The Lonely War (24 page)

“Just Hud, kitten. I’ll be waiting right here.” Hudson winked.

Clifford led Andrew to a crude operating room and sat him on the table. He removed the bandage and examined Andrew’s wound while making a clucking sound with his tongue.  “B-b-b-baby, I need to clean this with alcohol. It’s going to sting.”

“I’m not your baby.” Andrew felt his anger rising, and the fact of it confused him. Clifford had always been different from other boys, gentle and sensitive, so it was no surprise that he was a homosexual. Andrew’s memory flashed on his own feelings for Mitchell, and Grady in the
Pilgrim
’s head—how exciting those kisses had felt. He didn’t blame Clifford for wanting that, but how could he have become so effeminate? And how could anyone find his behavior appealing? Andrew’s stomach heaved when Clifford came near.

“Cliff, how could you change so much? It’s only been two years.”

“I-I-I-It happened all at once, in a single night. A man gave me this sarong and I tried it on for fun. It was so pretty, so colorful. No one in camp had anything like it. So I tried it on and looked at myself in a mirror. Right then, my thin, awkward, inadequate shape turned into something else. I blossomed into something lovely and deliberate. I realized I was seeing a new person with new hopes and desires, and with new possibilities. I liked what I saw, it fit perfectly. So I kept this sarong. I’m never without it.”

Andrew couldn’t respond, realizing that the fear in his gut stemmed from an inkling that the same thing could happen to him.

Clifford soaked a piece of cloth with alcohol.

“I-I-I-I’m sorry about Mr. Cocoa. He begged us not to amputate. Said he’d rather die than be a cripple. It’s tragic that life never gives us what we want.”

“He’ll be okay. Life is not about getting what you want or even what you need. It’s about accepting what is, and experiencing that to the fullest. It takes courage to tackle life’s trials, and Cocoa’s got courage in spades. Sure, he’ll be fine.”

Clifford leaned his head to one side. “A-A-A-Andy, you sound like Master Jung-Wei. I mean your tone of voice and everything. That’s amazing.”

Andrew realized that Clifford spoke with a grain of truth. That was something his master would have said. Andrew heard Master Jung-Wei saying, “When you see something you admire in others, try to emulate that. When you find fault with others, examine your own heart.”

Clifford dabbed his head wound and the pain became excruciating. Andrew focused all his attention on the pain. It consumed his being, driving his Master’s voice away.

“B-b-but actually, he won’t be okay. H-h-h-he has the same problem as everyone else, not enough protein, which means he can’t fight off the infection. You need to be concerned about it too, even with this small wound. Some of the men are going blind from lack of protein and vitamins. It’s killing everybody—dengue fever, dysentery, malaria, typhus, typhoid, gangrene, and beriberi. All treatable pathogens if we had modern medicines and a reasonable diet. If they only gave us drugs and meat, or eggs, or let us grow our own vegetables, these poor boys could recover.”

“
Balachong
is pure protein. If I had a five-gallon can and a net, I could make some.”

Balachong
was a native delicacy throughout Malaysia. Villagers along the coast used fine nets to scoop up the tiny
gerago
shrimp that hover in the surf and along the reefs. They would bury a mass of the stuff in a seaweed-lined hole for two months, allowing it to decay and ferment into a gooey paste. They fried the paste and molded it into cubes. One thin sliver of cooked
balachong
would flavor an entire bowl of rice, and provided more protein than an ounce of sirloin.

Clifford glided to the medicine closet, returning with a bottle of iodine. He smeared the red liquid over Andrew’s wound.

“S-s-s-sure,
balachong
is protein, but the ocean is two miles away. Even if you get under the wire and make it to the sea, you couldn’t catch enough to make a spoonful.”

“It doesn’t have to be shrimp. There’s a source of protein right here in camp, and they’re breeding like rats.”

Clifford stood silent, puzzled. A look of sheer disgust flashed across his face. “Y-y-y-you don’t mean….  N-n-n-no! It’s revolting. No one will eat it.”

“I would eat it to save my eyesight, wouldn’t you? Maybe we can keep people from knowing where it came from. We’d have to clean them thoroughly before we bury them, but it would solve the protein problem.”

Clifford visibly fought off the urge to vomit. Recovering, he said, “I-I-I-I’ll get as many cans as you need and we can make a net with one of my nylon stockings. But we must do it under cover of night.” Clifford wrapped Andrew’s wound with a clean bandage. “W-w-we’ll make up a story about someone going under the wire to buy it in the village. The hospital could use a dozen cubes each week, but the whole camp needs it. Can you make enough for fifteen thousand men?”

“That’s too big an operation to keep secret. Let me study it. Meantime, get me a couple of cans, your nylon stocking, and a pole. We’ll start by making enough for the hospital.”

“O-o-o-okay, I’ll bring it to your hut after sundown.”

“Great. Now, I really came here to see Lieutenant Mitchell. Where can I find him?”

Clifford caressed Andrew’s face. “O-o-oh, baby, is he your friend?”

Andrew shuddered at the touch, his abhorrence becoming stronger.

“He’s more than a friend. Much more.”

Andrew followed Clifford up concrete steps to the second floor. Clifford explained as they climbed. “H-h-h-he has the same problem as Mr. Cocoa: gangrene. The doctors plan to operate tonight, but the wound is on his thigh, so they need to take off the whole leg. With a wound that large, we have no chance of controlling the infection, not without drugs. It will be a miracle if he pulls through. Even if he does, there won’t be enough stump left to attach a wooden leg.”

“If they treat the gangrene, could they save his leg?”

“Y-y-y-yes, if it hasn’t spread. But we don’t have the antitoxins. The Japs have them, but they don’t just hand them over. Everything has a price, and drugs have the highest price of all.”

“What does that mean?”

“T-t-there may be a way to get the antitoxins from Commandant Tottori. But even so, there’s a long list of British officers who need it as badly as your lieutenant. There’s no way Tottori will give you enough for everyone.”

“If we get the antitoxin, can you fix him up before the doctors operate? I mean, cure him without them knowing we have the drugs?”

“I-I-I can do the procedure. At least I’ve seen it done. But how do we keep them from operating?”

They reached the top of the stairs and Mitchell’s bed, Bed 201, was the first one on the left.

Mitchell lay unconscious. He seemed much smaller against the mattress, as if he was shriveling away. His breathing was shallow and rapid, and his body jerked about as if he was dreaming. He let out a moan, flailing at the air with his arms. He jerked up to a sitting position. 

Clifford’s voice soothed, “I-I-I-I’m here. It’s okay, baby, you’re safe.”

Mitchell’s eyes opened as Clifford cradled him. Sitting on the bed in the dimly lit cell, Clifford rocked him like a child. “A-a-a-a dream, baby, it’s only a dream.”

Mitchell wrapped his arms around Clifford’s waist and squeezed hard, burying his face into Clifford’s neck. His body shook uncontrollably as pain pinched his face. Clifford laid him on the pillow. Mitchell’s eyes focused on Andrew, hovering on the other side of the bed.

“My God, how did you get here?”

Shocking. He had aged ten years overnight. He had the same short growth of fawn-colored beard, but his eyes and forehead had aged. They had taken on a drooping disposition. The eyes were larger and had the dull glow caused by intense pain. Deep lines scored his forehead, and his grayish skin seemed leathery.

Andrew decided that Mitchell had become even more attractive with that ravaged face, like a stirring Verdi opera: sad, and yet tragically beautiful.

“Ensign Moyer brought me. How’s your leg?” He stroked Mitchell’s hair.

“It has my full attention.” He stopped suddenly, squinted. “I’m about to throw up.”

Clifford grabbed a bucket from beneath the bed and supported Mitchell’s head in his arm while Mitchell vomited. “P-p-p-poor man. Andy, hand me that water bottle on the nightstand.”

Andrew uncorked the bottle and passed it to Clifford, who held the bottle to Mitchell’s lips. Mitchell swished water around his mouth and spat into the bucket. Clifford leaned him onto the pillow. After taking a clean handkerchief from his purse, Clifford wet it and dabbed it across Mitchell’s forehead.

“Y-y-you’re doing fine, Lieutenant. The doctors will fix you up tonight. We’re going to take that pain away very soon.”

Mitchell struggled to get enough air. He seemed on the verge of hyperventilating. 

Clifford wiped the sweat from Mitchell’s face, being careful to clean the drops of vomit at the edges of the officer’s mouth. He hummed a lullaby while his misty eyes shone down on Mitchell in a way that Andrew would never forget.

Andrew felt the smoldering heat of shame, shame that he had been disgusted by this gentle, compassionate friend.

“H-h-he’ll sleep now. He’s so weak from fighting the infection, poor baby.”

Andrew leaned over to kiss Mitchell on the forehead. As he did, Clifford stroked Andrew’s head. Again, Clifford’s eyes smiled, lighting up his face. Andrew bent further over Mitchell to kiss Clifford on the cheek.

“O-o-oh, you’re still my lover-boy. I was afraid you despised me.”

They kissed again. This time lips lovingly caressed lips. Clifford looped his arm around Andrew and led him down the stairs.

“What do I have to do to get the antitoxin from Tottori?”

“S-s-s-sell your mind, body, and soul. He’ll take it all, but it’s the only way.”

“Okay.” There was no hesitation. “We’ll need enough to stop Cocoa’s infection too. How fast can you arrange it?”

“A-A-A-Andy, Tottori was the man who gave me this sarong, the one who made me what I am. Do you understand?”

Andrew swallowed. “How soon?”

“P-p-p-perhaps tonight. But how will we keep the doctors from operating?”

“That’s your job. Listen, you set me up with Tottori and stall the doctors long enough to save Mitchell’s leg, and I’ll find a way to produce enough
balachong
to drown this damned camp. Deal?”

“I-I-I-I’ll do my best, Andy. Anything for you.”

Clifford led Andrew along the line of beds toward the front door. As they passed a bed, Clifford glanced over at the man and sighed. He shuffled to the man’s side and checked his pulse, pulling the blanket over the man’s head.

A pack of Kooas and a tin of matches sat on the nightstand. Clifford took them both to Andrew and held them out.

“Y-y-y-you know anyone who smokes?”

“Sure,” Andrew said, taking the pack. He counted five cigarettes inside.

When they came to Cocoa’s bed, Andrew said, “Come on, Hud. We’ve got work to do.”

“Work, what kind of work?”

“We’re going to mass-produce food!”

Chapter Twenty-One

May 15, 1942—1600 hours

“
C
OCKROACHES
!” Hudson shrieked. “I don’t give a flyin’ fuck what the wogs eat, no white man is gonna chow down on cockroaches.”

Hudson, Stokes, and Grady sat on the ground with their backs against Hut Twenty-nine. Andrew squatted alongside them. “Keep your voice down,” he said. “Nobody needs to know what it is.” He lifted the pack of Kooas from his pocket along with the tin of matches. A hush fell over the men as Andrew passed the treasures to Stokes, their unit supply officer. Stokes examined the pack’s contents and removed two cigarettes. He slid one behind his ear and the other between his lips.

Andrew said, “There’s more where that came from, if you play along.”

“Well, how do we make this stuff?” Stokes asked as he struck a match, lit the Kooa, and passed it to Grady.

“We scoop cockroaches out of the boreholes with a net.”

“Sweet Jesus, I’m going to be sick,” Hudson gasped.

“We clean them in a tub of water, mash them into five-gallon cans, bury the cans under the hut, and let it simmer for two months. The roaches decompose into an inch or so of thick paste with a smell that will blow your head off.”

“I sure as hell believe that,” Hudson snorted.

Andrew glared at Hudson, shaking his head. “We cook the paste in a frying pan and mold it into two-inch cubes. A tiny sliver in your rice is like eating an egg. It’s pure protein.”

“Don’t it go bad rottin’ in the ground?” Grady asked as he exhaled, passing the cigarette to Hudson.

“If flies get at it, you can get dysentery. But aged and fried properly, it’s completely safe.”

“If it smells so bad,” Stokes said, “how are we going to keep it secret? Won’t it smell up the whole hut when we cook it?”

“Good point. Let me think about that.”

“It won’t work.” Hudson’s tone was adamant.

“Two five-gallon cans per week,” Andrew said. “Half of one can goes to the hospital, free of charge. That leaves three dozen cubes that we sell for a reasonable profit to the rest of the camp. With that money, we’ll buy food, tobacco, and whatever else we need.”

“Sell?” Hudson’s eyebrows lifted high on his forehead. “Now you’re talking sense. How much can we get per cube?”

“Maybe as much as ten dollars. Remember, a cube will feed three men for two weeks.”

Hudson rubbed his chin as his eyes drifted skyward. “We’ll need a middleman so if anyone sees us collecting bugs, it won’t cause suspicion. A limey, or better yet, an Aussie. Someone everybody trusts. And the whole crew must be part of the production. There’s no way to keep this secret inside the hut. That means splitting the profits.”

“That’s okay,” Grady said. “That means splittin’ the work, too. We’ll get them to gather the critters.” He pointed a thumb at the others hanging around the hut.

Hudson slapped Grady on the shoulder. “You bet, partner. We’ll be management.”