King Rat

Chapter 26

"Pixy," Mac said. "Yes," replied Larkin. Peter Marlowe simply stared at Awata, frozen.

The Camp Commandant's face was etched deep with fatigue, but even so, his shoulders were squared and he walked firmly. He was dressed neatly as always, the left arm of his shirt tucked neatly into his belt. On his feet were wooden slippers, and he wore his peaked cap, gray-green with years of tropic sweat. He walked up the steps of the veranda and hesitated in the doorway.

"Good morning," he said hoarsely as they got up.

Awata snapped gutturally at the guard. The guard bowed and fell into place beside Awata. Another curt order and the two men shouldered their rifles and walked away.

"It's over," the Camp Commandant said throatily. "Bring the wireless and follow me."

Numbly they did as he ordered, and they walked out of the room into the sun. And the sun and the air felt good. They followed the Camp Commandant up the street watched by the stunned eyes of Changi.

The six senior colonels were waiting in the Camp Commandant's quarters.

Brough was also there. They all saluted.

"Stand easy, please," the Camp Commandant said, returning the salute.

Then he turned to the three. "Sit down. We owe you a debt of gratitude."

Eventually Larkin said, "It's really over?"

"Yes. I've just seen the General." The Camp Commandant looked around the speechless faces, collecting his thoughts. "At least I think it's over," he said. "Yoshima was with the General. I said — I said, "The war's over.'

The General just stared at me when Yoshima translated. I waited, but he said nothing, so I said again, The war's over. I - I - I demand your surrender.'" The Camp Commandant rubbed his bald head. "I didn't know what else to say. For a long time the General just looked at me. Yoshima said nothing, nothing at all.

"Then the General said and Yoshima interpreted, 'Yes. The war is over.

You will return to your post in the camp. I have ordered my guards to turn their backs on the camp and guard you against anyone who tries to force an entrance into the camp to hurt you. They are your guards now — for your protection — until I have further orders. You are still responsible for the camp's discipline."

"I didn't know what to say, so I asked him to double the rations and give us medicines and he said, 'Tomorrow the rations will be doubled. You will receive some medical supplies. Unfortunately, we do not have much. But you are responsible for discipline. My guards will protect you against those who wish to kill you.' 'Who are they?' I asked. The General shrugged and said, 'Your enemies. This interview is over.'"

"Goddam," Brough said. "Maybe they want us to go out — to give them an excuse to shoot us."

"We can't let the men out," Smedly-Taylor said, appalled, "they'd riot. But we must do something. Perhaps we should tell them to hand over their weapons —"

The Camp Commandant held up his hand. "I think all we can do is wait.

I'm — I think someone will arrive. And until they do, I think it's best we carry on as usual. Oh yes. We are allowed to send a bathing party to the sea. Five men from each hut. In rotation. Oh my God," he said, and it was a prayer, "I hope no one goes off half-cocked. There's still no guarantee that the Japs here will obey the surrender. They may even go on fighting.

All we can do is hope for the best — and prepare for the worst."

He paused and looked at Larkin. "I think that the wireless should be left here." He nodded at Smedly-Taylor. "You'll arrange for permanent guards."

"Yes, sir."

"Of course," the Camp Commandant said to Larkin, including Peter Marlowe and Mac, "you are still to operate it."

"If you don't mind, sir," Mac said, "let someone else do that. I'll repair it if anything goes wrong, but, well, I suppose you'll want to have it connected twenty-four hours a day. We couldna do that — and somehow — well, speaking for mysel', now that it's in the open, let people share in the listening."

"Take care of it, Colonel!" the Camp Commandant said.

"Yes, sir," Smedly-Taylor said.

"Now we'd better discuss operations."

Outside the Camp Commandant's quarters a group of curious bystanders

— including Max — began to collect, impatient to learn what was being said, and what had happened, and why the Japanese guard had been taken off the radio.

When Max could stand the strain no longer, he ran back to the American hut!

"Hey, you guys!" he managed to shout.

"The Japs're coming?" The King was ready to jump through the window and head for the fence.

"No! Jesus," Max said, out of breath, unable to go on.

"Well, what the hell's up?" the King said.

"They've taken the Jap guards off Pete and the radio!" Max said getting his breath. "Then the Camp Commandant took Pete, Larkin and the Scot -

and the radio - up to his quarters. There's a big powwow going on there right now. All the senior colonels are there - even Brough's there!"

"You sure?" the King asked.

"I tell you I saw it with my own eyes, but I don't believe it either."

In the violent silence, the King pulled out a cigarette and then Tex said what he had already realized.

"It's over then. It's really over. That's what it's gotta mean - if they've taken the guard off the radio!" Tex looked around. "Doesn't it?"

Max sank heavily onto his bunk and wiped the sweat off his face. "That's what I figure. If they've taken the guard away, that means that they're gonna give up here — not go on fighting." He peered at Tex helplessly.

"Doesn't it?"

But Tex was lost in his own private bewilderment. At length he said impassively, "It's over."

The King soberly puffed his cigarette. "I'll believe it when I see it." Then, suddenly, in the eerie silence, he was afraid. Dino was automatically maiming flies. Byron Jones III absently moved a bishop. Miller took it and left his queen unguarded. Max was staring at his feet. Tex scratched.

"Well, I don't feel different," Dino said and stood up. "I gotta go take a piss," and he went out.

"Don't know whether I'm gonna laugh or cry," Max said. "Just feel like I'm gonna throw up."

"Don't make sense," Tex said aloud, but he was talking to himself and did not know that he had spoken. "Just don't make sense."

"Hey, Max," the King said. "You want to fix some coffee?" Automatically Max went out and filled the saucepan with water. When he came back he plugged in the hot plate and set the saucepan on it. He began to go back to his bunk, but he stopped in his tracks, turned around and stared at the King.

"What's the matter, Max?" the King said uneasily. Max just looked at him, his lips moving spastically and soundlessly.

"What the hell're you staring at?"

Suddenly Max grabbed the saucepan and hurled it through the window.

"You out of your goddam mind?" the King exploded. "You got me all wet!"

"That's tough," Max shouted, his eyes bulging.

"I ought to beat the bejesus outta you! You gone crazy?"

"The war's over. Get your own goddam coffee," Max screamed, a touch of foam in the corners of his lips.

The King was on his feet and towering over Max, his face mottled with rage. "You get outta here before I put my foot through your face!"

"You do that, just do that, but don't forget I'm a top sergeant! I'll have you court-martialed!"

Max began to laugh hysterically, then abruptly the laughter turned to tears, shattering tears, and Max fled the hut, leaving a horrified silence in his wake.

"Crazy son of a bitch," the King muttered. "Fix some water, will you, Tex,"

and he sat down in his corner.

Tex was at the doorway, staring after Max. He looked around slowly. "I'm busy," he said after an agony of indecision.

The King's stomach turned over. He forced back his nausea and set his face.

"Yeah," the King said with a grim smile. "So I notice." He could feel the depths of the stillness. He took out his wallet and selected a note. "Here's a ten-spot. Get unbusy and go get some water, will you." He hid the ache in his bowels and watched Tex.

But Tex said nothing, just shuddered nervously and looked away.

"You still got to eat — till it's really over," the King said disdainfully, then looked around the hut. "Who wants some coffee?"

"I'd like some coffee," Dino spoke up, unapologetically. He fetched the saucepan and filled it and set it to cook.

The King dropped the ten-dollar note on the table. Dino stared at it.

"No thanks," he said throatily, shaking his head, "just the coffee." He walked unsteadily back down the length of the hut.

Self-consciously the men turned away from the King's smoldering contempt. "I hope for your sakes, you sons of bitches, the war's over for real," the King said.

Peter Marlowe walked out of the Camp Commandant's quarters and hurried towards the American hut. He replied automatically to the greetings of the men he knew and he could sense the constant eyes —incredulous eyes — that watched him. Yes, he thought, I don't believe it either. Soon to be home, soon to fly again, soon to see my old man again, drink with him, laugh with him. And all the family. God, it'll be strange. I'm alive. I'm alive. I made it!

"Hello, you fellows!" He beamed as he entered the hut.

"Hi, Peter," Tex said as he jumped to his feet and shook his hand warmly.

"Boy, were we glad to hear about the guard, old buddy!"

"That's a masterpiece of understatement," Peter Marlowe said and laughed. As they surrounded him, he basked in the warmth of then: greetings.

"What happened with the Brass?" Dino asked.

Peter Marlowe told them, and they became even more apprehensive. All except Tex. "Hell, there's no need to prepare for the worst. It's over!" he said confidently.

"It's over for sure," Max said gruffly as he walked into the hut.

"Hello, Max, I —" Peter Marlowe did not continue. He was shocked by the frightening look in Max's eyes.

"You all right?" he asked, perturbed.

"'Course I'm all right!" Max flared. He shoved past and fell on his bunk.

"What the hell're you staring at? Can't a guy lose his temper once in a while without all you bastards staring?"

"Take it easy," Tex said.

"Thank Christ, I'll be outta this lousy dump soon." Max's face was gray-brown and his mouth twitched. "And that goes for you lousy bastards!"

"Shut up, Max!"

"Go to hell!" Max wiped the spittle from his chin; he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of ten-dollar notes, then savagely ripped them and scattered them like confetti.

"What the hell's gotten into you, Max?" Tex asked.

"Nothin', you son of a bitch! The bills're no goddam good."

"Huh?"

"I just been to the store. Yeah. Thought I'd get me a coconut. But that goddam Chinee wouldn't take my dough. Wouldn't take it. Said he'd sold his whole stock to the goddam Camp Commandant. On a note. 'The English Government promises to pay X Straits Dollars!' You can wipe your goddam ass on the Jap bucks — that's all they're good for!"

"Wow," Tex said. "That's the clincher. If the Chinese won't take the dough, then we've really got it made, eh, Peter?"

"We have indeed." Peter Marlowe felt warmed by their friendship. Even Max's malevolent stare could not destroy his happiness. "Can't tell you how much you fellows have helped me, you know, kidding around and all that."

"Hell," Dino said. "You're one of us." He punched him playfully. "You're not bad for a goddam Limey!"

"You better get your ass state-side when you get out. We might even let you become an American!" Byron Jones III said.

"You gotta see Texas, Peter boy. You ever get to the States, you gotta come to the state!"

"Not much chance of that," Peter Marlowe said amid the catcalls. "But if I ever do, you can depend on it." He glanced towards the King's corner.

"Where's our fearless leader?"

"He's dead!" Max rocked with obscene laughter.

"What?" Peter Marlowe said, frightened in spite of himself.

"He's still alive," Tex said. "But he's dead all the same."

Peter Marlowe looked searchingly at Tex. Then he saw the expressions on all their faces. Suddenly he felt very sad. "Don't you think that's a little abrupt?"

"Abrupt nothin'." Max spat. "He's dead. We worked our asses off for that son of a bitch, and now he's dead."

Peter Marlowe pounced on Max, loathing him. "But when things were bad, he gave you food and money and —"

"We worked for it!" Max screamed, the tendons in his neck stretching. "I took enough crap from that bastard!" His eyes saw the rank insignia on Peter Marlowe's arm. "And from you, you Limey bastard! You wanna kiss my ass like you kissed his?"

"Shut up, Max," Tex said warningly.

"Drop dead, you Lone Star pimp!" Max spat at Tex and the spittle streaked the rough wood floor.

Tex flushed. He hurled himself at Max and smashed him against the wall with a backhanded blow across the face. Max reeled and fell off his bunk, but he whirled to his feet, grabbed a knife off his shelf and lunged at Peter Marlowe. Tex just managed to catch Max's arm, and the knife only scored Peter Marlowe's stomach. Dino grabbed Max around the throat and shoved him back on the bunk.

"You outta your skull?" Dino gasped.

Max stared up, his face twitching, his eyes fixed on Peter Marlowe.

Suddenly he began screaming, and he hurled himself off the bunk fighting insanely, his arms flailing, lips stretched from his teeth, nails clawing.

Peter Marlowe grabbed an arm and they all fell on Max and hauled him back to the bunk. It took three men to hold him down as he kicked and screamed and fought and bit.

"He's flippedl" Tex shouted. "Clobber him, someone!"

"Get some rope!" Peter Marlowe yelled frantically as he held on to Max, his forearm jammed under Max's chin, away from the grinding teeth.

Dino shifted his grip, worked one arm free, and smashed Max on the jaw, knocking him unconscious. "Jesus," he said to Peter Marlowe as they stood up. "He goddam near murdered you!"

"Quick," Peter Marlowe said urgently. "Put something between his teeth, hell bite his bloody tongue off."

Dino found a piece of wood and they tied it between Max's teeth. Then they tied his hands.

When Max was secure, Peter Marlowe relaxed, weak with relief. "Thanks, Tex. If you hadn't stopped that knife, I would have had it."

"Think nothing of it. Reflex action. What we going to do about him?"

"Get a doctor. He just had a fit, that's all. There wasn't any knife." Peter Marlowe rubbed the score on his stomach as he watched Max jerking spastically. "Poor bugger!"

"Thank God you stopped him, Tex," Dino said. "Gives me a sweat to think about it."

Peter Marlowe looked at the King's corner. It seemed very lonely.

Unconsciously he flexed his hand and arm and gloried in its strength.

"How is it, Peter?" Tex asked.

It took Peter Marlowe a long time to find the right words. "Alive, Tex, alive

— not dead." Then he turned and walked out of the hut into the sun.

When he found the King eventually, it was already dusk. The King was sitting on a broken coconut stump in the north vegetable garden, half hidden by vines. He was staring moodily out of the camp and made no sign that he heard Peter Marlowe approaching.

"Hello, old chap," Peter Marlowe said cheerfully, but the welcome in him died when he saw the King's eyes. "What do you want? Sir?" the King asked insultingly.

"I wanted to see you. Just wanted to see you." Oh my God, he thought with pity, as he saw through his friend.

"Well, you've seen me. So now what?" The King turned his back. "Get lost!"

"I'm your friend, remember?"

"I got no friends. Get lost!"

Peter Marlowe squatted down beside the coconut stump and found the two tailor-made cigarettes in his pocket. "Have a smoke. I got them off Shagata!"

"Smoke 'em yourself. Sir!"

For a moment Peter Marlowe wished that he had not found the King. But he did not leave. He carefully lit the two cigarettes and offered one to the King. The King made no move to take it. "Go on, please."

The King smashed the cigarette out of his hands. "Screw you and your goddam cigarette. You want to stay here? All right!" He got up and began to stride away.

Peter Marlowe caught his arm. "Wait! This is the greatest day in our lives.

Don't spoil it because your cellmates got a little thoughtless."

"You take your hand away," the King said through his teeth, "or I'll stomp it off!"

"Don't worry about them," Peter Marlowe said, the words beginning to pour out of him. "The war's over, that's the important thing. It's over and we've survived. Remember what you used to drum into me? About looking after number one? Well, you're all right! You've made it! What does it matter what they say?"

"I don't give a good goddam about them! They've got nothing to do with it.

And I don't give a good goddam about you!" The King ripped his arm away.

Peter Marlowe stared at the King helplessly. "I'm your friend, dammit. Let me help you!"

"I don't need your help!"

"I know. But I'd like to stay friends. Look," he continued with difficulty.

"You'll be home soon —"

"The hell I will,'* the King said, his blood roaring in his ears. "I got no home!"

The wind rustled the leaves. Crickets grated monotonously. Mosquitoes swarmed around them. Hut lights began to cast harsh shadows and the moon sailed in a velvet sky. "Don't worry, old chum," Peter Marlowe said compassionately. "Everything's going to be all right." He did not flinch from the fear he saw in the King's eyes.

"Is it?" the King said in torment.

"Yes." Peter Marlowe hesitated. "You're sorry it's over, aren't you?"

"Leave me alone. Goddammit, leave me alone!" the King shouted and turned away and sat on the coconut stump.

"You'll be all right," Peter Marlowe said. "And I'm your friend. Never forget it." He reached out with his left hand and touched the King's shoulder, and he felt the shoulder jerk away under his touch.

"Night, old chum," he said quietly. "See you tomorrow." And miserably he walked away. Tomorrow, he promised himself, tomorrow I'll be able to help him.

The King shifted on the coconut stump, glad to be alone, terrified by his loneliness.

Colonels Smedly-Taylor and Jones and Sellars were cleaning their plates.

"Magnificent!" Sellars said, licking the juice off his fingers.

Smedly-Taylor sucked the bone, though it was already quite clean.

"Jones, my boy. I have to hand it to you." He belched. "What a superb way to end the day. Delicious! Just like rabbit! A little stringy and somewhat tough, but delicious!"

"Haven't enjoyed a meal so much in years," Sellars chortled. "The meat's a little greasy, but by Jove, just marvelous." He glanced at Jones. "Can you get any more? One leg each isn't very much!"

"Perhaps." Jones picked up the last grain of rice delicately. His plate was dry and empty and he was feeling very full. "It was a bit of luck, wasn't it?"

"Where did you get them?"

"Blakely told me about them. An Aussie was selling them." Jones belched.

"I bought all he had." He glanced at Smedly-Taylor. "Lucky you had the money."

Smedly-Taylor grunted. "Yes." He opened a wallet and tossed three hundred and sixty dollars on the table. "There's enough for another six. No need to stint ourselves, eh, gentlemen?"

Sellars looked at the notes. "If you had all this money hidden away, why didn't you use a little months .ago?"

"Why indeed?" Smedly-Taylor got up and stretched. "Because I was saving it for today! And that's the end of it," he added. His granite eyes locked on Sellars.

"Oh, come off it, man, I don't want you to say anything. I just can't understand how you managed to do it, that's all."

Jones smiled. "Must have been an inside job. I hear the King nearly had a heart attack!"

"What's the King got to do with my money?" Smedly-Taylor asked.

"Nothing." Jones began counting the money. There were, indeed, three hundred and sixty dollars, enough for twelve Rusa tikus haunches at thirty dollars each, which was their real price, not sixty dollars as Smedly-Taylor believed. Jones smiled to himself thinking that Smedly-Taylor could well afford to pay double, now that he had so much money. He wondered how Smedly-Taylor had managed to effect the theft, but he knew Smedly-Taylor was right to keep a tight rein on his secrets. Like the other three Rusa tikus. The ones that he and Blakely had cooked and eaten in secret this afternoon. Blakely had eaten one, he had eaten the other two. And the two added to the one he had just devoured was the reason that he was satiated. "My God," he said, rubbing his stomach, "don't think I could eat as much every day!"

"You'll get used to it," Sellars said. "I'm still hungry. Try and get some more, there's a good chap."

Smedly-Taylor said, "How about a rubber or two?"

"Admirable," said Sellars. "Who'll we get as a fourth?"

"Samson?"

Jones laughed. "I'll bet he'd be very upset if he knew about the meat."

"How long do you think it'll take our fellows to come to Singapore?"

Sellars asked, trying to conceal his anxiety.

Smedly-Taylor looked at Jones. "A few days. At the most a week. If the Japs here are really going to give in."

"If they leave us the wireless, they mean to."

"I hope so. My God, I hope so."

They looked at one another, the goodness of the food forgotten, lost in the worry of the future.

"Nothing to worry about. It's — it's going to be all right," Smedly-Taylor said, outwardly confident. But inside he was panicked, thinking of Maisie and his sons and daughter, wondering if they were alive.

Just before dawn a four-engined airplane roared over the camp. Whether it was Allied or Japanese no one knew, but at the first sound of the engines the men had been panic-stricken waiting for the expected bombs that would rain down. When the bombs did not fall and the airplane droned away, the panic built once more. Perhaps they've forgotten us — they'll never come.

Ewart groped his way into the hut and shook Peter Marlowe awake.

"Peter, there's a rumor that the plane circled the airfield — that a man parachuted out of it!"

"Did you see it?"

"No."

"Did you talk to anyone who did?"

"No. It's just a rumor." Ewart tried not to show his fear. "I'm scared to death that as soon as the fleet comes into the harbor the Japs'll go crazy."

"They won't!"

"I went up to the Camp Commandant's office. There's a whole group of chaps there, they keep giving out news bulletins. The last one said that —"

for a moment Ewart couldn't speak, then he continued, "that the casualties in Hiroshima and Nagasaki are over three hundred thousand. They say people are still dying like flies there — that this hell-bomb does something to the air and keeps on killing. My God, if that happened to London and I was in charge of a camp like this I'd — I'd slaughter everyone. I would, by God I would." Peter Marlowe calmed him, then left the hut and walked to the gate in the gathering light. Inside, he was still afraid. He knew that Ewart was right. Such a hell-bomb was too much. But he knew, of a sudden, a great truth, and he blessed the brains that had invented the bombs. Only the bombs had saved Changi from oblivion. Oh yes, he told himself, whatever happens because of the bombs, I will bless the first two and the men who made them. Only they have given me back my life when there was truly no hope of life. And though the first two have consumed a multitude, by their very vastness they have saved the lives of countless hundred thousand others. Ours." And theirs. By the Lord God, this is the truth.

He found himself beside the main gate. The guards were there, as usual.

Their backs were toward the camp, but they still had rifles. In their hands.

Peter Marlowe watched them curiously. He was sure that these men would blindly die in defense of men who only a day ago were their despised enemies. My God, Peter Marlowe thought, how incredible some people are.

Then suddenly, out of the growing light of dawn, he saw an apparition. A strange man, a real man who had breadth and thickness, a man who looked like a man. A white man. He wore a strange green uniform and his parachute boots were polished and his beret medal flashed like fire and he had a revolver on his wide belt and there was a neat field pack on his back.

The man walked the center of the road, his heels click-clicking until he was in front of the guardhouse.

The man — now Peter Marlowe could see that he wore the rank of a captain — the captain stopped and glared at the guards and then he said,

"Salute, you bloody bastards."

When the guards stared at him stupidly, the captain went up to the nearest guard and ripped the bayoneted rifle out of his hands and stuck it viciously in the ground, and said again, "Salute me, you bloody bastards."

The guards stared at him nervously. Then the captain pulled out his revolver and fired a single round into the earth at the feet of the guards and said, "Salute, you bloody bastards."

Awata, the Japanese sergeant, Awata the Fearful, sweating and nervous, stepped forward and bowed. Then they all bowed.

"That's better, you bloody bastards," the captain said. Then he tore the rifle out of each man's hands and threw it on the ground. "Get back in the bloody guardhouse."

Awata understood the movement of his hand. He ordered the guards to line up. Then, on his command, they bowed again.

The captain stood and looked at them. Then he returned the salute.

"Salute, you bloody bastards," the captain said once more.

Again the guards bowed.

"Good," the captain said. "And next time I say salute, salute!"

Awata and all the men bowed and the captain turned and walked to the barricade.

Peter Marlowe felt the eyes of the captain on him and on the men near him, and he started with fear and backed away.

He saw first revulsion in the eyes of the captain, then compassion.

The captain shouted at the guards. "Open this bloody gate, you bloody bastards."

Awata understood the point of the hand and quickly ran out with three guards and pulled the barricade out of the way.

Then the captain walked through, and when they began to close it again he shouted, "Leave that bloody thing alone." And they left it alone and bowed in salute.

Peter Marlowe tried to concentrate. This was wrong. All wrong. This could not be happening. Then, suddenly, the captain was standing in front of him.

"Hello," the captain said. "I'm Captain Forsyth. Who's in charge here?"

The words were soft and very gentle. But Peter Marlowe could only see the captain looking at him from head to toe.

What's the matter? What's wrong with me? Peter Marlowe desperately asked himself. What's the matter with me? Frightened, he backed another step.

"There's no need to be afraid of me." The captain's voice was deep and sympathetic. "The war's over. I've been sent to see that you're all looked after."

The captain took a step forward. Peter Marlowe recoiled and the captain stopped. Slowly the captain took out a pack of Players. Good English Players. "Would you like a cigarette?"

The captain stepped forward, and Peter Marlowe ran away, terrified.

"Wait a minute!" the captain shouted after him. Then he approached another man, but the man turned tail and fled too. And all the men fled from the captain. The second great fear engulfed Changi. Fear of myself.

Am I all right? Am I, after all this time? I mean, am I all right in the head? It is three and a half years. And my God, remember what Van der Zelt said about impotence? Will it work? Will I be able to make love? Will I be all right? I saw the horror in the eyes of the captain when he looked at me.

Why? What was wrong? Do you think, dare I ask him, dare I… am I all right?

When the King first heard about the officer, he was lying on his bed, brooding. True, he still had the choice position under the window, but now he had the same space as the other men — six feet by four feet. When he had returned from the north garden he had found his bed and chairs moved, and other beds were now spread into the space that was his by right. He had said nothing and they had said nothing, but he had looked at them and they had all avoided his eyes.

And, too, no one had collected or saved his evening meal. It had just been consumed by others.

"Gee," Tex had said absently, "I guess we forgot about you. Better be here next time. Every man's responsible for his own chow."

So he had cooked one of his hens. He had cleaned it and fried it and eaten it. At least he had eaten half of it and kept half of it for breakfast.

Now he had only two hens left. The others had been consumed during the last days — and he had shared them with the men who had done the work.

Yesterday he had tried to buy the camp store, but the pile of money that the diamond had brought was worthless. In his wallet he still had eleven American dollars, and these were good currency. But he knew — chilled

— he could not last forever on eleven dollars and two hens.

He had slept little the previous night. But in the bleak watches of the early morning he had faced himself and told himself that this was weak and foolish and not the pattern of a King — it did not matter that when he had walked the camp earlier people had looked through him — Brant and Prouty and Samson and all the others had passed by and not returned his salute. It had been the same with everyone. Tinker Bell and Timsen and the MP's and his informants and employees — men he had helped or known or sold for or given food or cigarettes or money. They had all looked at him as though he did not exist. Where always eyes had been watching him, and hate had been surrounding him when he walked the camp, now there was nothing. No eyes, no hate, no recognition.

It had been freezing to walk the camp a ghost. To return to his home a ghost. To lie in bed a ghost.

Nothingness.

Now he was listening as Tex poured out to the hut the incredible news of the captain's arrival, and he could sense the new fear gnawing at them.

"What's the matter?" he said. "What're you all so goddam silent about? A guy's arrived from outside, that's all."

No one said anything.

The King got up, galled by the silence, hating it. He put on his best shirt and his clean pants and wiped the dust off his polished shoes. He set his cap at a jaunty angle and stood for a moment in the doorway.

"Think I'm going to have me a cook-up today," he said to no one in particular.

When he glanced around he could see the hunger in their faces and the barely concealed hope in their eyes. He felt warmed again and normal again, and looked at them selectively.

"You going to be busy today, Dino?" he said at length.

"Er, no. No," Dino said.

"My bed needs fixing and there's some laundry."

"You, er, want me to do them?" Dino asked uncomfortably.

"You want to?"

Dino swore under his breath, but the remembrance of the perfume of the chicken last night shattered his will. "Sure," he said.

"Thanks, pal," said the King derisively, amused by Dino's obvious struggle with his conscience. He turned and started down the steps.

"Er, which hen d'you want to have?" Dino called out after him.

The King did not stop. "I'll think about that," he said. "You just fix the bed and the laundry."

Dino leaned against the doorway, watching the King walk in the sun along the jail wall and around the corner of the jail. "Son of a bitch!"

"Go get the laundry," Tex said.

"Crap off! I'm hungry."

"He aced you into doing his work without any goddam chicken."

"He'll eat one today," Dino said stubbornly. "And I'll help him eat it. He's never eaten one before without giving the helper some."

"What about last night?"

"Hell, he was fit to be tied 'cause we took over his space." Dino was thinking about the English captain and home and his girl friend and wondered if she was waiting or if she was married. Sure, he told himself sullenly, she'll be married and no one'll be there. How the hell am I going to get me a job?

"That was before," Byron Jones III was saying. "I'll bet the son of a bitch cooks it and eats it in front of us." But he was thinking about his home.

Goddamned if I'm going to stay there any more. Got to get me my own apartment. Yeah. But where the hell's the dough coming from?

"So what if he does?" Tex asked. "We got maybe two or three days to go." Then home to Texas, he was thinking. Can I get my job back? Where the hell will I live? What am I going to use for dough? When I get in the hay, is it going to work?"

"What about the Limey officer, Tex? You think we should go talk with him?"

"Yeah, we should. But hell, later today, or tomorrow. We gotta get used to the idea." Tex suppressed a shudder. "When he looked at me — it was as though, just like he was looking at a — a geek! Holy cow, what's so goddam wrong with me? I look all right, don't I?"

They all studied Tex, trying to see what the officer had seen. But they saw only Tex, the Tex they had known for three and a half years.

"You look all right to me," Dino said finally. "If anyone's a freak it's him.

Goddamned if I'd parachute into Singapore alone. Not with all the lousy Japs around. No sir! He's the real freak."

The King was walking along the jail wall. You're a stupid son of a bitch, he told himself. What the hell're you so upset about? All's well in the world.

Sure. And you're still the King. You're still the only guy who knows how to get with it.

He cocked his hat at a rakish angle and chuckled as he remembered Dino. Yeah, that bastard would be cursing, wondering if he'd really get the chicken, knowing he'd been aced into working. The hell with him, let him sweat, the King thought cheerfully.

He crossed the path between two of the huts. Around the huts were groups of men. They were all looking north, towards the gate, silently, motionless. He rounded another hut and saw the officer standing in a pool of emptiness, staring around bewildered, his back towards him. He saw the officer go toward some men and laughed sardonically as he saw them retreat.

Crazy, he thought cynically. Plain crazy. What's there to be scared of?

The guy's only a captain. Yep, he's sure going to need a hand. But what the hell he's so scared about beats me!

He quickened his pace, but his footsteps made no noise.

"Morning, sir," he said crisply, saluting.

Captain Forsyth spun around, startled. "Oh! Hello." He returned the salute with a sigh of relief. "Thank God someone here is normal." Then he realized what he had said. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean —"

"That's all right," the King said agreeably. "This dump's enough to put anyone off kilter. Boy, are we pleased to see you. Welcome to Changi!"

Forsyth smiled. He was much shorter than the King but built like a tank.

"Thank you. I'm Captain Forsyth. I've been sent to look after the camp until the fleet arrives."

"When's that?"

"Six days."

"Can't they make it any sooner?"

"These things take time, I suppose." Forsyth nodded toward the huts.

"What's the matter with everyone? It's as though I was a leper."

The King shrugged. "Guess they're in a state of shock. Don't believe their eyes yet. You know how some guys are. And it has been a long time."

"Yes it has," Forsyth said slowly.

"Crazy that they'd be scared of you." The King shrugged again. "But that's life, and their business."

"You're an American?"

"Sure. There are twenty-five of us. Officers and enlisted men. Captain Brough's our senior officer. He got shot down flying the hump in '43.

Maybe you'd like to meet him?"

"Of course." Forsyth was dead-tired. He had been given this assignment in Burma four days ago. The waiting and the flight and the jump and the walk to the guardhouse and the worry of what he would meet and what the Japanese would do and how the hell he was going to carry out his orders, all these things had wrecked his sleep and terrored his dreams. Well, old chap, you asked for the job and you've got it and here you are. At least you passed the first test up at the main gate. Bloody fool, he told himself, you were so petrified all you could say was "Salute, you bloody bastards."

From where he stood, Forsyth could see clusters of men staring at him from the huts and the windows and the doorways and shadows. They were all silent.

He could see the bisecting street, and beyond the latrine area. He noticed the sores of huts and his nostrils were filled with the stench of sweat and mildew and urine. Zombies were everywhere — zombies in rags, zombies in loincloths, zombies in sarongs — boned and meatless.

"You feeling okay?" the King asked solicitously. "You don't look so hot."

"I'm all right. Who are those poor buggers?"

"Just some of the guys," the King said. "Officers."

"What?"

"Sure. What's wrong with them?"

"You mean to tell me those are officers?"

"That's right. All these huts're officers' huts. Those rows of bungalows are where the Brass live, majors and colonels. There's about a thousand Aussies and Lim-English," he said quickly, correcting himself, "in huts south of the jail. Inside the jail are about seven or eight thousand English and Aussies. All enlisted men."

"Are they all like that?"

"Sir?"

"Do they all look like that? Are they all dressed like that?"

"Sure." The King laughed. "Guess they do look like a bunch of bums at that. It sure never bothered me up to now." Then he realized that Forsyth was studying him critically.

"What's the matter?" he asked, his smile fading.

Behind and all around men were watching, Peter Marlowe among them.

But they all stayed out of range. They were all wondering if their eyes really saw a man, who looked like a man, with a revolver at his waist, talking to the King.

"Why're you so different from them?" Forsyth said.

"Sir?"

"Why're you properly dressed — and they're all in rags?"

The King's smile returned. "I've been looking after my clothes. I guess they haven't."

"You look quite fit."

"Not as fit as I'd like to be, but I guess I'm in good shape. You like me to show you around? Thought you'd need a hand. I could rustle up some of the boys, get a detail together. There's no supplies in the camp worth talking about. But there's a truck up at the garage. We could drive into Singapore and liberate —"

"How is it that you are apparently unique here?" Forsyth interrupted, the words like bullets.

"Huh?"

Forsyth pointed a blunt finger at the camp. "I can see perhaps two or three hundred men but you're the only one clothed. I can't see a man who's not as thin as a bamboo, but you," he turned back and looked at the King, his eyes flinty, "you are 'in good shape.'"

"I'm just the same as them. I've just been on the ball. And lucky."

"There's no such thing as luck in a hellhole like this!"

"Sure there is," the King said. "And there's no harm in looking after your clothes, no harm in keeping fit as you can. Man's got to look after number one. No harm in that!"

"No harm at all," Forsyth said, "providing it's not at the expense of others!"

Then he barked, "Where's the Camp Commandant's quarters?"

"Over there." The King pointed. "The first row of bungalows. I don't know what's gotten into you. I thought I could help. Thought you'd need someone to put you in the picture—"

"I don't need your help, Corporal! What's your name!"

The King was sorry that he had taken the time out to try to help. Son of a bitch, he thought furiously, that's what comes of trying to help! "King. Sir."

"You're dismissed, Corporal. I won't forget you. And I'll certainly make sure I see Captain Brough at the earliest opportunity."

"Now what the hell does that mean?"

"It means I find you entirely suspicious," Forsyth rapped. "I want to know why you're fit and others aren't. To stay fit in a place like this you've got to have money, and there would be very few ways to get money. Very few ways. Informing, for one! Selling drugs or food for another—"

"I'll be goddamned if I'll take that crap —"

"You're dismissed, Corporal! But don't forget I'll make it my business to look into you!"

It took a supreme effort for the King to keep from smashing his fist into the captain's face.

"You're dismissed," Forsyth repeated, then added viciously, "Get out of my sight!"

The King saluted and walked away, blood filming his eyes.

"Hello," Peter Marlowe said, intercepting the King. "My God, I wish I had your guts."

The King's eyes cleared and he croaked, "Hi. Sir." He saluted and began to pass.

"My God, Rajah, what the hell's the matter?"

"Nothing. Just don't — feel like talking."

"Why? If I've done something to hurt you, or get you fed up with me, tell me. Please."

"Nothing to do with you." The King forced a smile, but inside he was screaming, Jesus, what've I done that's so wrong? I fed the bastards and helped them, and now they look at me as though I'm not here any more.

He looked back at Forsyth and saw him walk between two huts and disappear. And him, he thought in agony, he thinks I'm a goddam informer.

"What did he say?" Peter Marlowe asked.

"Nothing. He — I've got to — do something for him."

"I'm your friend. Let me help. Isn't it enough that I'm here?"

But the King only wanted to hide. Forsyth and the others had taken away his face. He knew that he was lost. And faceless, he was terrified.

"See you around," he muttered and saluted and hurried away. Jesus God, he wept inside, give me back my face. Please give me back my face.

The next day a plane buzzed the camp. Out of its belly poured a supply drop. Some of the supplies fell into the camp. Those that fell outside the camp were not sought. No one left the safety of Changi. It still could be a trick. Flies swarmed, a few men died.

Another day. Then planes began to circle the airstrip. A full colonel strode into the camp. With him were doctors and orderlies. They brought medical supplies. Other planes circled and landed.

Suddenly there were jeeps screaming through the camp and huge men with cigars and four doctors. They were all Americans. They rushed into the camp and stabbed the Americans with needles and gave them gallons of fresh orange juice and food and cigarettes and embraced them-their boys, their hero boys. They helped them into the jeeps and drove them to Changi Gate, where a truck was waiting.

Peter Marlowe watched, astonished. They're not heroes, he thought, bewildered. Neither are we. We lost. We lost the war, our war. Didn't we?

We're not heroes. We're not!

He saw the King through the fog of his mind. His friend. He had been waiting the days to talk with him, but each time he had found him the King had put him off. "Later," the King had always said, "I'm busy now." When the new Americans had arrived there still had been no time.

So Peter Marlowe stood at the gate, with many men, watching the departure of the Americans, waiting to say a last goodbye to his friend, waiting patiently to thank him for his arm and for the laughter they had had together.

Among the watchers was Grey.

Forsyth was standing tiredly beside the lorry. He handed over the list.

"You keep the original, sir," he said to the senior American officer. "Your men are all listed by rank, service and serial number."

"Thanks," said the major, a squat, heavy-jowled paratrooper. He signed the paper and handed back the other five copies. "When're the rest of your folks arriving?"

"A couple of days."

The major looked around and shuddered. "Looks like you could use a hand."

"Have you any excess drugs, by any chance?"

"Sure. We got a bird stacked with the stuff. Tell you what. Once I've got our boys on their way, I'll bring it all back in our jeeps. I'll let you have a doc and two orderlies until yours get here."

"Thanks." Forsyth tried to rub the fatigue out of his face. "We could use them. I'll sign for the drugs. SEAC will honor my signature."

"No goddam paper. You want the drugs, you got 'em. That's what they're there for."

He turned away. "All right, Sergeant, get 'em in the truck." He walked over to the jeep and watched as the stretcher was lashed securely. "What you think, Doc?"

"He'll make it state-side." The doctor glanced up from the unconscious figure neatly trussed in the straitjacket, "but that's about it. His mind's gone for good."

"Son of a bitch," the major said wearily, and he made a check mark against Max's name on the list. "Seems kinda unfair." He dropped his voice. "What about the rest of them?"

"Not good. Withdrawal symptoms generally. Anxiety about the future.

There's only one that's in halfway decent shape physically."

"I'll be goddamned if I know how any of 'em made it. You been in the jail?"

"Sure. Just a quick runaround. That was enough."

Peter Marlowe was watching morosely. He knew his unhappiness was not due solely to the departure of his friend. It was more than that. He was sad because the Americans were leaving. Somehow he felt he belonged there with them, which was wrong, because they were foreigners. Yet he knew he did not feel like a foreigner when he was with them. Is it envy? he asked himself. Or jealousy? No, I don't think so. I don't know why, but I feel they're going home and I'm being left behind.

He moved a little closer to the truck as the orders began to sound and the men began to climb aboard. Brough and Tex and Dino and Byron Jones III and all the others resplendent in their new starched uniforms, looked unreal. They were talking and shouting and laughing. But not the King. He stood slightly to one side. Alone.

Peter Marlowe was glad that his friend was back once more with his own people, and he prayed that once the King was on his way all would be well with him.

"Get in the truck, you guys."

"C'mon, get in the goddam truck."

"Next stop Stateside!"

Grey was unaware that he was standing beside Peter Marlowe. "They say," he said looking at the truck, "that they've a plane to fly them all the way back to America. A special plane. Is that possible? Just a handful of men and some junior officers?"

Peter Marlowe had also been unaware of Grey. He studied him, despising him. "You're such a goddam snob, Grey, when it comes down to it."

Grey's head whipped around. "Oh, it's you."

"Yes." Peter Marlowe nodded at the truck. "They think that one man's as good as another. So they get a plane, all to themselves. It's a great idea when you think of it."

"Don't tell me the upper classes have at last realized —"

"Oh shut up!" Peter Marlowe moved away, his bile rising.

Beside the truck was a sergeant, a vast man with many stripes on his sleeve and an unlit cigar in his mouth. "C'mon. Get in the truck," he repeated patiently.

The King was the last on the ground.

"For Chrissake, get in the truck!" the sergeant growled. The King didn't move. Then, impatiently, the sergeant threw the cigar away, and stabbing the air with his finger shouted, "You! Corporal! Get your goddam ass in the truck!"

The King came out of his trance. "Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant!"

Meekly he got into the back of the truck and stood while everyone else sat, and around him there were excited men talking one to another, but not to him. No one seemed to notice him. He held to the side of the truck as it roared into life and swept the Changi dust into the air.

Peter Marlowe frantically ran forward and held up his hand to wave at his friend. But the King did not look back. He never looked back.

Suddenly, Peter Marlowe felt very lonely, there by Changi Gate.

"That was worth watching," Grey said, gloating.

Peter Marlowe turned on him. "Go away before I do something about you."

"It was good to see him go like that. "'You, Corporal, get your goddam arse in the truck.'" There was a vicious glint in Grey's eyes. "Like the scum he was."

But Peter Marlowe only remembered the King as he truly was. That wasn't the King who meekly said, "Yes, Sergeant." Not the King. This had been another man, torn from the womb of Changi, the man that Changi had nurtured so long.

"Like the thief he was," Grey said deliberately.

Peter Marlowe bunched his good left fist. "I told you before, a last time."

Then he slammed his fist into Grey's face, knocking him backwards, but Grey stayed on his feet and threw himself at Peter Marlowe. The two men tore at each other and suddenly Forsyth was beside them.

"Stop it," he ordered. "What the hell are you two fighting about?"

"Nothing," Peter Marlowe said.

"Take your hand off me," Grey said and pulled his arm from Forsyth. "Get out of the way!"

"Any more trouble out of either of you and I'll confine you to your quarters." Appalled, Forsyth noticed that one man was a captain and the other a flight lieutenant. "Ought to be ashamed of yourselves, brawling like common soldiers! Go on, both of you, get out of here. The war's over, for God's sake!"

"Is it?" Grey looked once at Peter Marlowe, then walked off.

"What's between you two?" Forsyth said.

Peter Marlowe stared into the distance. The truck was nowhere to be seen. "You wouldn't understand," he said and turned away.

Forsyth watched him until he had disappeared. You can say that a million times, he thought exhaustedly. I don't understand anything about any of you.

He turned back to Changi Gate. There were, as always, groups of men silently staring out. The gate was, as always, guarded. But the guards were officers and no longer Japanese or Koreans. The day he had arrived, he had ordered them away and posted an officer guard to keep the camp safe and to keep the men in. But the guards were unnecessary, for no one had tried to break out. I don't understand. Forsyth told himself tiredly. It doesn't make sense. Nothing here makes sense.

It was only then that he remembered he had not reported the suspicious American — the corporal. He had had so much to worry about that the man had completely slipped his mind. Bloody fool, now it's too late! Then he recalled that the American major was coming back. Good, he thought, I'll tell him. He can deal with him.

. Two days later more Americans arrived. And a real American General.

He was swarmed like a queen bee by photographers and reporters and aides. The General was taken to the Camp Commandant's bungalow.

Peter Marlowe and Mac and Larkin were ordered there. The General picked up the earphone of the radio and pretended to listen.

"Hold that, General!"

"Just one more, General!"

Peter Marlowe was shoved to the front and told to bend over the radio as though explaining it to the General.

"Not that way — let's see your face. Yeah, let's see your bones, Sam, in the light. That's better."

That night the third and last and greatest fear crucified Changi.

Fear of tomorrow.

All Changi knew, now, that the war was over. The future had to be faced.

The future outside of Changi. The future was now. Now.

And the men of Changi withdrew into themselves. There was nowhere else to go. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere but inside. And inside was terror.

The Allied Fleet arrived at Singapore. More outsiders converged on Changi.

It was then that the questions began.

Name, rank, serial number, unit?

Where did you fight?

Who died?

Who was killed?

What about atrocities? How many times were you beaten? Who did you see bayoneted?

No one? Impossible! Think, man. Use your head! Remember. How many died? On the boat? Three, four, five? Why? Who was there?

Who's left in your unit? Ten? Out of a regiment? Good, that's better. Now, how did the others die? Yes, the details!

Ah, you saw them bayoneted?

Three Pagoda Pass? Ah, the railroad! Yes. We know about that. What can you add? How much food did you get? Anesthetics? Sorry, of course, I forgot. Cholera?

Yes, I know all about Camp Three. What about Fourteen? The one on the Burma-Siam border? Thousands died there, didn't they?

With the questions, the outsiders brought opinions. The men of Changi heard them furtively whispered, one to another.

Did you see that man? My God, it's impossible! He's walking around naked! In public!

And look over there! There's a man doing it in public! And good God, he's not using paper! He's using water and his hands! My God — they all do!

Look at that filthy bed! My God, the place is crawling with bugs!

What degradation these poor swine have sunk to — worse than animals!

Ought to be in an insane asylum! Certainly the Japs did it to them, but all the same it'd be safer to lock them up. They don't seem to know what's right and what's wrong!

Look at them lap up that filth! My God, you give them bread and potatoes and they want rice!

Got to get back to the ship. Can't wait to bring the fellows out. Chance of a lifetime, never see this again.

My God, those nurses are taking a chance, walking around.

Rubbish, they're safe enough. Seen a lot of the girls coming up to have a look. By jove, that one's a corker!

Disgusting the way the POW's are looking at them!

With the questions and the opinions the outsiders brought answers.

Ah, Flight Lieutenant Marlowe? Yes, we've had a cable answer from the Admiralty. Captain Marlowe RN is, er, I'm afraid your father's dead. Killed in action on the Murmansk run. September 10, '43. Sorry. Next!

Captain Spence? Yes. We've a lot of mail for you. You can get it at the guardhouse. Oh yes. Your — your wife and child were killed in London in an air raid. January this year. Sorry. A V2. Terrible. Next!

Lieutenant Colonel Jones? Yes, sir. You'll be on the first party leaving tomorrow. All senior officers are going. Bon voyage! Next!

Major McCoy? Oh yes, you were inquiring about your wife and son. Let me see, they were aboard the Empress of Shropshire, weren't they? The ship that sailed from Singapore on February 9, 1942? Sorry, we've no news, except that we know it was sunk somewhere off Borneo. There are rumors that there were survivors, but if there were or where they would be, no one knows. You'll have to be patient! We hear there are POW camps all over the Celebes-Borneo — you'll have to be patient! Next!

Ah, Colonel Smedly-Taylor? Sorry, bad news, sir. Your wife was killed in an air raid. Two years ago. Your youngest son, Squadron Leader P. R.

Smedly-Taylor VC, was lost over Germany in '44. Your son John is presently in Berlin with the occupation forces. Here is his address. Rank?

Lieutenant Colonel. Next!

Colonel Larkin? Oh, Australians are dealt with somewhere else. Next!

Captain Grey? Ah, well, it's somewhat difficult. You see, you were reported lost in action in '42. I'm afraid your wife remarried. She's — er —well, here's her present address. I don't know, sir. You'll have to ask the Solicitor General's Office. Afraid legalities are out of my line. Next!

Captain Ewart? Oh yes, the Malayan Regiment? Yes. I'm happy to tell you your wife and three children are safe and well. They're at Cha Song Camp in Singapore. Yes, we've transport for you this afternoon. I beg your pardon? Well, I don't know. The memo says three — not two children.

Perhaps it's an error. Next!

More men went swimming now. But the outside was still fearful and the men that went were glad to be back inside once more. Sean went swimming. He walked down to the shore with the men and in his hand was a bundle. When the party got to the beach, Sean turned away, and the men laughed and jeered, most of them, at the pervert who wouldn't take off his clothes like anyone else.

"Pansy!"

"Bugger!"

"Rotten fairy!"

"Homo!"

Scan walked up the beach, away from the jeers, until he found a private place. He slipped off his short pants and shirt and put on the evening sarong and padded bra and belt and stockings and combed his hair and put on makeup. Carefully, very carefully. And then the girl stood up, confident and very happy. She put on her high-heeled shoes and walked into the sea.

The sea welcomed her and made her sleep easy, and then, in the course of time, devoured the clothes and body and the time of her.

A major was standing in the doorway of Peter Marlowe's hut. His tunic was crusted with medal ribbons and he seemed very young. He peered around the hut at the obscenities lying on their bunks or changing or smoking or preparing to take a shower. His eyes came to rest on Peter Marlowe.

"What the fucking hell are you staring at?" Peter Marlowe screamed.

"Don't talk to me like that! I'm a major and —"

"I don't give a goddam if you're Christ! Get out of here! Get out!"

"Stand to attention! I'll have you court-martialed!" the major snapped, eyes popping, sweat pouring. "Ought to be ashamed of yourself, standing there in a skirt —"

"It's a sarong—"

"It's a skirt, standing in a skirt, half-naked! You POWs think you can get away with anything. Well, thank God you can't. And now you'll be taught respect for —"

Peter Marlowe caught up his hafted bayonet, rushed to the door and thrust the knife hi the major's face. "Get away from here or by Christ I'll cut your fucking throat…"

The major evaporated.

"Take it easy, Peter," Phil muttered. "You'll get us all into trouble."

"Why do they stare at us? Why? Goddammit why?" Peter Marlowe shouted. There was no answer.

A doctor walked into the hut, a doctor with a Red Cross on his arm, and he hurried — but pretended not to hurry — and smiled at Peter Marlowe.

"Don't pay any attention to him," he said, indicating the major who was walking through the camp.

"Why the hell do all you people stare at us?"

"Have a cigarette and calm down."

The doctor seemed nice enough and quiet enough, but he was an outsider — and not to be trusted.

"Have a cigarette and calm down! That's all you bastards can say," Peter Marlowe raged. "I said, why do you all stare at us?"

The doctor lit a cigarette himself and sat on one of the beds and then wished he hadn't, for he knew that all the beds were diseased. But he wanted to help. "I'll try to tell you," he said quietly. "You, all of you, have suffered the unsufferable and endured the unendurable. You're walking skeletons. Your faces are all eyes, and in the eyes there's a look…" He stopped a moment, trying to find the words, for he knew that they needed help and care and gentleness. "I don't quite know how to describe it. It's furtive — no, that's not the right word, and it's not fear. But there's the same look in all your eyes. And you're all alive, when by all the rules you should be dead. We don't know why you aren't dead or why you've survived — I mean each of you here, why you? We, from the outside, stare at you because you're fascinating…"

"Like freaks in a goddam side show, I suppose?"

"Yes," said the doctor calmly. "That would be one way of putting it, but —"

"I swear to Christ I'll kill the next bugger who looks at me as though I'm a monkey."

"Here," the doctor said, trying to appease him. "Here are some pills.

They'll calm you down —"

Peter Marlowe knocked the pills out of the doctor's hand and shouted, "I don't want any goddam pills. I just want to be left alone!" And he fled the hut.

The American hut.was deserted.

Peter Marlowe lay on the King's bed and wept.

"'By, Peter," Larkin said.

"'By, Colonel."

"'By, Mac."

"Good luck, laddie."

"Keep in touch."

Larkin shook their hands, and then he walked up to Changi Gate, where trucks were waiting to take the last of the Aussies to ships. To home.

"When are you off, Peter?" Mac asked after Larkin had disappeared.

"Tomorrow. What about you?"

"I'm leaving now, but I'm going to stay in Singapore. No point in getting a boat until I know which way."

"Still no news?"

"No. They could be anywhere in the Indies. But if she and Angus were dead, I think I'd know. Inside." Mac lifted his rucksack and unconsciously checked that the secret can of sardines was still safe. "I heard a rumor there are some women in one of the camps in Singapore who were on the Shropshire. Perhaps one of them will know something or give me a clue. If I can find them." He looked old and lined but very strong. He put out his hand. "Salamat."

"Salamat."

"Puki mahlu!"

"Senderis," said Peter Marlowe, conscious of his tears but not ashamed of them. Nor was Mac of his.

"You can always write me care of the Bank of Singapore, laddie."

"I will. Good luck, Mac."

"Salamat!"

Peter Marlowe stood in the street that bisected the camp and watched Mac walk the hill. At the top of the hill, Mac stopped and turned and waved once. Peter Marlowe waved back, and then Mac was lost in the crowd.

And now, Peter Marlowe was quite alone.

Last dawn in Changi. A last man died. Some of the officers of Hut Sixteen had already left. The sickest ones.

Peter Marlowe lay under his mosquito net on his bunk in half-sleep.

Around him men were waking, getting up, going to relieve themselves.

Barstairs was standing on his head practicing yoga, Phil Mint was already picking his nose with one hand and maiming flies with the other, the bridge game already started, Myner already doing scales on his wooden keyboard, and Thomas already cursing the lateness of breakfast.

"What do you think, Peter?" Mike asked.

Peter Marlowe opened his eyes and studied him. "Well, you look different, I'll say that."

Mike rubbed his shaven top lip with the back of his hand. "I feel naked."

He looked back at himself in the mirror. Then he shrugged. "Well, it's off and that's that."

"Hey, grub's up," Spence called out.

"What is it?"

"Porridge, toast, marmalade, scrambled eggs, bacon, tea."

Some men complained about the smallness of their portions, some complained about the bigness.

Peter Marlowe took only scrambled eggs and tea. He mixed the eggs into some rice he had saved from yesterday and ate with vast enjoyment.

He looked up as Drinkwater bustled in. "Oh, Drinkwater." He stopped him.

"Have you got a minute?"

"Why, certainly." Drinkwater was surprised at Peter Marlowe's sudden affability. But he kept his pale blue eyes down, for he was afraid that his consuming hatred for Peter Marlowe would spill out. Hold on, Theo, he told himself. You've stuck it for months. Don't let go now. Only a few more hours, then you can forget him and all the other awful men. Lyles and Blodger had no right to tempt you. No right at all. Well, they got what they deserved.

"You remember that rabbit leg you stole?"

Drinkwater's eyes flashed. "What — what are you talking about?"

Across the aisle, Phil stopped scratching and looked up.

"Oh, come on, Drinkwater," Peter Marlowe said. "I don't care any more.

Why the hell should I? The war's over and we're out of it. But you do remember the rabbit leg, don't you?"

Drinkwater's eyes flashed. "What — what are you talking? No," he said gruffly, "no I don't." But he was hard put not to say, delicious, delicious!

"It wasn't rabbit, you know."

"Oh? Sorry, Marlowe — it wasn't me. And I don't know, to this day, who took it, whatever it was!"

"I'll tell you what it was," Peter Marlowe said, glorying in the moment. "It was rat meat. Rat meat."

Drinkwater laughed. "You're very amusing," he said sarcastically.

"Oh but it was rat! Oh yes it was. I caught a rat. It was big and hairy and there were scabs all over it. And I think it had plague."

Drinkwater's chin trembled, his jowls shaking.

Phil winked at Peter Marlowe and nodded cheerfully, "That's right, Reverend. It was all scabby. I saw Peter skin the leg…"

Then Drinkwater vomited all over his nice clean uniform and rushed out and vomited some more. Peter Marlowe began laughing and soon the entire hut was roaring.

"Oh God," Phil said weakly. "I've got to hand it to you, Peter. What a brilliant idea. To pretend it was a rat. Oh my God! That pays the bugger back!"

"But it really was rat," Peter Marlowe said. "I planted it so he'd steal it."

"Oh yes, of course," Phil said sarcastically, automatically using his fly-swat. "Don't try to cap such a wonderful story! Wonderful!"

Peter Marlowe knew they would not believe him. So he didn't say any more. No one would believe him unless he showed the Farm to them. . . .

My God! The Farm! And his stomach turned over.

He put on his new uniform. On the epaulets was his rank-flight lieutenant.

On his left breast, bis wings. He looked around at his possessions — bed, mosquito net, mattress, blanket, sarong, rag shirt, a ragged pair of shorts, two pairs of clogs, knife, spoon and three aluminum plates. He scooped everything off his bed and carried it outside and set fire to it.

"Hey you… oh excuse me, sir," the sergeant said. "Fires're dangerous."

The sergeant was an outsider, but Peter Marlowe wasn't afraid of outsiders. Not now.

"Beat it," snapped Peter Marlowe.

"But sir…"

"I said beat it, goddammit!"

"Yes sir." The sergeant saluted and Peter Marlowe felt very pleased that he wasn't afraid of outsiders any more. He returned the salute and then wished he hadn't, for he didn't have his cap on. So he tried to cover his mistake with "Oh, where the hell's my cap?" and walked back into the hut feeling the fear of outsiders returning. But he forced it away and swore to himself, by the Lord my God, I'll never be afraid again. Never.

He found his cap and the concealed can of sardines. He put the can in his pocket and walked down the stairs of the hut and up the road beside the wire. The camp was almost deserted now. The last of the English troops were going today, on the same convoy as his. Going away. Long after all the Aussies had left, and an age after the Yanks. But that was only to be expected. We're slow but very sure.

He stopped near the American hut. The canvas flap of the overhang waved miserably on a wind of the past. Then Peter Marlowe went inside the hut for the last time.

The hut was not empty. Grey was there, polished and uniformed.

"Come to look a last time at the place of your triumphs?" he asked venomously.

"That's one way of putting it." Peter Marlowe rolled a cigarette and replaced the savings in his tobacco box. "And now the war's over. Now we're equal, you and me."

"That's right." Grey's face was stretched, his eyes snake-like. "I hate your guts."

"Remember Dino?"

"What about him?"

"He was your informer, wasn't he?"

"I suppose there's no harm in admitting it now."

"The King knew all about Dino."

"I don't believe you."

"Dino was giving you information on orders. On the King's orders!" Peter Marlowe laughed.

"You're a bloody liar!"

"Why should I lie?" Peter Marlowe's laugh died abruptly. "The time for lying's over. Finished. But Dino was doing it on orders. Remember how you were always just too late? Always."

Oh my God, thought Grey. Yes, yes, I can see that now.

Peter Marlowe drew on his cigarette. "The King figured that if you didn't get real information, you'd really try to get an informer. So he gave you one."

Suddenly Grey felt very tired. Very tired. A lot of things were hard to understand. Many things, strange things. Then he saw Peter Marlowe and the taunting smile and all his pent-up misery exploded. He slammed across the hut and kicked the King's bed over and scattered his possessions, then whipped on Peter Marlowe. "Very clever! But I saw the King cut down to size, and I'll see it happen to you. And your stinking class!"

"Oh?"

"You can bet your bloody life! I'll fix you somehow, if I have to spend the rest of my life doing it. I'll beat you at the end. Your luck's going to run out."

"Luck's got nothing to do with it."

Grey pointed a ringer in Peter Marlowe's face. "You were born lucky.

You've ended Changi lucky. Why, you've even escaped with what precious little soul you ever had!"

"What're you talking about?" Peter Marlowe shoved the finger away.

"Corruption. Moral corruption. You were saved just in time. A few more months around the King's evil and you'd have been changed forever. You were beginning to be a great liar and a cheat — like him."

"He wasn't evil and he cheated no one. All he did was adapt to circumstances."

"The world'd be a sorry place if everyone hid behind that excuse. There's such a thing as morality."

Peter Marlowe threw his cigarette on the floor and ground it to dust.

"Don't tell me you'd rather be dead with your goddam virtues than alive and know you've had to compromise a little."

"A little?" Grey laughed harshly. "You sold out everything. Honor —integrity — pride — all for a handout from the worst bastard in this stinkhole!"

"When you think about it, the King's sense of honor was pretty high. But you're right in one thing. He did change me. He showed me that a man's a man, irrespective of background. Against everything I've been taught. So I was wrong to sneer at you for something you had no hand in, and I'm sorry for that. But I don't apologize for despising you for the man you are."

"At least I didn't sell my soul!" Grey's uniform was streaked with sweat and he stared malevolently at Peter Marlowe. But inside he was choked with self-hatred. What about Smedly-Taylor? he asked himself. That's right, I sold out too. I did. But at least I know what I did was wrong. I know it.

And I know why I did it. I was ashamed of my birth, and I wanted to belong to the gentry. To your bloody class, Marlowe. In the service. But now I couldn't care less. "You buggers've got the world by the shorts," he said aloud, "but not for long, by God, not any more. We're going to get even, people like me. We didn't fight the war to be spat on. We're going to get even."

"Jolly good luck!"

Grey tried to control his breathing. He unclenched his fists with an effort and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "But you, you're not worth fighting.

You're dead!"

"The point is we're both very much alive."

Grey turned away and walked to the doorway. On the top step he turned back. "Actually, I should thank you and the King for one thing," he said viciously. "My hatred of you two kept me alive." Then he strode away and never looked back.

Peter Marlowe gazed out at the camp, then back at the hut and the scattered possessions of the King. He picked up the plate that had served the eggs and noticed that it was already covered with dust. Absently he stood the table upright and put the plate on it, lost in thought. Thoughts of Grey and the King and Samson and Sean and Max and Tex and where was Mac's wife and was N'ai just a dream and the General and the outsiders and home and Changi.

I wonder, I wonder, he thought helplessly. Is it wrong to adapt? Wrong to survive? What would I have done had I been Grey? What would Grey have done if he'd been me? What is good and what is evil?

And Peter Marlowe knew, tormented, that the only man who could, perhaps, tell him had died in freezing seas on the Murmansk run.

His eyes looked at the things of the past — the table where his arm had rested, the bed where he had recovered, the bench he and the King had shared, the chairs they had laughed in — already ancient and molding.

In the corner was a wad of Japanese dollars. He picked them up and stared at them. Then he let them drop, one by one. As the notes settled, flies clustered on them, swarmed and clustered back once more.

Peter Marlowe stood in the doorway. "Good-by," he said with finality to all that had belonged to his friend. "Good-by and thanks."

He walked out of the hut and along the jail wall until he reached the line of trucks that waited patiently at the gate of Changi.

Forsyth was standing beside the last truck, glad beyond gladness that his work was finished. He was exhausted and the mark of Changi was in his eyes. He ordered the convoy to begin.

The first truck moved and the second and the third, and all the trucks left Changi, and only once did Peter Marlowe look back.

When he was far away.

When Changi looked like a pearl in an emerald oyster shell, blue-white under a bowl of tropical skies — when Changi stood on a slight rise and around was a belt of green, and farther off the green gave way to blue-green seas, and the seas to infinity of horizon. And then, in his turn, he looked back no more.

That night Changi was deserted. By men. But the insects remained.

And the rats.

They were still there. Beneath the hut. And many had died, for they had been forgotten by their captors. But the strongest were still alive.

Adam was tearing at the wire to get at the food outside his cage, fighting the wire as he had been fighting it for as long as he had been within the cage. And his patience was rewarded. The side of the cage ripped apart and he fell on the food and devoured it. And then he rested and with renewed strength he tore at another cage, and in the course of time devoured the flesh within.

Eve joined him and he had his fill of her and she of him and then they foraged in consort. Later the whole side of a trench collapsed, and many cages were opened and the living fed on the dead, and the living-weak became food for the living-strong until the survivors were equally strong.

And then they fought among themselves and foraged.

And Adam ruled, for he was the King. Until the day his will to be King deserted him. Then he died, food for a stronger. And the strongest was always the King, not by strength alone, but King by cunning and luck and strength together. Among the rats.

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REVISION HISTORY

v1.0 scanned by Wicman99

-Proofed, formatted and hand-converted to standard html by NickL

v2.0 31 mar 02 by wg

-minor html revisions performed to match my standard formatting

-careful inspection for scan errors - found a couple 1's that should have been I's - found a couple dozen single quotes that should have been doubles - but over all was very clean - original distibution deserved at least a v2 or v3