The Lonely War (33 page)

“Whose department is it?”

“That would be Grady Washington.” Hudson stomped on the floor three times. Seconds later the trapdoor lifted and Grady’s head appeared.

Fowler stared at Grady. “Well, sailor, how many chickens are under this hut?”

Grady winked at Hudson. “I don’t rightly knowd,” he drawled. “I gots no head for figures. Evah time I starts countin’ I lose track ’n has to starts again. Guess I ain’t nevah made it all th’ way through.”

“Well count them. I want an accurate total before I leave here.”

Hudson motioned to Cocoa for a cigarette. Cocoa popped the lid on the unit’s tobacco box, which was a quarter full of loose straw-yellow tobacco. It also held slips of rattan grass that they use for rolling paper, a crumpled pack of Kooas, and a Ronson lighter. After pulling out the pack of Kooas, he offered one to Hudson and took one for himself. He flicked the Ronson into flame for Hudson and lit his own cigarette. Hudson inhaled and blew smoke in Fowler’s face.

“You want one?” Hudson asked Fowler.

Fowler had not had a tailor-made cigarette in over two years. He glanced down at the pack while the odor from Hudson’s cigarette lingered on the air. The shine in his eyes revealed that he would give his eyeteeth to have that pack, but pride is a mysterious thing. He swallowed the lump in his throat and said with a voice scorched with bitterness, “No, thank you.”

“Pity.” Hudson offered the pack to Mitchell and Henman, who both took one. Cocoa flicked the Ronson and held the flame under the ends of their cigarettes.

Fowler grabbed the Ronson and handed it to Cox. “Put that on the list,” he said. “Cox will list everything we find. We intend to keep a running inventory of American items so we can gauge any increase in wealth as time passes.”

Hudson drew a final drag on his cigarette before tossing the half-inch-long butt on the floor. Both Fowler and Cox stared down at the burning butt. Fowler closed his eyes and turned away, but Cox knelt and picked up the butt, snipped off the burning end with his fingers. Smiling happily, he opened his tobacco tin, pulled away the half inch of paper, and mixed the tobacco into his stash of dried tealeaves.

Cocoa also dropped his butt. As Cox reached for it, Cocoa stomped on the butt with his wooden stump and ground it into the floorboard. The smile on his face grew wide and joyful.

Fowler ordered everybody to empty their pockets and shoulder bags onto their bunks while Cox searched the premises, listing everything as he went.

Stokes and Cord, followed by Ogden and Baker, waltzed through the doorway carrying four billycans each. In addition to their own lunch, they also brought Hudson’s, Andrew’s, Grady’s, and Cocoa’s—one can of steamed rice and one can of watery fish soup per man.

“Chowtime,” Stokes said before realizing what was going on.

Hudson glanced at Mitchell. “Sir, okay if we eat lunch before the rice cools?”

“Go ahead, Hudson. Eat by your bunks.”

Hudson nodded at Cocoa with a wink. “How’s about fryin’ up some eggs?”

“Sure thing.” Cocoa’s smile was angelic.

Stokes sauntered to the unit footlocker, unlocked it, and opened the lid. Fowler and Cox were quickly there to inspect the contents. In addition to pots, pans, a hotplate, and a coffee grinder, there were five eggs laying in a pearl-white bowl, three sacks of coffee beans, a dozen bananas, four cans of sardines, six cans of condensed milk, two pounds of roasted pork meat wrapped in leaves, a sack of dried shrimp, and a bottle of hooch. There were also containers of cooking oil, salt, pepper, sugar, and seven packs of Kooas.

Neither Fowler nor Cox could conceal their amazement. Cox ran his tongue over his dry lip. Fowler was too dazed to ask where it all came from.

“We’ve been lucky at gambling,” Hudson offered, patting Cox on the shoulder.

Stokes pulled the hotplate and frying pan from the box while Cocoa took the oil, eggs, salt, and pepper.

Fowler found his voice before Stokes could relock the box. “Just a minute. I want a closer look at that.” He knelt and rummaged through the entire box, obviously looking for money, but he found nothing more than the food and cigarettes. He told Cox to make sure everything in the box went on the list.

Stokes took the pan and hotplate to the electric outlet, plugged in the hotplate, and set the pan on top. While the pan heated, Cocoa readied the oil and eggs. Normally for the midday meal, they combined all the unit’s rice together, mixed in two raw eggs, and redistributed equal portions to each man. Today, however, they silently agreed to splurge.

Cocoa suggested frying up some pork meat as well, but Andrew vigorously shook his head no. He knew that would be going too far over the top.

Fowler and Cox examined every shelf, food box, mattress, and pillow. Bunk by bunk they made their way through the hut.

Cocoa broke an eggshell on the side of the pan and dropped the contents neatly into the hot oil. A sputtering sound filled the entire hut. Everybody froze. All eyes involuntarily focused on the frying pan. The sunrise-yellow yolk surrounded by a circle of clear jelly began to set. Cocoa repeated the operation until five eggs covered the bottom of the pan. The sizzle, an arduous, torturing sound, consumed every mind.

Cocoa used a spatula to work the eggs around the pan so they didn’t stick. The unit stood at a respectful distance, drinking their soup and watching the amazing vision of frying eggs.

Hudson turned to Mitchell. “Sorry, we don’t have enough to offer you some.”

Mitchell’s voice cracked, “We couldn’t accept anyway. We’re here on official business.”

“Perhaps you’ll join us for a cup of coffee after we eat?”

“Thank you, no,” Henman said, but everybody knew he would kill for a cup of real coffee.

The marvelous fragrance of frying eggs is one of life’s simple pleasures—that is, unless you’re starving. Then it’s bamboo-shoots-under-fingernails torture. Henman couldn’t hide the strain any longer. He took Mitchell by the arm and suggested they step outside for a moment. He had something to say to Mitchell in private. Mitchell seemed only too happy to follow him outside.

Fowler leaned out the nearest window, taking breaths of outside air. Sweat streamed down his face. Every pop of grease echoed like a kettledrum. Andrew heard Fowler’s stomach growl from twenty feet away.

Cocoa flipped the eggs over one by one, adding a pinch of salt and pepper to each. “The secret to fried eggs is spicing them while the little buggers are still cookin’.” He smacked his lips together.

He visibly poured all his concentration into making each egg a work of art. “Jesus H., this smells so damn good. It’s going to taste like heaven. Stokes, line up those rice cans.” Cocoa pulled the frying pan off the hotplate. One by one he slipped the spatula under an egg, glided it over a billycan, and laid the egg neatly over the rice. He tilted the pan over the top of the mess-cans to let a thin stream of oil trickle over each egg until the pan was dry.

A hush haunted the still air.

“Chowtime, boys.” Cocoa’s voice cut the silence like a gong.

Each man in the unit picked up his rice and egg and brought it under his nose to savor the aroma. Andrew broke his yoke to let the golden nectar saturate his rice. He took a bite of egg and moaned.

Cox said, “Sir, I think I’ve found something.”

Fowler raced over, nearly screaming, “Whose bunk is this?”

“That would be mine,” Hudson said through a mouthful of egg. He strutted right up to Fowler and ate another spoonful of egg, chewing loudly.

As Cox uncovered the silk sarong and five cigars, Hudson looked as if a lightning bolt had zapped his testicles. He had forgotten about the silk. His mouth dropped open as the blood drained from his face. He stammered an unintelligible word and went silent.

Fowler’s chest expanded. “Hudson, you are under arrest.” Fowler’s words were magisterial and final. “This proves that you’re trading with guards. You couldn’t possibly have gotten either of these items inside the camp.” Fowler told Cox to ask Henman and Mitchell to step inside.

“I’ve got you now, you arrogant bastard,” Fowler hissed only loud enough for Hudson and Andrew to hear. Hudson took another mouthful of rice and egg, trying desperately to act unruffled, but he couldn’t hide the sweat beading on his forehead.

Andrew knew he had had it. Even if he told the truth about going under the wire, that was illegal too, and it would also implicate Darby McGaven. Going under the wire or trading with the guards, he was screwed either way.

Fowler glowed by the time Henman and Mitchell ambled up to study the contraband spread out on Hudson’s mattress.

“Sir,” Fowler said, “we were unable to find their money stash, but we did find this. There is no way Hudson could have gotten this from other prisoners or from Little Sister Wu. It had to have come from trading with the guards.” A note of mirth colored his voice.

“Well, Hudson,” Mitchell said. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Sir, I… I… I mean, sir—”

“Those belong to me, sir.” Andrew set his half-eaten rice on his bunk and stepped forward. A dull ache rose to the top of his head, but he ignored it. “Tomorrow is Christmas. I got those as presents. Hudson was hiding them for me until I could wrap them. The silk is for Clifford Baldrich, the cigars are for Cocoa.”

Hudson’s body went limp. The relief in his face was evident to everyone.

“But where did you get them?”

“They were a gift from Commandant Tottori, sir. Lieutenant Fowler, you’re perfectly welcome to corroborate my story with the commandant.”

“You’re lying!” Fowler’s voice rose to borderline hysterical.

Andrew stared at Fowler with flinty eyes. “Prove it.”

Mitchell said, “I can vouch for this man,” He laid a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “He’s not capable of lying. I’d stake my life on it.”

Mitchell’s solemn voice echoed in the pit of Andrew’s stomach. He felt shame coloring his face in scarlet streaks. The dull ache in his head grew sharp. He glanced down at the floor, seeing the dark gap between the floorboards, and he wished with all his might that he could crawl right through there and keep on going.

Colonel Henman nodded his head, “All right, Fowler, seems we’ve done all we can do here. Let’s leave these men to their lunch.”

Fowler’s face colored a scalded red. He gasped for breath. “You Yanks are scum. You have no discipline, no integrity, and no dignity. You gather wealth at any cost and flaunt it with grotesque arrogance.  I hate you! I hate you all!”

“Now just a Goddamned minute,” Mitchell said, his voice becoming brusque. “I’ve put up with this invasion of my crew’s privacy and even your calling Waters a liar, but I won’t stand for your insults any longer. I want you to leave, now, and don’t come here again unless you have hard evidence. Now move out!”

“I quite agree,” Henman said. “Fowler, there’s no need for that kind of rubbish, ’ey what?”

Cocoa stepped closer to Fowler. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. An Englishman is calling Americans arrogant?”

Laughter burst from the men standing around their bunks.

Fowler stepped closer to Cocoa, but Colonel Henman grasped his arm and turned him toward the doorway. “That will do, Lieutenant. There seems to be nothing out of place here and no stash of money to be found. I suggest you rely on better sources of information in the future.”

Once Fowler and Cox were twenty feet down the path, Henman frowned at Andrew. “We know about your making the
balachong
. The senior staff have known for some time.”

Silence hung in the air until Hudson said, “Then you know how we’re getting our money.”

“Of course.”

“Well, tell Fowler and get him off our backs.”

“You’ve put us in a rather difficult position,” Henman said. “You see, what you chaps are doing is smashing. Thanks to you, the death rate has dropped from fifty a day to five. We even had three zero-death days last month. That was unheard of before you came. And you’ve virtually wiped out blindness from beriberi. You supply the camp with a steady source of protein at a fair price, and we are extremely grateful. The difficulty is that if the men find out they’ve been eating cockroaches for the past few years, they’ll undoubtedly rip you to shreds, and we won’t be able to stop them. We don’t trust Fowler to keep such an important secret. One little slip, and the camp forfeits the
balachong
, and you could very well forfeit your lives. Obviously we can’t allow that. Please understand that the whole camp hates you as venomously as Fowler does. Not because you’re Americans, but because you’re living and eating so much better than they are, Darby McGaven excluded, of course. There’s simply no way to hide it. That hate would explode like a powder keg if word got out.”

Mitchell said, “We’re doing our best to keep Fowler on a short chain, but we can’t go so far that he becomes suspicious. This whole operation could backfire.”

Stokes said, “So we keep producing
balachong
and hope he doesn’t find out?”

“Actually, the reason that I mentioned it is that I’m hoping to persuade you chaps to increase production. I mean, you’re doing a jolly good job, but it’s not enough for ten thousand men.”

Hudson told them that they had just been discussing how to double output without being noticed.

“If there is a way,” Henman said, “I can assure you the senior staff will be delighted.” That said, he and Mitchell walked the length of the hut. “Cheerio!” he said as he strolled out the doorway.

Hudson put his arm over Andrew’s shoulder. “You saved my life, rookie.”

Andrew grabbed Hudson’s arm and flung it away. “If you hadn’t been so bloody stupid I wouldn’t have had to lie. Do you know what you’ve done to me? You bastard!”

Andrew raced out the doorway.

Grady patted Hudson on the shoulder. “Don’t you fret, ol’ Hud. Soon as he’s had a chance to think a bit, he’ll be jim-dandy. He’s always peevish after he pulls burial duty.”

Hudson shook his head. “Naw, rookie’s been flying off the handle at everything lately. All that good food must be fuckin’ with his head—too much protein or something. It’s like he’s slowly going loony. I sure as hell wish there was something we could do to help him.”