King Rat

Chapter 13

Peter Marlowe lay on his bunk drifting in half sleep. Around him men were waking, getting up, going to relieve themselves, preparing for work parties, going and coming from the hut. Mike was already grooming his mustache, fifteen inches from tip to tip; he had sworn never to cut it until he was released. Barstairs was already standing on his head practicing Yoga, Phil Mint already picking his nose, the bridge game already started, Raylins already doing his singing exercises, Myner already doing scales on his wooden keyboard, Chaplain Grover already trying to cheer everyone up, and Thomas was already cursing the lateness of breakfast. Above Peter Marlowe, Ewart, who had the top bunk, groaned out of sleep and hung his legs over the bunk. "Mahlu on the night!"

"You were kicking like hell." Peter Marlowe had said the same remark many times, for Ewart always slept restlessly.

"Sorry."

Ewart always said, Sorry. He jumped down heavily. He had no place in Changi. His place was five miles away, in the civilian camp, where his wife and family were — perhaps were. No contact had ever been allowed between the camps.

"Let's burn the bed after we've showered," he said yawning. He was short and dark and fastidious.

"Good idea."

"Never think we did it three days ago. How did you sleep?"

"Same as usual." But Peter Marlowe knew that nothing was the same, not after accepting the money, not after Samson.

The impatient line for breakfast was already forming as they carried the iron bunk out of the hut. They lifted the top bed off and pulled out the iron posts which fitted into slots on the lower one. Then they got coconut husks and twigs from their section under the hut and built fires under the four legs.

While the legs were heating, they took burning fronds and held them under the longitudinal bars and under the springs. Soon the earth beneath the bed was black with bedbugs.

"For Christ's sake, you two," Phil shouted at them. "Do you have to do that before breakfast?" He was a sour, pigeon-chested man with violent red hair.

They paid no attention. Phil always shouted at them, and they always burned their bunk before breakfast.

"God, Ewart," Peter Marlowe said. "You'd think the buggers could pick up the bunk and walk away with it."

"Damn nearly threw me out of bed last night. Stinking things." In a sudden flurry of rage Ewart beat the myriads of bugs.

"Easy, Ewart."

"I can't help it. They make my skin crawl."

When they had completed the bed they left it to cool and cleaned the mattresses. This took half an hour. Then the mosquito nets. Another half an hour.

By this time the beds were cool enough to handle. They put the bunk together and carried it back and set it in the four tins - carefully cleaned and filled with water - and made sure the edges of the tins did not touch the iron legs.

"What's today, Ewart?" Peter Marlowe said absently as they waited for breakfast. "Sunday."

Peter Marlowe shuddered, remembering that other Sunday.

It was after the Japanese patrol had picked him up. He was in hospital in Bandung that Sunday. That Sunday, the Japanese had told all the prisoner of war patients to pick up their belongings and march because they were going to another hospital.

They had lined up in their hundreds in the courtyard. Only senior officers did not go. They were being sent to Formosa, so the rumor said. The General stayed too, he who was the senior officer, he who openly walked the camp communing with the Holy Ghost. The General was a neat man, square-shouldered, and his uniform was wet with the spit of the conquerors.

Peter Marlowe remembered carrying his mattress through the streets of Bandung under a heated sky, streets lined with shouting silent people, dressed multihued. Then throwing away the mattress. Too heavy. Then falling but getting up. Then the gates of the prison had opened and the gates of the prison had closed. There was enough room to lie down in the courtyard. But he and a few others were locked alone into tiny cells. There were chains on the walls and a small hole in the ground which was the toilet, and around the toilet were feces of years. Stench-straw matted the earth.

In the next cell was a maniac, a Javanese who had run amok and killed three women and two children before the Dutch had overpowered him.

Now it was not the Dutch who were the jailers. They were jailed too. All the days and all the nights the maniac banged his chains and screamed.

There was a tiny hole in Peter Marlowe's door. He lay on the straw and looked out at the feet and waited for food and listened to the prisoners cursing and dying, for there was plague.

He waited forever.

Then there was peace and clean water and there was no longer just a tiny hole for the world, but the sky was above and there was cool water sponging him, washing away the filth. He opened his eyes and saw a gentle face and it was upside down and there was another face and both were filled with peace and he thought that he was truly dead.

But it was Mac and Larkin. They had found him just before they left the prison for another camp. They had thought that he was a Javanese, like the maniac next door, who still howled and rattled his chains, for he too had been shouting in Malay and looked like the Javanese… "Come on, Peter," Ewart said again. "Grub's up!"

"Oh, thanks." Peter Marlowe collected his mess cans.

"You feeling all right?"

"Yes." After a moment he said, "It's good to be alive, isn't it?"

In the middle of the morning the news flared through Changi. The Japanese Commandant was going to return the camp to the standard ration of rice, to celebrate a great Japanese victory at sea. The Commandant had said that a United States task force had been totally destroyed, that the probe to the Philippines was therefore halted, that even now Japanese forces were regrouping for the invasion of Hawaii.

Rumors and counter-rumors. Opinions and counter-opinions.

"Bloody nonsense! Just put out to cover a defeat."

"I don't think so. They've never given us an increase to celebrate a defeat."

"Listen to him! Increase! We're only getting back something we just lost.

No, old chap. You take my word for it. The bloody Japs are getting their come-uppance. You take it from me!"

"What the hell do you know that we don't? You've a wireless, I suppose?"

"If I had, as sure as God made little apples, I wouldn't tell you."

"By the way, what about Daven?"

"Who?"

"The one who had the wireless."

"Oh, yes, I remember. But I didn't know him. What was he like?"

"Regular sort of bloke, I hear. Pity he got caught."

"I'd like to find the bastard who gave him away. Bet he was an Air Force type. Or an Australian. Those bastards'd sell their souls for a halfpenny!"

"I'm Australian, you Pommy bastard."

"Oh. Take it easy. Just a joke!"

"You've got a funny sense of humor, you bugger."

"Oh, take it easy, you two. It's too hot. Anyone lend me a smoke?"

"Here, take a puff."

"Gee whiz, that tastes rough."

"Papaya leaves. Cured it myself. It's all right once you get used to it."

"Look over there!"

"Where?"

"Going up the road. Marlowe!"

"That him? I'll be damned! I hear he's taken up with the King."

"That's why I pointed him out, you idiot. Whole camp knows about it. You been sleeping or something?"

"Don't blame him. I would if I had half the chance. They say the King's got money and gold rings and food to feed an army."

"I hear he's a homo. That Marlowe's his new girl."

"That's right."

"The hell it is. The King's no homo, just a bloody crook."

"I don't think he's a homo either. He's certainly smart, I'll say that for him.

Miserable bastard."

"Homo or not, I wish I was Marlowe. Did you hear he's got a whole stack of dollars? I heard that he and Larkin were buying some eggs and a whole chicken."

"You're crazy. No one's got that amount of money — except the King.

They've got chickens of their own. Probably one died, that's all! That's another of your bloody stories."

"What do you think Marlowe's got in that billy?"

"Food. What else? You don't need to know anything to know that it's food."

Peter Marlowe headed towards the hospital.

In his mess can was the breast of a chicken, and the leg and the thigh.

Peter Marlowe and Larkin had bought it from Colonel Foster for sixty dollars and some tobacco and the promise of a fertile egg from the clutch that Rajah, the son of Sunset, would soon fertilize through Nonya. They had decided, with Mac's approval, to give Nonya another chance, not to kill her as she deserved, for none of the eggs had hatched. Perhaps it wasn't Nonya, Mac had said, perhaps the cock, which had belonged to Colonel Foster, was no damned good — and all the flurry of wings and pecking and jumping the hens was merely show.

Peter Marlowe sat with Mac while he consumed the chicken, "God, laddie, I haven't felt so good or so full for almost as long as I can remember."

"Fine. You look wonderful, Mac."

Peter Marlowe told Mac where the money for the chicken had come from, and Mac said, "You were right to take the money. Like as not that Prouty laddie stole the thing or made the thing. He was wrong to try to sell a bad piece of merchandise. Remember laddie, Caveat emptor."

"Then why is it," Peter Marlowe asked, "why is it I feel so damned guilty?

You and Larkin say it was right. Though I think Larkin was not so sure as you are —"

"It's business, laddie. Larkin's an accountant. He's not a real businessman. Now, I know the ways of the world."

"You're just a miserable rubber planter. What the hell do you know about business? You've been stuck on a plantation for years!"

"I'll ha' you know," Mac said, his feathers ruffled, "most of planting is being a businessman. Why, every day you have to deal with the Tamils or the Chinese — now there are a race of businessmen. Why, laddie, they invented every trick there was."

So they talked to one another, and Peter Marlowe was pleased that Mac reacted once more to his jibes. Almost without noticing it, they lapsed into Malay.

Then Peter Marlowe said casually, "Knowest thou the thing that is of three things?" For safety he spoke about the radio in parables.

Mac glanced around to make sure they were not being overheard. "Truly.

What of it?"

"Art thou sure now of its particular sickness?"

"Not sure — but almost sure. Why dost thou inquire of it?"

"Because the wind carried a whisper which spoke of medicine to cure the sickness of various kinds."

Mac's face lit up. "Wah-lah," he said. "Thou hast made an old man happy.

In two days I will be out of this place. Then thou wilt take me to this whisperer."

"No. That is not possible. I must do this privately. And quickly."

"I would not have thee in danger," Mac said thoughtfully.

"The wind carried hope. As it is written in the Koran, without hope, man is but an animal."

"It might be better to wait than to seek thy death."

"I would wait, but the knowledge I seek. I must know today."

"Why?" Mac said abruptly in English. "Why today, Peter?"

Peter Marlowe cursed himself for falling into the trap he had so carefully planned to avoid. He knew that if he told Mac about the village, Mac would go out of his head with worry. Not that Mac could stop him, but he knew he would not go if Mac and Larkin asked him not to go. What the hell do I do now?

Then he remembered the advice of the King. "Today, tomorrow, it doesn't matter. Just interested," he said and played his trump. He got up. The oldest trick in the book. "Well, see you tomorrow, Mac. Maybe Larkin and I'll drop around tonight."

"Sit down, laddie. Unless you've something to do."

"I've nothing to do."

Mac testily switched to Malay. "Thou speakest truly? That 'today' meant nothing? The spirit of my father whispered that those who are young will take risks which even the devil would pass by."

"It is written, the scarcity of years does not necessitate lack of wisdom."

Mac studied Peter Marlowe speculatively. Is he up to something?

Something with the King? Well, he thought tiredly, Peter's already in the radio-danger up over his head, and he did carry a third of it all the way from Java.

"I sense danger for thee," he said at length.

"A bear can take the honey of hornets without danger. A spider can seek safely under rocks, for it knows where and how to seek." Peter Marlowe kept his face bland. "Do not fear for me, Old One. I seek only under rocks."

Mac nodded, satisfied. "Knowest thou my container?"

"Assuredly."

"I believe it became sick when a raindrop squeezed through a hole in its sky and touched a thing and festered it like a fallen tree in the jungle. Tha thing is small, like a tiny snake, thin as an earthworm, short as a cockroach." He groaned and stretched. "My back's killing me," he said in English. "Fix my pillow, will you, laddie?"

As Peter Marlowe bent down, Mac lifted himself and whispered in his ear,

"A coupling condenser, three hundred microfarads."

"That better?" Peter Marlowe asked as Mac settled back.

"Fine, laddie, a lot better. Now, be off with you. All that nonsense talk has tired me out."

"You know it amuses you, you old bugger."

"Less of the old, puki mahlu!"

"Senderis!" said Peter Marlowe, and he walked into the sun. A coupling condenser, three hundred microfarads. What the hell's a microfarad?

He was windward of the garage and smelled the sweet gasoline-laden air, heavy with oil and grease. He squatted down beside the path on a patch of grass to enjoy the aroma. My God, he thought, the smell of petrol brings back memories. Planes and Gosport and Farnborough and eight other airfields and Spitfires and Hurricanes.

But I won't think about them now, I'll think about the wireless.

He changed his position and sat in the lotus seat, right foot on left thigh, left foot on right thigh, hands in his lap, knuckles touching and thumbs touching and fingers pointing to his navel. Many times he had sat thus. It helped him think, for once the initial pain had passed, there was a quietude pervading the body and the mind soared free.

He sat quietly and men passed by, hardly noticing him. There was nothing strange in seeing a man sitting thus in the heat of the noon sun, cinder-burned, in a sarong. Nothing strange at all.

Now I know what has to be obtained. Somehow. There's bound to be a wireless in the village. Villages are like magpies — they collect all sorts of things; and he laughed, remembering his village in Java.

He had found it, stumbling in the jungle, exhausted and lost, more dead than alive, far from the threads of road that crisscrossed Java. He had run many miles and the date was March 11. The island forces had capitulated on March 8, and the year was 1942. For three days he had wandered the jungle, eaten by bugs and flies and ripped by thorns and bloodsucked by leeches and soaked by rains. He had seen no one, heard no one since he had left the airfield north, the fighter drome at Bandung. He had left his squadron, what remained of it,, and left his Hurricane. But before he had run away, he had made his dead airplane — twisted, broken by bomb and tracer — a funeral pyre. A man could do no less than cremate his friend.

When he came upon the village it was sunset. The Javanese who surrounded him were hostile. They did not touch him, but the anger in their faces was clear to see. They stared at him silently, and no one made a move to succor him. "Can I have some food and water?" he had asked.

No answer.

Then he had seen the well and gone over to it, followed by angry eyes, and had drunk deep from it. Then he had sat down and had begun to wait.

The village was small, well hidden. It seemed quite rich. The houses, built around a square, were on stilts and made of bamboo and atap. And under the houses were many pigs and chickens. Near a larger house was a corral and in it were five water buffalo. That meant the village was well-to-do. At length he was led to the house of the headman. The silent natives followed up the steps but did not enter the house. They sat on the veranda and listened and waited.

The headman was old, nut-brown and withered. And hostile. The house, like all their houses, was one large room partitioned by atap screens into small sections.

In the center of the section devoted to eating, talking, and thinking was a porcelain toilet bowl, complete with a seat and lid. There were no water connections and the toilet sat in a place of honor on a woven carpet. In front of the toilet bowl on another mat the headman sat on his haunches.

His eyes were piercing.

"What do you want? Tuan!" and the "Tuan" was an accusation.

"I just wanted some food and water, sir, and perhaps I could stay for a little while until I've caught up with myself."

"You call me sir, when three days ago you and the rest of the whites were calling us Wogs and were spitting upon us?"

"I never called you Wogs. I was sent here to try to protect your country from the Japanese."

"They have liberated us from the pestilential Dutch! As they will liberate the whole of the Far East from the white imperialists!"

"Perhaps. But I think you'll regret the day they came!"

"Get out of my village. Go with the rest of the imperialists. Go before I call the Japanese themselves."

"It is written, 'If a stranger comes to thee and asks for hospitality, give it to him that thou find favor in the sight of Allah.'"

The headman had looked at him aghast. Nut-brown skin, short baju coat, multicolored sarong and the decorating head cloth in the gathering darkness.

"What do you know of the Koran and the words of the Prophet?"

"On whose name be praise," Peter Marlowe said. "The Koran had been translated into English for many years by many men." He was fighting for his life. He knew that if he could stay in the village he might be able to get a boat to sail to Australia. Not that he knew how to sail a boat, but the risk was worthwhile. Captivity was death.

"Are you one of the Faithful?" the astonished headman asked.

Peter Marlowe hesitated. He could easily pretend to be a Mohammedan.

Part of his training had been to study the Book of Islam. Officers of His Majesty's forces had to serve in many lands. Hereditary officers are trained in many things over and apart from formal schooling.

If he said yes, he knew he would be safe, for Java was mostly the domain of Mohammed.

"No. I am not one of the Faithful." He was tired and at the end of his run.

"At least I don't know. I was taught to believe in God. My father used to tell us, my sisters and I, that God has many names. Even Christians say that there is a Holy Trinity — that there are parts of God.

"I don't think it matters what you call God. God won't mind if he is recognized as Jesus or Allah, or Buddha or Jehovah, or even You! —because if he is God, then he knows that we are only finite and don't know too much about anything."

"I believe Mohammed was a man of God, a Prophet of God. I think Jesus was of God, as Mohammed calls him in the Koran, the 'most blameless of the Prophets.' That Mohammed is the last of the Prophets as he claimed, I don't know. I don't think that we, humans, can be certain about anything to do with God."

"But I do not believe that God is an old man with a long white beard who sits on a golden throne far up in the sky. I do not believe, as Mohammed promised, that the Faithful will go to a paradise where they will lie on silken couches and drink wine and have many beautiful maids to serve them, or that Paradise will be a garden with an abundance of green foliage and pure streams and fruit trees. I do not believe that angels have wings growing from their backs."

Night swooped over the village. A baby cried and was gentled back to sleep.

"One day I will know for certain by what name to call God. The day I die."

The silence gathered. "I think it would be very depressing to discover there was no God." The headman motioned for Peter Marlowe to sit.

"You may stay. But there are conditions. You will swear to obey our laws and be one of us. You will work in the paddy and work in the village, the work of a man. No more and no less than any man. You will learn our language and speak only our language and wear our dress and dye the color of your skin. Your height and the color of your eyes will shout that you are a white man, but perhaps color, dress and language may protect you for a time; perhaps it can be said that you are half Javanese, half white. You will touch no woman here without permission. And you will obey me without question."

"Agreed."

"There is one other thing. To hide an enemy of the Japanese is dangerous. You must know that when the time comes for me to choose between you and my people to protect my village, I will choose my village."

"I understand. Thank you, sir."

"Swear by your God —" a nicker of a smile swept the features of the old man, "swear by God that you will obey and agree to these conditions."

"I swear by God I agree and will obey. And I'll do nothing to harm you while I'm here."

"You harm us by your very presence, my son," the old man replied.

After Peter Marlowe had had the food and drink, the headman said, "Now you will speak no more English. Only Malay. From this moment on. It is the only way for you to learn quickly."

"All right. But first may I ask you one thing?"

"Yes."

"What is the significance of the toilet bowl? I mean, it hasn't any pipes attached to it."

"It has no significance, other than that it pleases me to watch the faces of my guests and hear them thinking, 'What a ridiculous thing to have an as ornament in a house.'"

And huge waves of laughter engulfed the old man and the tears ran down his cheeks and his whole household was in an uproar and his wives came in to succor him and rub his back and stomach, and then they too were shrieking and so was Peter Marlowe.

Peter Marlowe smiled again, remembering. Now that was a man! Tuan Abu. But I won't think any more today about my village, or my friends of the village, or N'ai, the daughter of the village they gave me to touch.

Today I'll think about the wireless and how I'm going to get the condenser and sharpen my wits for the village tonight.

He unwound himself from the lotus seat, then waited patiently till the blood began to flow in his veins once more. Around him was the sweet gasoline smell, carried by a breeze. Also on the breeze came voices raised in hymn. They came from the open air theater, which today was the Church of England. Last week it was a Catholic Church, the week before the Seventh-day Adventist, the week before another denomination. They were tolerant in Changi.

There were many parishioners crowding the rough seats. Some were there because of a faith, some were there for lack of a faith. Some were there for something to do, some were there because there was nothing else to do. Today Chaplain Drinkwater was conducting the service.

Chaplain Drinkwater's voice was rich and round. His sincerity poured from him and the words of the Bible sprang to life, and gave you hope, and made you forget that Changi was fact, that there was no food in your belly.

Rotten hypocrite, Peter Marlowe thought, despising Drinkwater, remembering once again…

"Hey, Peter," Dave Daven had whispered that day, "look over there."

Peter Marlowe saw Drinkwater talking with a withered RAF corporal called Blodger. Drinkwater's bunk had a favored spot near the door of Hut Sixteen.

"That must be his new batman," Daven said. Even in the camp the age-old tradition was kept.

"What happened to the other one?"

"Lyles? My man told me he was up in hospital. Ward Six."

Peter Marlowe got to his feet. "Drinkwater can do what he likes with Army types, but he's not getting one of mine."

He walked the four bunk lengths. "Blodger!"

"What do you want, Marlowe?" Drinkwater said.

Peter Marlowe ignored him. "What're you doing here, Blodger?"

"I was just seeing the chaplain, sir. I'm sorry, sir," he said moving closer,

"I don't see you too well."

"Flight Lieutenant Marlowe."

"Oh. How're you, sir? I'm the chaplain's new batman, sir."

"You get out of here, and before you take a job as a batman, you come and ask me first!"

"But sir —"

"Who do you think you are, Marlowe?" Drinkwater snapped. "You've no jurisdiction over him."

"He's not going to be your batman."

"Why?"

"Because I say so. You're dismissed, Blodger."

"But sir, I'll look after the chaplain fine, I really will. I'll work hard —"

"Where'd you get that cigarette?"

"Now look here, Marlowe —" Drinkwater began.

Peter Marlowe whirled on him. "Shut up!" Others in the hut stopped what they were doing and began to collect.

"Where did you get that cigarette, Blodger?"

"The chaplain gave it to me," whimpered Blodger, backing away, frightened by the edge to Peter Marlowe's voice. "I gave him my egg. He promised me tobacco in exchange for my daily egg. I want the tobacco and he can have the egg."

"There's no harm in that," Drinkwater blustered, "no harm in giving the boy some tobacco. He asked me for it. In exchange for an egg."

"You been up to Ward Six recently?" Peter Marlowe asked. "Did you help them admit Lyles? Your last batman? He's got no eyes now."

"That's not my fault. I didn't do anything about him."

"How many of his eggs did you have?"

"None. I had none."

Peter Marlowe snatched a Bible and thrust it into Drinkwater's hands.

"Swear it, then I'll believe you. Swear it or by God I'll do you!"

"I swear it!" Drinkwater moaned.

"You lying bastard," Daven shouted, "I've seen you take Lyles' eggs. We all have."

Peter Marlowe grabbed Drinkwater's mess can and found the egg. Then he smashed it against Drinkwater's face, cramming the egg shell into his mouth. Drinkwater fainted.

Peter Marlowe dashed a bowl of water in his face, and he came to.

"Bless you, Marlowe," he had whispered. "Bless you for showing me the error of my ways." He had knelt beside the bunk. "Oh God, forgive this unworthy sinner. Forgive me my sins…"

Now, on this sun-kissed Sunday, Peter Marlowe listened as Drinkwater finished the sermon. Blodger had long since gone to Ward Six, but whether Drinkwater had helped him there, Peter Marlowe could never prove. Drinkwater still got many eggs from somewhere.

Peter Marlowe's stomach told him it was time for lunch.

When he got back to his hut, the men were already waiting, mess cans in hands, impatient. The extra was not going to arrive today. Or tomorrow according to rumor. Ewart had already checked the cookhouse. Just the usual. That was all right too, but why the hell don't they hurry up?

Grey was sitting on the end of his bed.

"Well, Marlowe," he said, "you eating with us these days? Such a pleasant surprise."

"Yes, Grey, I'm still eating here. Why don't you just run along and play cops and robbers? You know, pick on someone who can't hit back!"

"Not a chance, old man. Got my eye on bigger game."

"Jolly good luck." Peter Marlowe got his mess cans ready. Across the way from him Brough, kibitzing a game of bridge, winked.

"Cops!" he whispered. "They're all the same."

"That's right."

He joined Peter Marlowe. "Hear you've a new buddy."

"That's right." Peter Marlowe was on his guard.

"It's a free country. But sometimes a guy's got to get out on a limb and make a point."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Fast company can sometimes get out of hand."

"That's true in any country."

"Maybe," Brough grinned, "maybe you'd like to have a cuppa Joe sometime and chew the fat."

"I'd like that. How about tomorrow? After chow —" Involuntarily he used the King's word. But he didn't correct himself. He smiled and Brough smiled back.

"Hey, grub's up!" Ewart called out.

"Thank God for that," Phil groaned. "How about a deal, Peter? Your rice for my stew?"

"You've got a hope!"

"No harm in trying."

Peter Marlowe went outside and joined the mess line. Raylins was serving out the rice. Good, he thought, no need to worry today.

Raylins was middle-aged and bald. He had been a junior manager in the Bank of Singapore and, like Ewart, one of the Malayan Regiment. In peacetime it was a great organization to belong to. Lots of parties, cricket, polo. A man had to be in the Regiment to be anyone. Raylins also looked after the mess fund, and banqueting was his specialty. When they gave him a gun and told him he was in the war and ordered him to take his platoon across the causeway and fight the Japanese, he had looked at the colonel and laughed. His job was accounts. But it hadn't helped him, and he had had to take twenty men, as untrained as himself, and march up the road. He had marched, then suddenly his twenty men were three. Thirteen had been killed instantly in the ambush. Four were only wounded. They were lying in the middle of the road screaming. One had his hand blown off and he was staring at the stump stupidly, catching his blood in his only hand, trying to pour it back into his arm. Another was laughing, laughing as he crammed his entrails back into the gaping hole.

Raylins had stared stupidly as the Japanese tank came down the road, guns blazing. Then the tank was past and the four were merely stains on the asphalt. He had looked at his remaining three men — Ewart was one of them. They had looked back at him. Then they were running, running terror-stricken into the jungle. Then they were lost. Then he was alone, alone in a horror night of leeches and noises, and the only thing that saved him from insanity was a Malay child who had found him babbling and had guided him to a village. He had sneaked into the building where remnants of an army were collected. The next day the Japanese shot two of every ten. He and a few others were kept in the building. Later they were put into a truck and sent to a camp and he was among his own people. But he could never forget his friend Charles, the one with his intestines hanging out.

Raylins spent most of his time in a fog. For the life of him he could not understand why he wasn't in his bank counting his figures, clean neat figures, and why he was in a camp where he excelled at one thing. He could deal out an unknown amount of rice into exactly the right number of parts. Almost to the grain.

"Ah Peter," Raylins said, giving him his share, "you knew Charles, didn't you?"

"Oh yes, nice fellow." Peter Marlowe didn't know him. None of them did.

"Do you think he ever got them back in?" Raylins asked.

"Oh yes. Certainly." Peter Marlowe took his food away as Raylins turned to the next in line.

"Ah, Chaplain Grover, it's a warm day, isn't it? You knew Charles, didn't you?"

"Yes," the Chaplain said, eyes on the measure of rice. "I'm sure he did, Raylins."

"Good, good. I'm glad to hear it. Funny place to find your insides, on the outside, just like that."

Raylins' mind wandered to his cool, cool bank and to his wife, whom he would see tonight, when he left the bank, in their neat little bungalow near the racecourse. Let me see, he thought, we'll have lamb for dinner tonight.

Lamb! And a nice cool beer. Then I'll play with Penelope, and the missus'll be content to sit on the veranda and sew.

"Ah," he said, happily recognizing Ewart. "Would you like to come to dinner tonight, Ewart old boy? Perhaps you'd like to bring the missus."

Ewart mumbled through clenched teeth. He took his rice and stew and turned away.

"Take it easy, Ewart," Peter Marlowe cautioned him

"Take it easy yourself! How do you know what it feels like? I swear to God I'll kill him one day."

"Don't worry —"

"Worry! They're dead. His wife and child are dead. I saw them dead. But my wife and two children? Where are they, eh? Where? Somewhere dead too. They've got to be after all this time. Dead!"

"They're in the civilian camp—"

"How in Christ's name do you know? You don't, I don't, and it's only five miles away. They're dead! Oh my God," and Ewart sat down and wept, spilling his rice and stew on the ground. Peter Marlowe scooped up the rice and the leaves that floated in the stew and put them in Ewart's mess can.

"Next week they'll let you write a letter. Or maybe they'll let you visit. The Camp Commandant's always asking for a list of the women and children.

Don't worry, they're safe." Peter Marlowe left him slobbering his rice into his face, and took his own rice and went down to the bungalow.

"Hello, cobber," Larkin said. "You been up to see Mac?"

"Yes. He looks fine. He even started getting ruffled about his age."

"It'll be good to get old Mac back." Larkin reached under his mattress and brought out a spare mess can. "Got a surprise!" He opened the mess can and revealed a two-inch square of brownish puttylike substance.

"By all that's holy! Blachang! Where the devil did you get it?"

"Scrounged it, of course."

"You're a genius, Colonel. Funny, I didn't smell it." Peter Marlowe leaned over and took a tiny piece of the blachang. "This'll last us a couple of weeks."

Blachang was a native delicacy, easy to make. When the season was right, you went to the shore and netted the myriads of tiny sea creatures that hovered in the surf. You buried them in a pit lined with seaweed, then covered it with more seaweed and forgot about it for two months.

When you opened the pit, the fishes had decayed into a stinking paste, the stench of which would blow your head off and destroy your sense of smell for a week. Holding your breath, you scooped up the paste and fried it. But you had to stay to windward or you'd suffocate. When it cooled, you shaped it into blocks and sold it for fortune. Prewar, ten cents a cube. Now maybe ten dollars a sliver. Why a delicacy? It was pure protein. And a tiny fraction would flavor a whole bowl of rice. Of course you could easily get dysentery from it. But if it'd been aged right and cooked right and hadn't been touched by flies, it was all right.

But you never asked. You just said, "Colonel, you're a genius," and spooned it into your rice and enjoyed it.

"Take some up to Mac, eh?"

"Good idea. But he's sure to complain it's not cooked enough."

"Old Mac'd complain if it was cooked to perfection —" Larkin stopped.

"Hey, Johnny," he called to the tall man walking past, leading a scrawny mongrel on a tether. "Would you like some blachang, cobber?"

"Would I?"

They gave him a portion on a banana leaf and talked of the weather and asked how the dog was. John Hawkins loved his dog above all things. He shared his food with it - astonishing the things a dog would eat - and it slept on his bunk. Rover was a good friend. Made a man feel civilized.

"Would you like some bridge tonight? I'll bring a fourth," Hawkins said.

"Can't tonight," Peter Marlowe said, maiming flies.

"I can get Gordon, next door," suggested Larkin.

"Great. After dinner?"

"Good-oh, see you then."

"Thanks for the blachang," Hawkins said as he left, Rover yapping happily beside him.

"How the hell he gets enough to feed himself and that dingo, damned if I know," Larkin said. "Or kept him out of some bugger's billy can for that matter!"

Peter Marlowe stirred his rice, mixing the blachang carefully. He wanted very much to share the secret of his trip tonight with Larkin. But he knew it was too dangerous.