork and joined the line.

“Why isn’t it here already?” he wearily asked the man ahead of him.

“How the hell do I know?” Dave Daven said curtly. His accent was public school - Eton, Harrow or Charterhouse - and he was tall like bamboo.

“I was just asking,” Grey said irritably, despising Daven for his accent and his birthright.

After they had waited an hour, the food arrived. A man carried two containers to the head of the line and set them down. The containers had formerly held five gallons of high-octane gasoline. Now one was half full of rice - dry, pellucid. The other was full of soup.

Today it was shark soup - at least, one shark had been divided ounce by ounce into soup for ten thousand men. It was warm and tasted slightly of the fish, and in it there were pieces of eggplant and cabbage, a hundred pounds for ten thousand. The bulk of the soup was made from leaves, red and green, bitter and yet nutritious, grown with so much care in the gardens of the camp. Salt and curry powder and chili pepper spiced it.

Silently each man moved forward in turn, watching the serving of the man in front and the man behind, measuring their portions against the one he was given. But now, after three years, the measures were all the same.

A cup per man of soup.

The rice was steaming as it was served. Today it was Java rice, each grain separate, the best in the world. A cupful per man.

A mug of tea.

Each man took his food away and ate silently, quickly, with exquisite agony. The weevils in the rice were added nourishment, and the worm or insect in the soup was removed without anger if it was seen. But most men did not look at the soup after the first quick glance to find out if there was a piece of fish in it.

Today there was a little left over from the servings and the list was checked and the three men who headed it got the extra and thanked today. Then the food was gone and lunch was over and dinner was at sundown.

But though there was only soup and rice, here and there throughout the camp a man might have a piece of coconut or half a banana or piece of sardine or thread of bully or even an egg to mix with his rice. One whole egg was rare. Once a week, if the camp hens laid according to plan, an egg was given to each man. That was a great day. A few men were given one egg every day, but no man wanted to be one of the special few.

“Hey listen, you chaps!” Captain Spence stood in the center of the hut, but his voice could be heard outside. He was officer of the week, the hut adjutant, a small dark man with twisted features. He waited till they had all moved inside. “We’ve got to supply ten more bods for the wood detail tomorrow.” He checked his list and called out the names, and then looked up. “Marlowe?” There was no reply. “Anyone know where Marlowe is?”

“I think he’s down with his unit,” Ewart called out.

“Tell him he’s on the airfield work party tomorrow, will you?”

“All right.”

Spence started coughing. His asthma was bad today, and when the spasm had passed he continued: “The Camp Commandant had another interview with the Jap General this morning. He asked for increased rations and medical supplies.” He cleared his throat in the momentary hush. Then he went on and his voice was flat. “He got the usual turndown. The rice ration stays at four ounces of grain per man per day.” Spence looked out of the doors and checked that both lookouts were in position. Then he dropped his voice and all the men listened expectantly.

“The Allies are about sixty miles from Mandalay, still going strong. They’ve got the Japs on the run. The Allies are still going in Belgium but the weather’s very bad. Snowstorms. On the Eastern front, the same thing, but the Russians are going like bats out of hell and expect to take Krakov in the next few days. The Yanks are going well in Manila. They’re near” - he hesitated, trying to remember the name - “I think it’s the Agno River, in Luzon. That’s all. But it’s good.”

Spence was glad that this part was over. He learned the news by heart daily at the hut adjutants’ meeting, and every time he stood up to repeat it publicly, his sweat chilled and his stomach felt empty. One day an informer might point a finger at him and tell the enemy that he was one of the men who delivered the news, and Spence knew that he was not strong enough to stay silent. Or one day a Japanese might hear him tell the others, and then, then…

“That’s all, chaps.” Spence went over to his bunk, filled with nausea. He took off his pants and walked out of the hut with a towel over his arm.

The sun beat down. Two hours yet until the rain. Spence crossed the asphalt street and stood in line for a shower. He always had to have a shower after he gave the news, for the sweat-stench was acrid on him.

“All right, mate?” Tinker asked.

The King looked at his nails. They were well manicured. His face felt tight from the hot and cold towels, and tangy with the lotion. “Great,” he said as he paid him. “Thanks, Tink.” He moved out of the chair, put on his hat and nodded to Tinker and to the colonel who had been waiting patiently for a haircut.

Both men stared after him.

The King walked briskly up the path once more, past clustering huts, heading for home. He was pleasantly hungry.

The American hut was set apart from the others, near enough to the walls to share the afternoon shade, and near enough to the encircling path which was the life stream of the camp and near enough to the fence. It was just right. Captain Brough, USAF, the senior American officer, had insisted that the American enlisted men have their own hut. Most of the American officers would have preferred to move in too — it was difficult for them to live among foreigners — but this was not allowed, for the Japanese had ordered that officers be separated from enlisted men. The other nationalities found this hard to stomach, the Australians less so than the English.