King Rat

Chapter 7

Days succeeded days, days in a monotony of days.

Then one night the King went to the camp hospital looking for Masters.

He found him on the veranda of one of the huts. He was lying in a reeking bed, half conscious, his eyes staring at the atap wall.

"Hi, Masters," the King said after he made sure that no one was listening.

"How you feel?"

Masters stared up, not recognizing him. "Feel?"

"Sure."

A minute passed, then Masters mumbled, "I don't know." A trickle of saliva ran down his chin.

The King took out his tobacco box and filled the empty box which lay on the table beside the bed.

"Masters," the King said. "Thanks for sending me the tip."

"Tip?"

"Telling me what you'd read on the piece of newspaper. I just wanted to thank you, give you some tobacco."

Masters strained to remember. "Oh! Not right for a mate to spy on a mate.

Rotten, copper's nark!" And then he died,

Dr. Kennedy came over and pulled the coarse blanket neatly over Masters' head. "Friend of yours?" he asked the King, his tired eyes frost under a mattress of shaggy eyebrows.

"In a way, Colonel."

"He's lucky," the doctor said. "No more aches now."

"That's one way of looking at it, sir," the King said politely. He picked up the tobacco and put it back in his own box; Masters would not need it now.

"What'd he die of?"

"Lack of spirit." The doctor stifled a yawn. His teeth were stained and dirty, and his hair lank and dirty, and his hands pink and spotless.

"You mean will to live?"

"That's one way of looking at it." The doctor glowered up at the King.

"That's one thing you won't die of, isn't it?"

"Hell no. Sir."

"What makes you so invincible?" Dr. Kennedy asked, hating this huge body which exuded health and strength.

"I don't follow you. Sir."

"Why are you all right, and all the rest not?"

"I'm just lucky," the King said and started to leave. But the doctor caught his shirt.

"It can't be just luck. It can't. Maybe you're the devil sent to try us further!

You're a vampire and a cheat and a thief…"

"Listen, you. I've never thieved or cheated in my life and I won't take that from anyone."

"Then just tell me how you do it? How? That's all I want to know. Don't you see? You're the answer for all of us. You're either good or evil and I want to know which you are."

"You're crazy," the King said, jerking his arm away.

"You can help us…"

"Help yourself. I'm worrying about me. You worry about you." The King noticed how Dr. Kennedy's white coat hung away from his emaciated chest. "Here," he said, giving him the remains of a pack of Kooas. "Have a cigarette. Good for the nerves. Sir." He wheeled around and strode out, shuddering. He hated hospitals. He hated the stench and the sickness and the impotence of the doctors.

The King despised weakness. That doctor, he thought, he's for the big jump, the son of a bitch. Crazy guy like that won't last long. Like Masters, poor guy! Yet maybe Masters wasn't a poor guy — he was Masters and he was weak and therefore no goddamned good. The world was a jungle, and the strong survived and the weak should die. It was you or the other guy. That's right. There is no other way.

Dr. Kennedy stared at the cigarettes blessing his luck. He lit one. His whole body drank the nicotine sweet. Then he went into the ward, over to Johnny Carstairs, DSO, Captain, 1st Tank Regiment, who was almost a corpse.

"Here," he said, giving him the cigarette.

"What about you, Dr. Kennedy?"

"I don't smoke, never have."

"You're lucky." Johnny coughed as he took a puff, and a little blood came up with the phlegm. The strain of the cough contracted his bowels and blood-liquid gushed out of him, for his anus muscles had long since collapsed.

"Doc," Johnny said. "Put my boots on me, will you, please? I've got to get up."

The old man looked all around. It was hard to see, for the ward's night light was dimmed and carefully screened.

"There aren't any," he said, peering myopically back at Johnny as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Oh. Well, that's that then."

"What sort of boots were they?"

A thin rope of tears welled from Johnny's eyes. "Kept those boots in good shape. Those boots marched me a lifetime. Only thing I had left."

"Would you like another cigarette?"

"Just finishing, thanks."

Johnny lay back in his own filth.

"Pity about my boots," he said.

Dr. Kennedy sighed and took off his laceless boots and put them on Johnny's feet. "I've got another pair," he lied, then stood up barefoot, an ache in his back.

Johnny wriggled his toes,, enjoying the feel of the roughed leather. He tried to look at them but the effort was too much.

"I'm dying," he said.

"Yes," the doctor said. There was a time - was there ever a time? - when he would have forced his best bedside manner. No reason now.

"Pretty pointless, isn't it, Doc? Twenty-two years and nothing. From nothing, into nothing."

An air current brought the promise of dawn into the ward.

"Thanks for the loan of your boots," Johnny said. "Something I always promised myself. A man's got to have boots."

He died.

Dr. Kennedy took the boots off Johnny and put them back on his own feet.

"Orderly," he called out as he saw one on the veranda.

"Yes, sir?" Steven said brightly, coming over to him, a pail of diarrhea in his left hand.

"Get the corpse detail to take this one. Oh yes, and you can take Sergeant Masters' bed as well."

"I simply can't do everything, Colonel," Steven said, putting down the pail.

"I've got to get three bedpans for Beds Ten, Twenty-three and Forty-seven.

And poor Colonel Hutton is so uncomfortable, I've just got to change his dressing." Steven looked down at the bed and shook his head. "Nothing but dead —"

"That's the job, Steven. The least we can do is bury them. And the quicker the better."

"I suppose so. Poor boys." Steven sighed and daintily patted the perspiration from his forehead with a clean handkerchief. Then he replaced the handkerchief in the pocket of his white Medical overalls, picked up the pail, staggered a little under its weight, and walked out the door.

Dr. Kennedy despised him, despised his oily black hair, his shaven armpits and shaven legs. At the same time, he could not blame him.

Homosexuality was one way to survive. Men fought over Steven, shared their rations with him, gave him cigarettes — all for the temporary use of his body. And what, the doctor asked himself, what's so disgusting about it anyway? When you think of "normal sex," well, clinically it's just as disgusting.

His leathery hand absently scratched his scrotum, for the itch was bad tonight. Involuntarily he touched his sex. It was feelingless. Gristle.

He remembered that he had not had an erection for months. Well, he thought, it's only the low nutriment diet. Nothing to worry about. As soon as we get out and get regular food, then everything will be all right. A man of forty-three is still a man.

Steven came back with the corpse detail. The body was put on a stretcher and taken out. Steven changed the single blanket. In a moment another stretcher was carried in and the new patient helped into bed.

Automatically Dr. Kennedy took the man's pulse.

"The fever'll break tomorrow," he said. "Just malaria."

"Yes, Doctor." Steven looked up primly. "Shall I give him some quinine?"

"Of course you give him quinine!"

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Steven said tartly, tossing his head. "I was just asking. Only doctors are supposed to authorize drugs."

"Well, give him quinine and for the love of God, Steven, stop trying to pretend you're a blasted woman."

"Well!" Steven's link bracelets jingled as he bridled and turned back to the patient. "It's quite unfair to pick on a person, Dr. Kennedy, when one's trying to do one's best." Dr. Kennedy would have ripped into Steven, but at that moment Dr. Prudhomme walked into the ward. "Evening, Colonel."

"Oh, hello." Dr. Kennedy turned to him thankfully, realizing it would have been stupid to tear into Steven. "Everything all right?"

"Yes. Can I see you a moment?"

"Certainly."

Prudhomme was a small serene man - pigeon-chested - his hands stained with years of chemicals. His voice was deep and gentle. "There are two appendices for tomorrow. One's just arrived in Emergency."

"All right. I'll see them before I go off."

"Do you want to operate?" Prudhomme glanced at the far end of the ward, where Steven was holding a bowl for a man to vomit into.

"Yes. Give me something to do," Kennedy said. He peered into the dark corner. In the half light of the shielded electric lamp Steven's long slim legs were accented. So was the curve of his buttocks straining against his tight short pants.

Feeling their scrutiny, Steven looked up. He smiled. "Good evening, Dr.

Prudhomme."

"Hello, Steven," Prudhomme said gently.

Dr. Kennedy saw to his dismay that Prudhomme was still looking at Steven.

Prudhomme turned back to Kennedy and observed his shock and loathing. "Oh, by the way, I finished the autopsy on that man who was found in the borehole. Death from suffocation," he said agreeably.

"If you find a man head first halfway down a borehole, it's more than likely that death will be due to suffocation."

"True, Doctor," Prudhomme said lightly. "I wrote on the death certificate

'Suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed.'"

"Have they identified the body?"

"Oh yes. This afternoon. It was an Australian. A man called Gurble."

Dr. Kennedy rubbed his face. "Not the way I'd commit suicide. Ghastly."

Prudhomme nodded and his eyes strayed back to Steven. "I quite agree.

Of course, he might have been put into the borehole."

"Were there any marks on the body?"

"None."

Dr. Kennedy tried to stop noticing the way Prudhomme looked at Steven.

"Oh well, murder or suicide, it's a horrible way. Horrible! I suppose we'll never know which it was."

"They held a quiet court of inquiry this afternoon, as soon as they knew who it was. Apparently a few days ago this man was caught stealing some hut rations."

"Oh! I see."

"Either way, I'd say he deserved it, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose so." Dr. Kennedy wanted to continue the conversation, for he was lonely, but he saw that Prudhomme was interested only in Steven.

"Well," he said, "I'd better make my rounds. Would you like to come along?"

"Thanks, but I have to prepare the patients for operation."

As Dr. Kennedy left the ward, from the corner of his eye he saw Steven brush past Prudhomme and he saw Prudhomme's furtive caress. He heard Steven's laugh and saw him return the caress openly and intimately.

Their obscenity overwhelmed him and he knew that he should go back into the ward and order them apart and court-martial them. But he was too tired, so he just walked to the far end of the veranda.

The air was still, the night dark and leafless, the moon like a giant arc light hanging from the rafters of the heavens. Men still walked the path, but they were all silent. Everything was awaiting the coming of dawn.

Kennedy looked up into the stars, trying to read from them an answer to his constant question. When, oh God, when will this nightmare end?

But there was no answer.

Peter Marlowe was at the officers' latrine enjoying the beauty of a false dawn and the beauty of a contented bowel movement. The first was frequent, the second rare.

He always picked the back row when he came to the latrines, partly because he still hated to relieve himself in the open, partly because he hated anyone behind him, and partly because it was entertaining to watch others.

The boreholes were twenty-five feet deep and two feet in diameter and six feet apart. Twenty rows heading down the slope, thirty to a row. Each had a wooden cover and a loose lid.

In the center of the area was a single throne made out of wood. A conventional one-holer. This was the prerogative of colonels. Everyone else had to squat, native style, feet either side of the hole. There were no screens of any sort and the whole area was open to the sky and camp.

Seated in lonely splendor on the throne was Colonel Samson. He was naked but for his tattered coolie hat. He always wore his hat, a quirk with him. Except when he was shaving his head or massaging it or rubbing in coconut oil or weird ointments to recover his hair. He had caught some unknown disease and all his head hair had fallen out one day — eyebrows and lashes too. The rest of him was furry as a monkey.

Other men were dotted around the area, each as far from the next man as possible. Each with a bottle of water. Each waving at the constant swarming flies.

Peter Marlowe told himself again that a squatting naked man relieving himself is the ugliest creature in the world - perhaps the most pathetic.

As yet there was only the promise of day, a lightening haze, fingers of gold spreading the velvet sky. The earth was cool, for the rains bad come in the night, and the breeze was cool and delicate with sea-salt and frangipani.

Yes, Peter Marlowe thought contentedly, it's going to be a good day.

When he had finished, he tilted the bottle of water while he still squatted and washed away the trace of feces, deftly using the fingers of his left hand. Always the left. The right is the eating hand. The natives have no word for left hand or right hand, only dung hand and eating hand. And all men used water, for paper, any paper, was too valuable. Except the King.

He had real toilet paper. He had given Peter Marlowe a piece and Peter Marlowe had shared it amongst the unit, for it made superb cigarette paper.

Peter Marlowe stood up and relied his sarong and headed back to his hut, anticipating breakfast. It would be rice pap and weak tea as always, but today the unit also had a coconut — another present from the King.

In the few short days he had known the King, a rare friendship had developed. The bonds were part food and part tobacco and part help - the King had cured the tropical ulcers on Mac's ankles with salvarsan, cured them in two days, that which had suppurated for two years. Peter Marlowe knew, too, that though all three of them welcomed the King's wealth and help, their liking for him was due mainly to the man himself. When you were with him he poured out strength and confidence. You felt better and stronger yourself — for you seemed to be able to feed on the magic that surrounded him.

"He's a witch doctor!" Involuntarily, Peter Marlowe said it aloud.

Most of the officers in Hut Sixteen were still asleep, or lying on their bunks waiting for breakfast, when he entered. He pulled the coconut from under his pillow and picked up the scraper and parang machete. Then he went outside and sat on a bench. A deft tap with the parang split the coconut in two perfect halves and spilled the milk into a billycan. Then he carefully began scraping one half of the coconut. Shreds of white meat fell into the milk.

The other half coconut he scraped into a separate container. He put this coconut meat into a piece of mosquito curtain and carefully squeezed the thick-sweet sap into a cup. Today it was Mac's turn to add the sap to his breakfast rice pap.

Peter Marlowe thought again what a marvelous food the residue of coconut was. Rich in protein and perfectly tasteless. Yet a sliver of garlic in it, and it was all garlic. A quarter of a sardine, and the whole became sardine, and the body of it would flavor many bowls of rice.

Suddenly he was famished for the coconut. He was so hungry that he did not hear the guards approaching. He did not feel their presence until they were already standing ominously in the doorway of the hut and all the men were on their feet.

Yoshima, the Japanese officer, shattered the silence. "There is a radio in this hut."