King Rat

Chapter 15

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 —"

"My hens are my children, idiot! Hen, child, what's the difference?

Hawkins is a dirty murderer. A murderer, you hear?"

"Look, Colonel," Grey said angrily. "Hawkins can't give you another hen.

He's said he's sorry. The dog got off its leash —"

"I want a court-martial. Hawkins the murderer and his beast, a murderer."

Colonel Foster's mouth was flecked with foam. "That bloody beast killed my hen and ate it. He ate it and there's only feathers to show for one of my children." Snarling, he suddenly darted at Hawkins, his hands outstretched, nails like talons, tearing at the dog in Hawkins' arms, screaming, "I'll kill you and your bloody beast."

Hawkins avoided Foster and shoved him away. The colonel fell to the ground and Rover whimpered with fear.

"I've said I'm sorry," Hawkins choked out. "If I had the money I'd gladly give you two, ten hens, but I can't! Grey —" Hawkins desperately turned to him - "for the love of God do something."

"What the hell can I do?" Grey was tired and mad and had dysentery.

"You know I can't do anything. I'll have to report it. But you'd better get rid of that dog."

"What do you mean?"

"Holy Christ," Grey stormed at him, "I mean get rid of it. Kill it. And if you won't, get someone else to do it. But, by God, see that it's not in the camp by nightfall."

"It's my dog. You can't order —"

"The hell I can't!" Grey tried to control his stomach muscles. He liked Hawkins, always had, but that didn't mean anything now. "You know the rules. You've been warned to keep it leashed and keep it out of this area.

Rover killed and ate the hen. There are witnesses who saw him do it."

Colonel Foster picked himself off the ground, his eyes black and beady.

"I'm going to kill it," he hissed. "The dog's mine to kill. An eye for an eye."

Grey stepped in front of Foster, who hunched ready for another attack.

"Colonel Foster. This matter will be reported. Captain Hawkins has been ordered to destroy the dog —"

Foster didn't seem to hear Grey. "I want that beast. I'm going to kill it. Just like it killed my hen. It's mine. I'm going to kill it." He began creeping forward, salivating. "Just like it killed my child."

Grey held his hand out. "No! Hawkins will destroy it."

"Colonel Foster," Hawkins said abjectly, "I beg you, please, please, accept my apologies. Let me keep the dog, it won't happen again."

"No it won't." Colonel Foster laughed insanely. "It's dead and it's mine."

He lunged forward, but Hawkins backed off and Grey caught the colonel's arm.

"Stop it," Grey shouted, "or I'll put you under arrest! This is no way for a senior officer to conduct himself. Get away from Hawkins. Get away."

Foster tore his arm away from Grey. His voice was little more than a whisper as he talked directly to Hawkins. "Ill get even with you, murderer.

I'll get even with you." He went back to his chicken coop and crawled inside, into his home, the place where he lived and slept and ate with his children, his hens.

Grey turned back to Hawkins. "Sorry, Hawkins, but get rid of it."

"Grey," Hawkins pleaded, "please take back the order. Please, I beg you, I'll do anything, anything."

"I can't." Grey had no alternative. "You know I can't, Hawkins, old man. I can't. Get rid of it. But do it quickly."

Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

Hawkins' cheeks were wet with tears, the dog cradled in his arms. Then he saw Peter Marlowe. "Peter, for the love of God help me."

"I can't, Johnny. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do or anyone can do"

Grief-stricken, Hawkins looked around at the silent men. He was weeping openly now. The men turned away, for there was nothing that could be done. If a man had killed a hen, well, it would be almost the same, perhaps the same. A pitying moment, then Hawkins ran away sobbing, Rover still in his arms.

"Poor chap," Peter Marlowe said to Max.

"Yeah, but thank God it wasn't one of the King's hens. Jesus, that'd be my lot."

Max locked the coop and nodded to Peter Marlowe as he left.

Max liked looking after the hens. Nothing like an extra egg from time to time. And there's no risk when you suck the egg quick and pound the shell to dust and put it back in the hens' food. No clues left then. And the shells are good for the hens too. And hell, what's an egg here and there from the King? Just so long as there's at least one a day for the King, there's no sweat. Hell no! Max was indeed happy. For a whole week he'd be looking after the hens.

Later that day, after lunch, Peter Marlowe was lying on his bunk resting.

"Excuse me, sir."

Peter Marlowe looked up and saw that Dino was standing beside the bunk. "Yes?" He glanced around the hut and felt a twinge of embarrassment.

"Uh, can I speak to you, sir?" The "sir" sounded impertinent as usual.

Why is it Americans can't say "sir" so that it sounds ordinary? Peter Marlowe thought. He got up and followed him out.

Dino led the way to the center of the little clearing between the huts.

"Listen, Pete," Dino said urgently. "The King wants you. And you're to bring Larkin and Mac."

"What's the matter?"

"He just said to bring them. You're to meet him inside the jail in Cell Fifty-four on the fourth floor in half an hour."

Officers weren't allowed inside the jail. Japanese orders. Enforced by the camp police. God. Now that's risky. "Is that all he said?"

"Yeah. That's all. Cell Fifty-four, fourth floor, in half an hour. See you around, Pete."

Now what's up, Peter Marlowe asked himself. He hurried down to Larkin and Mac and told them. "What do you think, Mac?"

"Well, laddie," Mac said carefully, "I dinna think that the King'd lightly ask the three of us, without an explanation, unless it was important."

"What about going into the jail?"

"If we get caught," said Larkin, "we better have a story. Grey'll hear about it sure enough and put a bad smell on it. Best thing to do is to go separately. I can always say I'm going to see some of the Aussies who're billeted in the jail. What about you, Mac?"

"Some of the Malayan Regiment are there. I could be visiting one of them.

How about you, Peter?"

"There are some RAF types I could be seeing." Peter Marlowe hesitated.

"Perhaps I should go and see what it's about and then come back and tell you."

"No. If you're not seen going in, you might be caught coming out and stopped. Then they'd never let you back in. You couldn't disobey a direct order and go back a second time. No. I think we'd better go. But we'll go independently." Larkin smiled. "Mystery, eh? Wonder what's up?"

"I hope to God it isn't trouble."

"Ah, laddie," said Mac. "Living in these times is trouble. I wouldn't feel safe not going — the King's got friends in high places. He might know something."

"What about the bottles?"

They thought a moment, then Larkin broke the silence. "We'll take them."

"Isn't that dangerous? I mean, once inside the jail, if there's a snap search, we could never hide them."

"If we're going to get caught, we're going to get caught." Larkin was serious and hard-faced. "It's either in the cards or it isn't."

"Hey Peter," Ewart called out as he saw Peter Marlowe leaving the hut.

"You forgot your armband."

"Oh, thanks." Peter Marlowe swore to himself as he went back to his bunk.

"Forgot the damned thing."

"I'm always doing it. Can't be too careful."

"That's right. Thanks again."

Peter Marlowe joined the men walking the path beside the wall. He followed it north and turned the corner and before him was the gate. He slipped off his armband and felt suddenly naked and felt that the men who passed or approached were looking at him and wondering why this officer was not wearing an armband. Ahead, two hundred yards, was the end of the road west. The barricade was open now, for some of the work parties were returning from their day's work. Most of the laborers were exhausted, hauling the huge trailers with the stumps of trees that were dug with so much labor out of the swamps, destined for the camp cookhouses. Peter Marlowe remembered that the day after tomorrow he was going on such a party. He didn't mind the almost daily work parties to the airfield. That was easy work. But the wood detail was different. Hauling the logs was dangerous work. Many got ruptured from the lack of the tackle that would make the work easy. Many broke limbs and sprained ankles. They all had to go — the fit ones, once or twice a week, officers as well as men, for the cookhouse consumed much firewood — and it was fair that those who were fit collected for those who were not.

Beside the gate was the MP and on the opposite side of the gate the Korean guard leaned against the wall smoking, lethargically watching the men who passed. The MP was looking at the work party shuffling through the gate. There was one man lying on the trailer. One or two usually ended up that way, but they had to be very tired, or very sick, to be hauled back home to Changi.

Peter Marlowe slipped past the distracted guards and joined the men milling the huge concrete square.

He found his way into one of the cellblocks and began picking his way up the metal stairways and over the beds and bed rolls. There were men everywhere. On the stairways, in the corridors, and in the open cells —f our or five to a cell designed for one man. He felt the growing horror of pressure from above, from below, from all around. The stench was nauseating. Stench from rotting bodies. Stench of unwashed human bodies. Stench of a generation of confined human bodies. Stench of walls, prison walls.

Peter Marlowe found Cell 54. The door was shut, so he opened it and went in. Mac and Larkin were already there.

"Christ, the smell of this place is killing me."

"Me too, cobber," said Larkin. He was sweating. Mac was sweating. The air was close and the concrete walls were moist with their own wall-sweat and stained with the mold of years of wall-sweat.

The cell was about seven feet wide and eight feet long and ten feet high.

In the center of the cell, cemented to one wall, was a bed — a solid block of concrete three feet high and three feet wide and six feet long.

Protruding from the bed was a concrete pillow. In one corner of the cell was a toilet - a hole in the floor which joined to the sewer. The sewers no longer worked. There was a tiny barred window nine feet up one wall, but the sky could not be seen because the wall was two feet thick.

"Mac. We'll give them a few minutes, then get out of this bloody place,"

Larkin said.

"Ay, laddie."

"At least let's open the door," Peter Marlowe said, the sweat pouring off him.

"Better keep it closed, Peter. Safer," Larkin replied uneasily.

"I'd rather be dead than live here."

"Ay. Thank God for the outside."

"Hey, Larkin." Mac indicated the blankets lying on the concrete bed. "I don't understand where the men are who live in the cell. They can't all be on a work party."

"I don't know either." Larkin was getting nervous. "Let's get out of here…"

The door opened and the King came in beaming with pleasure. "Hi, you guys!" In his arms were some packages and he stood aside as Tex came in, also laden. "Put 'em on the bed, Tex."

Tex put down the electric hot plate and the large stewpan and kicked the door shut as they watched, astonished.

"Go get some water," the King said to Tex.

"Sure."

"What's going on? Why did you want to see us?" said Larkin.

The King laughed. "We're going to have a cook-up."

"For Christ sake! You mean to say you got us in here just for that? Why the hell couldn't we have done it in our billet?" Larkin was furious. The King merely looked at him and grinned. He turned his back and opened a package. Tex returned with the water and put the stewpan on the electric stove.

"Rajah, look, what-" Peter Marlowe stopped.

The King was emptying the best part of two pounds of katchang idju beans into the water. Then he added salt and two heaping spoons of sugar. Then he turned around and opened another package wrapped in banana-leaf and held it up.

"Mother of God!"

There was a sudden stunned silence in the cell.

The King was delighted with the effect of his surprise. 'Told you, Tex," he grinned. "You owe me a buck."

Mac reached out and touched the meat. "Mahlu. It's real."

Larkin touched the meat. "I'd forgotten what meat looked like," he said in a voice hushed with awe. "My bloody oath, you're a genius. Genius."

"It's my birthday. So I figured we'd have a celebration. And I've got this,"

the King said, holding up a bottle.

"What is it?"

"Sake!"

"I don't believe it," Mac said. "Why, there's the whole hindquarters of a pig here." He bent forward and sniffed it. "My God, it's real, real, real, and fresh as a day in May, hurray!"

They all laughed.

"Better lock the door, Tex." The King turned to Peter Marlowe. "Okay, partner?"

Peter Marlowe was still staring at the meat. "Where the hell did you get it?"

"Long story!" The King took out a knife and scored the meat, then deftly broke the small hindquarters into two joints and put them into the stewpan.

They all watched, fascinated, as he added a quantity of salt, adjusted the pan to the absolute center of the hot plate, then sat back on the concrete bed and crossed his legs. "Not bad, huh?"

For a long time no one spoke.

A sudden twist of the door handle broke the spell. The King nodded to Tex, who unlocked the door, opened it a fraction, then swung it wide.

Brough entered.

He looked around astonished. Then noticed the stove. He went over and peered into the stewpot. "I'll be goddamned!"

The King grinned. "It's my birthday. Thought I'd invite you to dinner."

"You got yourself a guest." Brough stuck out his hand to Larkin. "Don Brough, Colonel."

"Grant's my Christian name! You know Mac and Peter?"

"Sure." Brough grinned at them and turned to Tex. "Hi, Tex!"

"Good to see you, Don."

The King motioned to the bed. "Take a seat, Don. Then we got to go to work!"

Peter Marlowe wondered why it was that American enlisted men and officers called themselves by Christian names so easily. It didn't sound cheap or unctuous — it seemed almost correct — and he had noticed that Brough was always obeyed as their leader even though they all called him Don to his face. Remarkable.

"What's this work jazz?" asked Brough.

The King pulled out some strips of blankets. "We're going to have to seal the door."

"What?" Larkin said incredulously.

"Sure," the King said. "When this begins cooking, we're liable to have us a riot on our hands. The guys start smelling this, Chrissake, figure for yourselves. We could get torn apart. This was the only place I could figure where we could cook in private. The smell will mostly go out the window. If we seal the door good, that is. We couldn't cook it outside, that's for sure."

"Larkin was right," said Mac solemnly. "You're a genius. I'd never have thought of it. Believe me," he added laughing, "Americans, henceforth, are amongst my friends!"

"Thanks, Mac. Now we'd better do it."

The King's guest took the strips of blanket and stuffed them in the cracks around the door and covered the barred peephole in the door. When they had finished the Kong inspected their work.

"Good," he said. "Now, what about the window?"

They looked up at the little barred section of sky, and Brough said, "Leave it open until the stew really begins to boil. Then we'll cover it and stand it as long as we can. Then we can open it up for a while." He looked around.

"I figure it might be all right to let the perfume out sporadically. Like an Indian smoke signal."

"Is there any wind?"

"Goddamned if I noticed. Anyone?"

"Hey Peter, give me a lift up, laddie," said Mac. Mac was the smallest of the men, so Peter Marlowe let him stand on his shoulders. Mac peered through the bars, then licked his finger and held it out.

"Hurry up, Mac, for God's sake — you're no chicken, you know!" Peter Marlowe called out.

"Got to test for wind, you young bastard!" And again he licked his finger and held it out, and he looked so intent and so ridiculous that Peter Marlowe began laughing, and Larkin joined in, and they doubled up and Mac fell down six feet and grazed his leg on the concrete bed and began cursing.

"Look at my bloody leg, blast you," Mac said, choking. It was only a little graze, but there was a trickle of blood. "I bloody near scraped the skin off the whole bloody thing."

"Look, Peter," groaned Larkin, holding his stomach, "Mac's got blood. I always thought he had only latex in his veins!"

"Go to hell, you bastards, mahlu!" Mac said irascibly, then a fit of laughter caught him and he got up and grabbed Peter Marlowe and Larkin and began to sing "Ring around the roses, pocket full of posies…"

And Peter Marlowe grabbed Brough's arm, and Brough took Tex's, and the chain of men, hysterical with the song, wove around the stewpot and the King, seated crosslegged behind it.

Mac broke the chain. "Hail, Caesar. We who are about to eat salute thee."

As one, they threw him the salute and collapsed in a heap.

"Get off my blasted arm, Peter!"

"You've got your foot in my balls, you bastard," Larkin swore at Brough.

"Sorry, Grant. Oh Jesus! I haven't laughed so much in years."

"Hey, Rajah," said Peter Marlowe, "I think we all ought to stir it once for luck."

"Be my guest," the King said. It did his heart good to see these guys so happy.

Solemnly they lined up and Peter Marlowe stirred the brew, which was growing hot now. Mac took the spoon and stirred and bestowed an obscene blessing upon it. Larkin, not to be outdone, began to stir, saying,

"Boil, boil, boil and bubble…"

"You out of your mind?" said Brough. "Quoting Macbeth for Chrissake!"

"What's the matter?"

"It's unlucky. Quoting Macbeth. Like whistling in a theater dressing room."

"It is?"

"Any fool knows that!"

"I'll be damned. Never knew that before." Larkin frowned.

"Anyway, you quoted it wrong," said Brough. "It's 'Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble'!"

"Oh no it isn't, Yankee. I know my Shakespeare!"

"Betcha tomorrow's rice."

"Watch it, Colonel," said Mac suspiciously, knowing Larkin's propensity for gambling. "No man'd bet that lightly."

"I'm right, Mac," Larkin said, but he didn't like the smug expression on the American's face. "What makes you so sure you're right?"

"Is it a bet?" asked Brough.

Larkin thought a moment. He liked a gamble — but tomorrow's rice was too high stakes. "No. I'll lay my rice ration on the card table, but I'll be damned if I'll lay it on Shakespeare."

"Pity," Brough said. "I could've used an extra ration. It's Act Four, Scene One, line ten."

"How the hell can you be that exact?"

"Nothing to it," Brough said. "I was majoring in the arts at USC, with a big emphasis on journalism and playwriting. I'm going to be a writer when I get out."

Mac leaned forward and peered into the pot. "I envy you, laddie. Writing can be just about the most important job in the whole world. If it's any good."

"That's a lot of nonsense, Mac," said Peter Marlowe. "There are a million things more important."

"That just goes to show how little you know."

"Business is much more important," interjected the King. "Without business, the world'd stop — and without money and a stable economy there'd be no one to buy any books."

"To hell with business and economy," Brough said. "They're just material things. It's just like Mac says."

"Mac," said Peter Marlowe. "What makes it so important?"

"Well, laddie, first it's something I've always wanted to do and can't. I tried many times, but I could never finish anything. That's the hardest part — to finish. But the most important thing is that writers are the only people who can do something about this planet. A businessman can't do anything —"

"That's crap," said the King. "What about Rockefeller? And Morgan and Ford and du Pont? And all the others? It's their philanthropy that finances a helluva lot of research and libraries and hospitals and art. Why, without their dough —"

"But they made their money at someone's expense," Brough said crisply.

"They could easily plow some of their billions back to the men who made it for them. Those bloodsuckers —"

"I suppose you're a Democrat?" said the King heatedly.

"You betcha sweet life I am. Look at Roosevelt. Look what he's doing for the country. He dragged it up by its bootstrings when the goddam Republicans —"

"That's crap and you know it. Nothing to do with the Republicans. It was an economic cycle —"

"Crapdoodle on economic cycles. The Republicans —"

"Hey, you fellows," said Larkin mildly. "No politics until after we've eaten, what do you say?"

"Well, all right," Brough said grimly, "but this guy's from Christmas."

"Mac, why is it so important? I still don't see."

"Well. A writer can put down on a piece of paper an idea — or a point of view. If he's any good he can sway people, even if it's written on toilet paper. And he's the only one in our modern economy who can do it —who can change the world. A businessman can't — without substantial money. A politician can't — without substantial position or power. A planter can't, certainly. An accountant can't, right, Larkin?"

"Sure."

"But you're talking about propaganda," Brough said. "I don't want to write propaganda."

"You ever written for movies, Don?" asked the King.

"I've never sold anything to anyone. Guy's not a writer until he sells something. But movies are goddam important. You know that Lenin said the movies were the most important propaganda medium ever invented?"

He saw the King readying an assault. "And I'm not a Commie, you son of a bitch, just because I'm a Democrat." He turned to Mac. "Jesus, if you read Lenin or Stalin or Trotsky you're called a Commie."

"Well, you gotta admit, Don," said the King, "a lotta Democrats are pinks."

"Since when has being pro-Russian meant that a guy's a Communist?

They are our allies, you know!"

"I'm sorry about that — in a historical way," said Mac.

"Why?"

"We're going to have a lot of trouble afterwards. Particularly in the Orient.

Those folk were stirring up a lot of trouble, even before the war."

"Television's going to be the coming thing," said Peter Marlowe, watching a thread of vapor dance the surface of the stew. "You know, I saw a demonstration from Alexandra Palace in London. Baird is sending out a program once a week."

"I heard about television," said Brough. "Never seen any."

The King nodded. "I haven't either, but that could make one hell of a business."

"Not in the States, that's for sure," Brough grunted. "Think of the distances! Hell, that might be all right for one of the little countries, like England, but not a real country like the States."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Peter Marlowe, stiffening.

"I mean that if it wasn't for us, this war'd go on forever. Why, it's our money and our weapons and our power —"

"Listen, old man, we did all right alone — giving you buggers the time to get off your arse. It is your war just as much as ours." Peter Marlowe glared at Brough, who glared back.

"Crap! Why the hell you Europeans can't go and kill yourselves off like you've been doing for centuries and let us alone, I don't know. We had to bail you out before —"

And in no time at all they were arguing and swearing and no one was listening and each had a very firm opinion and each opinion was right.

The King was angrily shaking his fist at Brough, who shook his fist back, and Peter Marlowe was shouting at Mac, when suddenly there was a crashing on the door.

Immediate silence.

"Wot's all the bleedin' row about?" a voice said.

"That you, Griffiths?"

"Who d'ja fink it was, Adolf bloody 'itler? Yer want'a get us jailed or somefink?"

"No. Sorry."

"Keep tha bleedin' noise down!"

"Who's that?" said Mac.

"Griffiths. He owns the cell."

"What?"

"Sure. I hired it for five hours. Three bucks an hour. You don't get nothing for nothing."

"You hired the cell?" repeated Larkin incredulously.

"That's right. This Griffiths is a smart businessman," the King explained.

"There are thousands of men around, right? No peace and quiet, right?

Well, this Limey hires the cell out to anyone who wants to be alone. Not my idea of a sanctuary, but Griffiths does quite a business."

"I'll bet it wasn't his idea," said Brough.

"Cap'n I cannot tell a lie." The King smiled. "I must confess the idea was mine. But Griffiths makes enough to keep him and his unit going very well."

"How much do you make on it?"

"Just ten percent."

"If it's only ten percent, that's fair," said Brough.

"It is," the King said. The King would never lie to Brough, not that it was any of his business what the hell he did.

Brough leaned over and stirred the stew. "Hey, you guys, it's boiling."

They all crowded around. Yes, it was really boiling.

"We'd better fix the window. The stuff'll start smelling in a minute."

They put a blanket over the barred outlet, and soon the cell was all perfume.

Mac, Larkin and Tex squatted against the wall, eyes on the stewpan.

Peter Marlowe, sat on the other side of the bed, and as he was nearest, from time to time he stirred the pot.

The water simmered gently, making the delicate little beans soar crescentlike to the surface, then cascade back into the depths of the liquid.

A puff of steam effervesced, bringing with it the true richness of the meatbuds. The King leaned forward and threw in a handful of native herbs, turmeric, kajang, huan, taka and cloves and garlic, and this added to the perfume.

When the stew had been bubbling ten minutes, the King put the green papaya into the pot.

"Crazy," he said. "A feller could make a fortune after the war if he could figure a way to dehydrate papaya. Now that'd tenderize a buffalo!"

"The Malays've always used it," Mac answered, but no one was really listening to him and he wasn't listening to himself really, for the steam -

rich, sweet surrounded them.

The sweat dribbled down their chests and chins and legs and arms. But they hardly noticed the sweat or the closeness. They only knew that this was not a dream, that meat was cooking — there before their eyes, and soon, very soon they would eat.

"Where'd you get it?" asked Peter Marlowe, not really caring. He just had to say something to break the suffocating spell.

"It's Hawkins' dog," answered the King, not thinking about anything except my God does that smell good or does that smell good!

"Hawkins' dog?"

"You mean Rover?"

"His dog?"

"I thought it was a small pig!"

"Hawkins' dog?"

"Oh my word!"

"You mean that's the hindquarters of Rover?" said Peter Marlowe, appalled.

"Sure," the King said. Now that the secret was out he didn't mind. "I was going to tell you afterwards, but what the hell? Now you know."

They looked at one another aghast.

Then Peter Marlowe said, "Mother of God. Hawkins' dog!"

"Now look," said the King reasonably. "What's the difference? It was certainly the cleanest-eatingest dog I've ever seen. Much cleaner'n any pig. Or chicken for that matter. Meat's meat. Simple as that!"

Mac said testily, "Quite right. Nothing wrong with eating dog. The Chinese eat them all the tune. A delicacy. Yes. Certainly."

"Yeah," said Brough, half nauseated. "But we're not Chinese and this's Hawkins' dog!"

"I feel like a cannibal," said Peter Marlowe.

"Look," the King said. "It's just like Mac said. Nothing wrong with dog.

Smell it, for Chrissake."

"Smell it!" said Larkin for all of them. It was hard to talk, his saliva almost choking him. "I can't smell anything but that stew and it's the greatest smell I've ever smelled and I don't care whether it's Rover or not, I want to eat." He rubbed his stomach, almost painfully. "I don't know about you bastards, but I'm so hungry I've got cramps. That smell's doing something to my metabolism that's just not ordinary."

"I feel sick, too. And it's got nothing to do with the fact that the meat's dog," said Peter Marlowe. Then he added almost plaintively, "I just don't want to eat Rover." He glanced at Mac. "How are we going to face Hawkins afterwards?"

"I don't know, laddie. I'll look the other way. Yes, I don't think I could face him." Mac's nostrils quivered and he looked at the stew. "That smells so good."

"Of course," the King said blandly, "anyone don't want to eat can leave."

No one moved. Then they all leaned back, lost in their own thoughts.

Listening to the bubble. Drinking in the fragrance. Magnificence.

"It's not shocking when you think of it," said Larkin, more to persuade himself than the others. "Look how affectionate we get with our hens. We don't mind eating them — or their eggs."

"That's right, laddie. And you remember that cat we caught and ate. We didn't mind that, did we, Peter?"

"No, but that was a stray. This is Rover!"

"It was! Now it's just meat."

"Are you the guys that got the cat?" Brough asked, angry in spite of himself. "The one about six months ago?"

"No. This was in Java."

Brough said, "Oh." Then he happened to glance at the King. "I might have guessed it," he exploded. "You, you bastard. And we scavenged for four hours."

"You shouldn't get pissed off, Don. We got it. It was still an American victory."

"My Aussies're losing their touch," Larkin said.

The King lifted the spoon and his hand shook as he sampled the brew.

'Tastes good." Then he prodded the meat. It was still tight to the bone. "Be another hour yet."

Another ten minutes and he tested again. "Maybe a little more salt. What do you think, Peter?"

Peter Marlowe tasted. It was so good, so good. "A dash, just a dash!"

They all tasted, in turn. A touch of salt, a fraction more huan, a little dab of sugar, a breath more turmeric. And they settled back to wait in the exquisite torture cell, almost asphyxiated.

From time to time they pulled the blanket from the window and let some of the perfume out and some new air in.

And outside of Changi, the perfume swam on the breeze. And inside the jail along the corridor, wisps of perfume leaked through the door and permeated the atmosphere.

"Christ, Smithy, can you smell it?"

"'Course I can smell it. You think I've got no nose? Where's it coming from?"

"Wait a second! Somewhere up by the jail, somewhere up there!"

"Bet those yellow bastards are having a cook-up just outside the bleeding wire."

"That's right. Bastards."

"I don't think it's them. It seems to be coming from the jail."

"Oh Christ, listen to Smithy. Look at him pointing, just like a bloody dog."

"I tell you I can smell it coming from the jail."

"It's just the wind. The wind's coming from that direction."

"Winds never smelled like that before. It's meat cooking, I tell you. It's beef. I'd bet my life. Stewing beef."

"New Jap torture. Bastards! What a duty trick!"

"Maybe we're just imagining it. They say you can imagine a smell."

"How in hell can we all imagine it? Look at all the men, they've all stopped."

"Who says so?"

"What?"

"You said, 'They say you can imagine a smell.' Who's they'?"

"Oh God, Smithy. It's just a saying."

"But who're 'they'?"

"How the hell do I know!"

"Then stop saying 'they' said this or 'they' said that. Enough to drive a man crazy."

The men in the cell, the chosen of the King, watched him ladle a portion into a mess can and hand it to Larkin. Their eyes left Larkin's plate and went back to the ladle and then to Mac and back to the ladle and then to Brough and back to the ladle and then to Tex and back to the ladle and then to Peter Marlowe and back to the ladle and then to the King's portion.

And when all were served, they fell to eating, and there was enough left over for at last two portions more per man.

It was agony to eat so well.

The katchang idju beans had broken down and were almost part of the thick soup now. The papaya had tenderized the meat and caused it to fall off the bones, and the meat came apart into chunks, dark brown from the herbs and the tenderizer and beans. The stew had the thickness of a real stew, an Irish stew, with flecks of honey oil globules staining the surface of their mess cans.

The King looked up from his bowl, dry and clean. He beckoned to Larkin.

Larkin just passed his mess can, and silently each one of them accepted another helping. This too disappeared. And then a last portion.

Finally the King put his plate away. "Son of a bitch."

"Perfection!" Larkin said.

"Superb," said Peter Marlowe. "I'd forgotten what it's like to chew. My jaws ache."

Mac carefully scooped the last bean and belched. It was a wondrous belch. "I'll tell ye, laddies, I've had some meals in my tune, from roast beef at Simpson's in Piccadilly to rijsttafel in the Hotel des Indes in Java, and nothing, no one meal, has ever approached this. Never."

"I agree," Larkin said, settling himself more comfortably. "Even in the best place in Sydney — well, the steaks're great — but I've never enjoyed anything more."

The King belched and passed around a pack of Kooas. Then he opened the bottle of sake and drank deeply. The wine was rough and strong, but it took away the over-rich taste in his mouth.

"Here," he said, handing it to Peter Marlowe.

They all drank and they all smoked.

"Hey Tex, what about some Java?" yawned the King.

"Better give it a few more minutes before we open the door," Brough said, not caring whether or not the door was opened just so long as he was left to relax. "Oh God, I feel great!"

"I'm so full I think I'll bust," Peter Marlowe said. "That was without a doubt the finest —"

"For God's sake, Peter. We've all just said that. We all know it."

"Well, I had to say it"

"How'd you manage it?" Brough said to the King, stifling a yawn.

"Max told me about the dog killing the hen. I sent Dino to see Hawkins.

He gave it to him. We got Kurt to butcher it. My share was the hindquarters."

"Why should Hawkins give it to Dino?" asked Peter Marlowe.

"He's a veterinarian."

"Oh, I see."

"The hell he is," Brough said. "He's a merchant seaman."

The King shrugged. "So today he was a vet. Quit bitching!"

"I gotta hand it to you. Sure as hell I gotta hand it to you."

"Thanks, Don."

"How — how did Kurt kill it?" Brough asked.

"I didn't ask him."

"Quite right, laddie," said Mac. "Now I think let's drop the subject, huh?"

"Good idea."

Peter Marlowe got up and stretched. "What about the bones?" he asked.

"We'll smuggle them out when we leave."

"How about a little poker?" Larkin said.

"Good idea," the King said crisply. 'Tex, you get the coffee going. Peter, you clean up a bit. Grant, you fix the door. Don, how about piling the dishes?"

Brough got up heavily. "What the hell are you going to do?"

"Me?" The King raised his eyebrows. "I'm just gonna sit."

Brough looked at him. They all looked at him. Then Brough said, "I've got a good mind to make you an officer — just so as I can have the pleasure of busting you."

"Two'll get you five of mine," the King said, "that that wouldn't do you any good."

Brough looked at the others, then back at the King. "You're probably right.

I'd find myself court-martialed." He laughed. "But there's no rule-I can't take your dough."

He pulled out a five-dollar note and nodded at the card deck in the King's hands. "High card wins!"

The King spread the cards out. "Pick one."

Brough gloatingly showed the queen. The King looked at the deck, then picked a card — it was a jack.

Brough grinned. "Double or nothing."

"Don," said the King mildly, "quit while you're ahead." He picked another card and turned it face up. An ace. "I could just as easy pick another ace

— they're my cards!"

"Why the hell didn't you beat me then?" said Brough.

"Now, Captain, sir." The King's amusement was vast. "It'd be impolite to take your dough. After all you are our fearless leader."

"Crap you!" Brough began stacking the plates and mess cans. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

That night, while most of the camp slept, Peter Marlowe lay under his mosquito net awake, not wishing to sleep. He got out of the bunk and picked his way through the maze of mosquito nets and went outside.

Brough was also awake.

"Hi, Peter," Brough called quietly. "Come and sit down. Can't you sleep either?"

"Just didn't want to, not just yet, feel too good."

Above, the night was velvet.

"Gorgeous night."

"Yes."

"You married?"

"No," Peter Marlowe replied.

"You're lucky. Don't think it'd be so bad if you're not married." Brough was silent a minute. "I go crazy wondering if she'll still be there. Or if she is, what about now? What's she up to now?"

"Nothing." Peter Marlowe made the automatic response, N'ai vivid in his thoughts. "Don't worry." It was like saying, "Stop breathing."

"Not that I'd blame her, any woman. It's such a long time we've been away, such a long time. Not her fault."

Brough shakily built a cigarette, using a little dried tea and the butt of one of the Kooas. When it was alight he dragged deeply, then passed it over to Peter Marlowe.

"Thanks, Don." He smoked, then passed it back.

They finished the cigarette in silence, racked by their longing. Then Brough got up. "Guess I'll turn in now. See you around, Peter."

"Good night, Don."

Peter Marlowe looked back at the nightscape and let his eager mind drift again to N'ai. And he knew that tonight, like Brough, there was only one thing he could do or he would never sleep.