CHAPTER SIX

That night Larkin lay on his mattress under his mosquito net gravely concerned about Corporal Townsend and Private Gurble. He had seen them after roll call.

“What the hell were you two fighting about?” he had asked repeatedly, and each time they had both replied sullenly, “Two-up.” But Larkin had known instinctively that they were lying.

“I want the truth,” he had said angrily. “Come on, you two are cobbers. Now why were you fighting?”

But the two men had kept their eyes obstinately on the ground. Larkin had questioned them individually, but each in his turn scowled and said, “Two-up.”

“All right, you bastards,” Larkin had said finally, his voice harsh. “I’ll give you one last chance. If you don’t tell me, then I’ll transfer you both out of my regiment. And as far as I’m concerned you won’t exist!”

“But Colonel,” Gurble gasped. “You wouldn’t do that!”

“I’ll give you thirty seconds,” Larkin said venomously, meaning it. And the men knew that he meant it. And they knew that Larkin’s word was law in his regiment, for Larkin was like their father. To get shipped out would mean that they would not exist to their cobbers, and without their cobbers, they’d die.

Larkin waited a minute. Then he said, “All right. Tomorrow—”

“I’ll tell you, Colonel,” Gurble blurted. “This bloody sod accused me of stealing my cobbers’ food. The bloody sod said I was stealing—”

“An’ you were, you rotten bastard!”

Only Larkin’s snarled “Stand to attention” kept them from tearing each other’s throats out.

Corporal Townsend told his side of the story first. “It’s my month on the cookhouse detail. Today we’ve a hundred and eighty-eight to cook for—”

“Who’s missing?” Larkin asked.

“Billy Donahy, sir. He went to hospital this a’ernoon.”

“All right.”

“Well, sir. A hundred and eighty-eight men at a hundred and twenty-five grams of rice a day works out at twenty-three and a half kilos. I always go up to the storehouse myself with a cobber and see the rice weighed and then I carry it back to make sure we got our bloody share. Well, today I was watching the weighing when the gut rot hit me. So I asked Gurble here to carry it back to the cookhouse. He’s my best cobber so I thought I could trust him—”

“I didn’t touch a bloody grain, you bastard. I swear to God—”

“We were short when I got back!” Townsend shouted. “Near half a pound short and that’s two men’s rations!”

“I know, but I didn’t—”

“The weights weren’t wrong. I checked ’em under your bloody nose!”

Larkin went with the men and checked the weights and found them true. There was no doubt that the correct amount of rice had started down the hill, for the rations were weighed publicly every morning by Lieutenant Colonel Jones. There was only one answer.

“As far as I’m concerned, Gurble,” Larkin said, “you’re out of my regiment. You’re dead.”

Gurble stumbled away into the darkness, whimpering, and then Larkin said to Townsend, “You keep your mouth shut about this.”

“My bloody oath, Colonel,” Townsend said. “The Diggers’d tear him to pieces if they heard. An’ rightly! Only reason I didn’t tell them was that he was my best cobber.” His eyes suddenly filled with tears. “My bloody oath, Colonel, we joined up together. We’ve been with you through Dunkirk an’ the stinking Middle East, and all through Malaya. I’ve knowed him most of my life and I’d’ve bet my life—”

Now, thinking about it all again in the twilight of sleep, Larkin shuddered. How can a man do such a thing? he asked himself helplessly. How? Gurble, of all men, whom he had known for many years, who even used to work in his office in Sydney!

He closed his eyes and put Gurble out of his mind. He had done his duty and it was his duty to protect the many. He let his mind drift to his wife Betty cooking steak with a fried egg on top, to his home overlooking the bay, to his little daughter, to the time he was going to have afterwards. But when? When?

She looked around at the women, all sitting quiet, subdued in the large meeting room, and sighed, regretting that she had agreed to head the committee of the wives of officers and men of the Fifth Australian Regiment, men all lost at Singapore. Not lost, she told herself quickly, only caught by the enemy. Some may be dead, but my Grant, my dear Grant is alive and a prisoner of war.

The women met once a month, the first Monday in the month. To swap news, such as there was. They had had little contact with the menfolk either by mail, or thru the Red Cross. But some of the wives had received a postcard. And a single postcard to one of the wives was a message of hope to all the others. Of course, for three years now they had all been writing. Some, every day. But most times their letters had been returned. Even so, when the few that did not come back were out there, somewhere, it gave a little hope that perhaps they had been received by the husband or son or brother to whom they had been sent long since.

But three years is a long time to write and not know, if he’s alive or dead, or if you’re writing to a ghost or if you’re writing to a mutilated man or if you’re writing to the man, your husband, the same man you kissed good-by an eternity ago. Today, one of the wives had had one of the strange little postcards that somehow, for no apparent reason, mysteriously trickled from the emptiness of the Jap-held lands. The military authorities or the government could not explain why a certain card had arrived. There was no rule. And as much as the Red Cross tried to get into contact, or get lists of prisoners and the state of their health, the Japs wouldn’t cooperate at all. Then for no apparent reason the Japs would pass over a dozen postcards, some written a year before, some a day or two previously—some clean, some censored so heavily that only the signature remained. But even a signature was good. One of the wives had phenomenal luck—she had received three postcards. One a year. But Betty Larkin, “Mrs. Colonel,” had not received one. Not one.

“Ladies”—Betty knocked on the table to get order and they settled down—“We’d better get back to the last piece of business, then we can all be on our way. I’m sure you’ll want to get back to your families, and let’s hope we can all get on the bus tonight.”

The ladies laughed politely, for what with the petrol rationing, and the lack of transport, getting home could be quite an adventure.

“We’ve had no news that I can pass on to you. The situation is more or less the same. But as the Germans are on the run in Europe, it looks as though that war will be over soon. Once that’s over, then the troops will be sent out here to Australia to fight our war.”

Betty told herself that it was foolish for her to flag-wave and act like a war commentator, but it was expected of her and it seemed to give them all a little more hope. Terrible rumors had been leaking out from Malaya for years about atrocities and horrors and how many men had died from malnutrition and disease. But those were probably stories, just like the stories of the last war that old Mrs. Timsen was told when her husband was caught by the Turks and Germans at Gallipoli. But now it was her son that was caught somewhere in Malaya. And she gave the others hope, for the stories she was told were not all true, and her husband did come home at war’s end.

Betty picked up the postcard and held it up. “Mrs. Gurble got this postcard two days ago. Like the twenty-four cards we’ve had between us, the writing’s printed. But Mrs. Gurble feels that she can recognize the handwriting.” Then, as was the custom, Betty read it out. They always shared news from anyone in the regiment. It helped the others. “It reads: ‘Darling Sarah. I am well and happy. Please take care of Jinny. Love Victor.’” Betty looked up and smiled. “Do you want to add anything, Sarah?”

Sarah Gurble was a beautiful, happy-go-lucky, child-wife. She had been married when she was sixteen, and was a mother at eighteen and her child was as beautiful as she was. She worked in a munitions factory and wrote her husband every day, even now, three years later. At twenty-one, Sarah Gurble was a joy to see.

“No, Mrs. Colonel.” She looked around the room. “Except that this is the only card I’ve received. But at least I know he’s alive. And that makes me feel that all our men are alive. If I’ve got a card, well, there’s no reason why all of you won’t get one soon.” The tears were running down her cheeks. “I’m just so happy to share my happiness and I don’t want you all to think I don’t know how you feel, waiting and hoping and praying. I’m—I’m just so happy—”

Betty crossed the room and held her close and stopped the tears. Truly, Betty was a mother to her brood of women and she was trying, very hard, to do what her Grant would expect of her. “There, there, Sarah.”

That was the final thing they had to do and soon the room began to empty. Betty sighed, tired. Sarah was lucky to get a letter. Perhaps soon, I’ll get one. She promised herself that next day, perhaps, one would arrive. Oh Grant, are you alive? Are you?

“Er, Mrs. Colonel, ma’am?”

The rasping voice pulled her out of her thoughts and she looked at the little woman standing in front of her. The woman smelled badly and her hair was lank and dirty, and the old clothes she wore badly needed cleaning. The woman was scarecrow-built. Flat, ugly, a thin stick, and her nose was running. It was always running, and it had always run for as long as Betty had known the woman. That was five—going on six years. And, as much as she tried, Betty Larkin could not stop the dislike rising in her.

“Yes, Mrs. Masters?”

“It’s like this ’ere,” Molly Masters began, and her forehead was beaded with perspiration. “It’s about my Tom’s money.”

“What about it, Mrs. Masters?”

“Well, I ain’t been getting ’is pay like, for the last month.”

Betty sighed and made a note on the pad. She always made notes and then passed them on to the correct authorities. Sometimes pay went astray; children needed medical aid; wives needed medical care; divorces sometimes had to be arranged—divorces when the men were dead or supposed to be dead, but could be alive; sometimes extra money was needed. All the little details that women worry about. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow. Perhaps there’s been a mistake somewhere. Have you moved?”

“Aw no, ma’am. We lives like always—down near the ’arbor.” Molly Masters wiped her nose with her sleeve, then took out a crumpled piece of paper. “The doc asked me to give you this, ma’am.”

Betty took the note and straightened it out. It said briefly that Mrs. Molly Masters had leukemia. Perhaps the army medical authorities could take care of her in one of the army hospitals.

“My God!” gasped Betty, shocked. The note was so simple, brutally so. She tried to keep the horror out of her face.

“Now don’t you fret, ma’am,” said Molly, sniffing. “It ain’t gont’be like that. I ain’t a going t’ die. Not till my Tom comes ’ome, I ain’t. Not till he comes ’ome and that’s not gont’be long, now is it?”

“No—no, not long now, Mrs. Masters,” Betty said compassionately.

“I can’t die yet, not with my Tom out there somewheres. Why if I did, what’d become of my little Tommy? Why there ain’t nobody to take care of him. Nobody.”

“I’ll call up the doctor tomorrow—”

“Oh no, I don’t want to be in one of them places. I want’e be at ’ome. With my Tommy. I got a business now, an’ I got to keep it going.”

“Business?”

“Yes,” said Molly proudly. “It’s like this. I work at the factory from six until six. Then I gets my supper. And then I’ve got the washing. You see, ma’am,”—Molly sat down and her eyes were lighted with the inner fire—“me neighbor looks after Tommy while I’m out. He’s three and an’ arf, now, you know. Well, she takes in all the washing for me and I does it at night and she hangs it out in the yard during the day. We split fifty-fifty. Why, you know, ma’am, I make near thirty bob extra every week. ’Course, it’s not good on me back, but I can manage.” Her face lit up in a huge smile, and for a moment she was almost pretty. “My, won’t my Tom be proud of me when ’e gets out. I got near a hundred and ninety pounds saved up. It’s for my Tom, to start himself up in his own business, like a toff. So as when my little Tommy’s ready, why well, it’ll be Tom Masters and son over the grocery store.”

“That’s wonderful, Mrs. Masters.” Betty was suddenly ashamed of herself for disliking the woman all these years. She remembered that Tom Masters had been a clerk in Grant’s accounting office. A nice boy really, and she had never been able to understand what it was that Tom had seen in this flat-chested, dirty little woman. Never. “I’m sorry, about the—illness. I’ll make an appointment with the doctor for you.”

“Thank you, ma’am. ’Course, I’d like the army to look after me, if it will, ’cause then I won’t have to spend any of my Tom’s money. ’E wanted a shop of ’is own, bad. A’ we almost got enough, if we’re lucky.”

Betty Larkin pondered for a moment, then changed her mind about asking Molly “if anything should happen what would you like … do you have any relations … what about the body…”

Oh God, she said to herself, sick with pity and misery, how awful. Say that was me, and Molly was me. Would I be able to say, so firmly, so believably, “I ain’t a going to die, not till my Grant gets home”?

So, Betty made the note and then Molly Masters was swallowed up by the night on Bligh Street and Betty made her way to the car that waited for her.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said hurriedly as she slipped into the front seat.

“That’s okay, Betty. Gee, you smell pretty. I like your dress.”

“Thanks.” She smiled. “You’re a tonic for me. You always make me feel so good.”

“All part of the service, Mrs. Colonel. How’d it go tonight?”

“Oh, all right. Just like every time, I suppose.” Sadly, Betty told him about Molly Masters as the little Hillman weaved thru the dark streets, passed trams, and buses, and then was on the outskirts of the city, heading up the hill where her home was. When she had finished they were silent and Betty was happy to be with him. Comfortable.

Mike Wallis was a Colonel in the USAF. He had been stationed in Australia for eight months. He was tall, boyish, exuberant. Betty had met him four months ago at a Regimental party, one of those dull, usual do’s the Regiment arranged from time to time for the women of the Regiment. They had been out together half a dozen times and they enjoyed each other’s company. He was married, happily so. His wife and two children lived in Seattle and before the war he was in real estate. Now he had a staff job. He was charming and good company.

“Here,” he said. “Present!”

He handed it to her. She unwrapped the gift. It was two pairs of nylons.

“Oh Mike, how kind you are! I haven’t a decent pair to my name.”

“Any time, lady, any time. How about a bite to eat?”

“There’s nowhere open at this time of night.”

“Wrong again.” He jerked a thumb at the back of the car. “Got a lot of canned goods, and a bottle of scotch. You in a cooking mood?”

“Oh yes. We’ll have a cookup. What a wonderful idea!”

Betty liked Mike very much. He was very kind and not on the make. It was nice to flirt just a little with him, for he was safe and happily married. It was good to have a man to talk to now and then. With just Mother and little Jean in the house, well, everyone has to have a little laughter from time to time. Oh how I wish, she said to herself, that Grant was back and this awful war was over and then the three of us—perhaps Mike’s wife Gill would be here then—then the four of us could have picnics and bathing parties and play bridge and live, live, live.

Betty Larkin’s house was on a quiet street. It was a medium-sized house, three bedrooms. Her mother lived with them now that Grant was away. Mother was all right really, and it was good to have someone in the house that you could trust. Someone to look after Jean when Betty took turns at the hospital war work. Five shifts a week, nursing. Days and nights alternate weeks. Then there were the Regimental committees. It was good to have something to do and it took your mind off—well, Grant.

Betty unlocked the door. “Is that you, dear?” she heard her mother call out.

“Yes, Mother. Mike’s with me. Are you in bed?”

“Yes, dear. I’ve just tucked up Jeannie and she’s all right. Don’t forget to lock up.”

“Yes, Mother.” She turned to Mike and said softly, “I wish I had a shilling for every time I’ve been told to lock up!”

She led the way to the kitchen. Mike put down the tins and looked around. This was the first time in the kitchen, the second time in the house, but a quick look around told him where everything was. In no time at all, the tin of ham was open and he was slicing it.

Betty laughed. “I don’t understand how it is you Americans are so well trained.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re all so adept in the kitchen.”

“Nothing to it. Where’s the ice?”

“That’s at least something I’ve got.” She opened the small freezer and emptied the tray. “How would you like the ham? Grilled?”

“Great. How about some hot cakes?”

“What’re they?”

“You got any flour?”

“Oh yes.” She opened a cupboard. He nodded when he saw it was self-rising flour. “How about an egg?” He didn’t want to ask, for eggs were short.

Betty smiled. “Lots. We’ve six beautiful hens in the back of the house.”

“Then you just sit and watch. I’ll have us a meal before you’ve had two scotches.”

Happily Mike turned toward the stove. He mixed the batter deftly, had two pans going, one for the hot cakes and one for the ham. And all the time he kept a running patter of what was new in the States, how he liked Australia, what was new with his kids, three new teeth yet! How Gill wanted to come over and how this stinking war wouldn’t last more than a few weeks. “The Japs have had it,” he said with finality, sliding the cakes and ham onto plates. “Now all we need is a little maple syrup.”

Betty enjoyed the meal and enjoyed his company. He helped her with her chair and gave her the choicest of little pancakes. He got the coffee on the boil and cleared away the plates. “You’re remarkable,” she laughed. “Grant is useless in the kitchen. And you’re almost miraculous.”

“Nothing to it.” He grinned. “Coffee on the terrace?”

It was still hot outside, but it was less hot than inside the house. And the view from the veranda was wonderful.

“Oh how I wish I was up in the Blue Mountains, right now. Have you been there, Mike?”

“No.”

“It’s wonderful. Like the Alps, I suppose, though,” she laughed, “I’ve never seen them. But it’s always cool and the mountains are a sort of hazy blue. We have a little cottage up there, but to save money, I rented it.”

“You go up there summers? I mean in normal times?”

“Yes. Grant built it on his weekends. It has just a wonderful view and there’s a little stream nearby. It’s a paradise. But, you have to be careful. There are a lot of black mambas around!” Her laugh was sweet and gay. “It’s a crazy life we lead down under. When we rent the place we rent Milly along with it. Milly’s our mongoose. That’s certainly the only way to be safe from snakes!”

“I hate snakes.”

“Me too.” She settled back happily in her long chair.

He stretched out his legs and sighed. “Great. Say, thanks, thanks for making me feel at home. I haven’t felt so good for months. Home cooking does it.”

“Just as well you cooked. Perhaps you wouldn’t say the same if I’d done it.”

“It’s got to be better. Got to be.”

They sat in comfort. then he broke the silence. “You’re very pretty, Elizabeth.”

There was a touch in his voice and her genes registered it. But then, there was no harm, surely, in a man paying a little compliment. Or for a girl to accept it. Was there?

“Thanks.” She looked at him and to hide that the touch had registered so hard, she got up. “Can I get you some more coffee?”

“No, no, thanks. Sit down. If I want some, I’ll get it. You take it easy.”

Betty sat down and looked out at the sprawling city beneath them. Pearls of light in a vastness of velvet.

Watch your step, Betty told herself. This is one awfully nice man and you could easily make a mistake. He’s married and you are married and though your husband is away, and has been away for three, four years, that is no excuse for you to tempt yourself to tempt him. And this is no time to flirt, and you have been flirting. Oh yes. That’s true. But I didn’t flirt to hurt. I didn’t. I only wanted to please him and make him want to see me again. My God, I’m so lonely. So lonely. What a curse loneliness is! Of all things in the world that starves a woman—the greatest is loneliness. And Mike is so nice, and so attentive. The little gifts, the thoughtfulness. Opening the car door, and the “I like the dress” even though he had seen it many times, and the flowers that he had brought me when we went to the flicks, and the way I feel safe when I’m with him, belonging. Oh my God! I know I want to go to bed with him. And that’s rotten. Rotten to think. What a bitch you’ve become! You wait and wait and wait and now you need to go to bed with a man. But not with any man—perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad—but you want to go to bed with Mike. What a rotten thing to do to his wife. She’s there, and he’s here, and you are tempting him. You know you are.

Betty did not want to keep the thought pattern so she got up and said she’d heat the coffee and almost ran into the safety of the kitchen, away from his presence, the presence she suddenly felt so much. As the coffee heated she bathed her face with cold water yet still the chess game moved inexorably in her mind. Where—and how? The cottage. The Masons were leaving at the end of the month. Maybe there. Certainly it couldn’t be here, not in Grant’s house. Oh Grant, why in Christ’s name aren’t you here? So the cottage. But the neighbors would be bound to know if Mike stayed the week. Then they would tell Grant, certainly, and why shouldn’t they. When a man is forced to go to war he expects his woman to be virtuous. And she had been, all these years, but now there was this furnace in her.

So not the cottage. The beach. A midnight swim. It would be easy, so easy. To tempt him. On the beach under the stars. There’s that cove that Grant took you to just after you were married…. Grant, always Grant. Dear, wonderful Grant.

The coffee spilled over the stove and hissed and bubbled. She burned her hand taking it off, quickly mopping up the mess. The hurt of her hand gladdened her. That’ll teach you! That’ll teach you for thinking that way. You goddam bloody bitch.

She carried the fresh coffee out onto the veranda. Mike got up and took the cups while she sat and curled her legs underneath her.

“Nothing like a cup of Joe,” he said. “Um, that’s so good.”

She was glad of the darkness, glad that she could hide, and hoped and prayed that he had not noticed. Then at length she broke the silence.

“Mike, I think, I think it’s best that I don’t see you again.” Now that the words were out she felt better.

Mike didn’t reply for a long time then he got up and stood over her. “Why?” he asked quietly. “What’s the matter?”

It was difficult to find the words. “I just think it’s better, that’s all. Look. You’re married and so am I. My husband’s well, I think it’s best. Safer.”

Oh Christ, he laughed to himself, they’re all alike. No matter what. A dame is a dame and you can get any dame if you’ve the right technique. And he knew his technique was perfect. Oh yes, Mike. You’re near perfect. The trick is to be patient. Very patient. Now tonight that broad was just about ready to tear your clothes off. Just about. And you haven’t even kissed her yet.

Let’s see. I’ll give her a week. Then I’ll run into her. “Why, Betty,” I’ll say. “How nice to see you.” And then a little of the act. Set-faced, grave, and very patient. “I’ve missed you.” Then the clincher—“Maybe you’d like dinner sometime? When you’ve nothing better to do. Gets a bit lonely. You ever feel lonely?”

A couple more dates, then she’ll be ripe. You won’t have to do a thing. She’ll fix it. Maybe the place in the mountains. Or on the beach. A broad like that’d be careful. But I’ll bet my last buck that I’ll make her inside four weeks. And once she’s going, why hell she’s the type to be the lay of lays. Let them seduce you—that’s the ticket! Yeah. You’ve never failed yet, and you never will, not while a dame’s a dame.

Actually, he told himself, now that he was sure of her—it almost wasn’t worth the trouble. When they say, “We’d better not see each other,” well, that means hop into bed. The chase is over.

Dames. All alike. Well, Betty Larkin, you’ll give me a time. Suppose I might as well. Chrissake, I got a few weeks invested and a couple of nylons. So I’ll lay you a couple of times, then the final clincher—I pretend to get posted to Brisbane.

When he got back to his room he checked for messages. There was one. He dialed the number.

“Hello, honey. Gee, how nice to hear your voice. Just got in. Been working late. I’ll bet you look pretty as a picture.”

“Oh Mike, I’ve missed you so much.”

“Where are you now, you sound so low?”

“At home.”

“Are you tired? I mean would you like to go out on the town or go for a drive? I can’t have a beautiful girl like you unhappy. That’d be terrible.”

He waited for the inevitable pause, then the usual words—half hesitant, half shy, half bold, half hopeful—of rejection, half hateful lest he did reject. “If—if it isn’t too much trouble. I’d like that, very much, would you like to pick me up in half an hour?”

“Be right there.” The pause, then firm and deep and resonant—tinged with just the right amount of gravity. “So glad you called, honey.”

He card-indexed Mary Vickers. Oh yeah, the broad with the snotty kid. Husband’s also a POW. Let’s see. Yep, just about on the button. No, two days early, come to think of it. Yeah, it was only just four days ago, the “We’d better not see each other” routine. He laughed aloud. Mary should be quite a lay. They always are the first time, but then, hell, they’re all the same. Goddam broads! And it wasn’t as though he’d waste his time on anyone. Hell no. He was particular. Only the quote lady type unquote, and she had to be a looker with a body—and preferably married. Christ, what the “lady” will get up to when she’s hot.

He sat down, pleased with himself. Then he plucked up his pen and finished the letter he was writing to Gill. It took him half an hour. As he licked the envelope, he glanced at his watch. Yeah, just about right. It’d take him another twenty minutes to get to her house, and by that time she’d be hotter’n a firecracker worrying that maybe he’d changed his mind.

He made sure the prophylactic outfit was in his pocket. A guy can’t be too careful, not with these tramps.

Grey walked quietly up the steps of Hut Sixteen like a thief in the night and headed for his bed. He stripped off his pants and slipped under the mosquito net and lay naked on his mattress, very pleased with himself. He had just seen Turasan, the Korean guard, sneak around the corner of the American hut and under the canvas overhang; he had seen the King stealthily jump out of the window to join Turasan. Grey had waited only a moment in the shadows. He was checking the spy’s information, and there was no need to pounce on the King yet. No. Not yet, now that the informer was proved.

Grey shifted on the bed, scratching his leg. His practiced fingers caught the bedbug and crushed it. He heard it plop as it burst and he smelled the sick sweet stench of the blood it contained—his own blood.

Around his net, clouds of mosquitoes buzzed, seeking the inevitable hole. Unlike most of the officers, Grey had refused to convert his bed to a bunk, for he hated the idea of sleeping above or below someone else. Even though the added doubling up meant more space.

The mosquito nets were hung from a wire which bisected the length of the hut. Even in sleep the men were attached to each other. When one man turned over or tugged at the net to tuck it more tightly under the soaking mattress, all the nets would jiggle a little, and each man knew he was surrounded.

Grey crushed another bedbug, but his mind was not on it. Tonight he was filled with happiness—about the informer, about his commitment to get the King, about the diamond ring, about Marlowe. He was very pleased, for he had solved the riddle.

It is simple, he told himself again. Larkin knows who has the diamond. The King is the only one in the camp who could arrange the sale. Only the King’s contacts are good enough. Larkin would not go himself directly to the King, so he sent Marlowe. Marlowe is to be the go-between.

Grey’s bed shook as dead-sick Johnny Hawkins stumbled against it, half-awake, heading for the latrines. “Be careful, for God’s sake!” Grey said irritably.

“Sorry,” Johnny said, groping for the door.

In a few minutes Johnny stumbled back again. A few sleepy curses followed in his wake. As soon as Johnny had reached his bunk it was time to go again. This time Grey did not notice his bed shake, for he was locked in his mind, forecasting the probable moves of the enemy.

Peter Marlowe was wide awake, sitting on the hard steps of Hut Sixteen under the moonless sky, his eyes and ears and mind searching the darkness. From where he sat he could watch the two roads—the one that bisected the camp and the other that skirted the walls of the jail. Japanese and Korean guards and prisoners alike used both roads. Peter Marlowe was the north sentry.

Behind him, on the other steps, he knew that Flight Lieutenant Cox was concentrating as he was, seeking the darkness for danger. Cox guarded south.

East and west were not covered because Hut Sixteen could only be approached by north or south.

From inside the hut, and all around, were the noises of the sleep-dead—moans, weird laughs, snores, whimpers, choked half-screams—mixed with the softness of whispers of the sleepless. It was a cool good night here on the bank above the road. All was normal.

Peter Marlowe jerked like a dog pointing. He had sensed the Korean guard before his eyes picked him out of the darkness, and by the time he really saw the guard, he had already given the warning signal.

At the far end of the hut, Dave Daven did not hear the first whistle, he was so absorbed in his work. When he heard the second, more urgent one, he answered it, jerked the needles out, lay back in his bunk, and held his breath.

The guard was slouching through the camp, his rifle on his shoulder, and he did not see Peter Marlowe or the others. But he felt their eyes. He quickened his step and wished himself out of the hatred.

After an age, Peter Marlowe heard Cox give the all-clear signal, and he relaxed once more. But his senses still reached out into the night.

At the far corner of the hut, Daven began breathing again. He lifted himself carefully under the thick mosquito net in the top bunk. With infinite patience, he reconnected the two needles to the ends of the insulated wire that carried the live current. After a backbreaking search, he felt the needles slip through the worm-holes in the eight-by-eight beam which served as the head crosspiece of the bunk. A bead of sweat gathered on his chin and fell on the beam as he found the other two needles that were connected to the earphone and again, after a blind tortured search, he felt the holes for them and slipped the needles cleanly into the beam. The earphone static’d into life. “… and our forces are moving rapidly through the jungle to Mandalay. That ends the news. This is Calcutta calling. To summarize the news: American and British forces are pushing the enemy back in Belgium, and on the central sector, towards St. Hubert, in driving snowstorms. In Poland, Russian armies are within twenty miles of Krakow, also in heavy blizzards. In the Philippines, American forces have driven a bridgehead across the Agno River in their thrust for Manila. Formosa was bombed in daylight by American B-29’s without loss. In Burma, victorious British and Indian armies are within thirty miles of Mandalay. The next news broadcast will be at 6 A.M. Calcutta time.”

Daven cleared his voice softly and felt the live insulated wire jerk slightly and then come free as Spence, in the next bunk, pulled his set of needles out of the source. Quickly Daven disconnected his four needles and put them back in his sewing kit. He wiped the gathering sweat off his face and scratched at the biting bedbugs. Then he unscrewed the wires on the earphone, tightened the terminals carefully, and slipped it into a special pouch in his jock-strap, behind his testicles. He buttoned his pants and doubled the wire and slipped it through the belt-loops and knotted it. He found the piece of rag and wiped his hands, then carefully brushed dust over the tiny holes in the beam, clogging them, hiding them perfectly.

He lay back on the bed for a moment to regain his strength, and scratched. When he had composed himself he ducked out of the net and jumped to the floor. At this time of night he never bothered to put his leg on, so he just found his crutches and quietly swung himself to the door. He made no sign as he passed Spence’s bunk. That was the rule. Can’t be too careful.

The crutches creaked, wood against wood, and for the ten millionth time Daven thought about his leg. It did not bother him too much nowadays, though the stump hurt like hell. The doctors had told him that soon he would have to have it restumped again. He had had this done twice already, once a real operation below the knee in ’42, when he had been blown up by a land mine. Once above the knee, without anesthetics. The memory edged his teeth and he swore he would never go through that again. But this next time, the last time, would not be too bad. They had anesthetics here in Changi. It would be the last time because there was not much left to stump.

“Oh hello, Peter,” he said as he almost stumbled over him on the steps. “Didn’t see you.”

“Hello, Dave.”

“Nice night, isn’t it?” Dave carefully swung himself down the steps. “Bladder’s playing up again.”

Peter Marlowe smiled. If Daven said that, it meant that the news was good. If he said, “It’s me for a leak,” that meant nothing was happening in the world. If he said, “My guts’re killing me tonight,” that meant a bad setback somewhere in the world. If he said, “Hold my crutch a moment,” that meant a great victory.

Though Peter Marlowe would hear the news in detail tomorrow and learn it along with Spence and tell other huts, he liked to hear how things were going tonight. So he sat back and watched Daven as he crutched towards the urinal, liking him, respecting him.

Daven creaked to a halt. The urinal was made out of a bent piece of corrugated iron. Daven watched his urine trickle and meander towards the low end, then cascade frothily from the rusted spout into the large drum, adding to the scum which collected on the surface of the liquid. He remembered that tomorrow was collection day. The container would be carried away and added to other containers and taken to the gardens. The liquor would be mixed with water, then the mixture would be ladled tenderly, cup by cup, onto the roots of plants cherished and guarded by the men who grew the camp’s food. This fertilizer would make the greens they ate greener.

Dave hated greens. But they were food and you had to eat.

A breeze chilled the sweat on his back and brought with it the tang of the sea, three miles away, three light-years of miles away.

Daven thought about how perfectly the radio was working. He felt very pleased with himself as he remembered how he had delicately lifted a thin strip off the top of the beam and scooped beneath it a hole six inches deep. How this had all been done in secret. How it had taken him five months to build in the radio, working at night and the hour of dawn and sleeping by day. How the fit of the lid was so perfect that when dust was worked into the edges its outline could not be seen, even on close inspection. And how the needle holes also were invisible when the dust was in them.

The thought that he, Dave Daven, was the first in the camp to hear the news made him not a little proud. And unique. In spite of his leg. One day he would hear that the war was over. Not just the European war. Their war. The Pacific war. Because of him, the camp was linked with the outside, and he knew that the terror and the sweat and the heartache were worth it. Only he and Spence and Cox and Peter Marlowe and two English colonels knew where the radio actually was. That was wise, for the less in the know, the less the danger.

Of course there was danger. There were always prying eyes, eyes you could not necessarily trust. There was always the possibility of informers. Or of an involuntary leak.

When Daven got back to the doorway, Peter Marlowe had already returned to his bunk. Daven saw that Cox was still sitting on the far steps, but this was only usual, for it was a rule that the sentries did not both go at the same time. Daven’s stump began to itch like hell, but not really the stump, only the foot that was not there. He clambered up into his bunk, closed his eyes and prayed. He always prayed before he slept. Then the dream would not come, the vivid picture of dear old Tom Cotton, the Aussie, who had been caught with the other radio and had marched off under guard to Utram Road Jail, his coolie hat cocked flamboyantly over one eye, raucously singing “Waltzing Matilda,” and the chorus had been “Fuck the Japs.” But in Daven’s dream, it was he, not Tommy Cotton who went with the guards. He went with them, and he went in abject terror.

“Oh God,” Daven said deep within himself, “give me the peace of Thy courage. I’m so frightened and such a coward.”

The King was doing the thing he liked most in all the world. He was counting a stack of brand-new notes. Profit from a sale.

Turasan was politely holding his flashlight, the beam carefully dimmed and focused on the table. They were in the “shop” as the King called it, just outside the American hut. Now from the canvas overhang, another piece of canvas fell neatly to the ground, screening the table and the benches from ever-present eyes. It was forbidden for guards and prisoners to trade, by Japanese—and therefore camp—order.

The King wore his “outsmarted-in-a-deal” expression and counted grimly. “Okay,” the King sighed finally as the notes totaled five hundred. “Ichi-bon!”

Turasan nodded. He was a small squat man with a flat moon face and a mouthful of gold teeth. His rifle leaned carelessly against the hut wall behind him. He picked up the Parker fountain pen and re-examined it carefully. The white spot was there. The nib was gold. He held the pen closer to the screened light and squinted to make sure, once more, that the 14 karat was etched into the nib.

“Ichi-bon,” he grunted at length, and sucked air between his teeth. He too wore his “outsmarted-in-a-deal” expression, and he hid his pleasure. At five hundred Japanese dollars the pen was an excellent buy and he knew it would easily bring double that from the Chinese in Singapore.

“You goddam ichi-bon trader,” the King said sullenly. “Next week, ichi-bon watch maybe. But no goddam wong, no trade. I got to make some wong.”

“Too plenty wong,” Turasan said, nodding to the stack of notes. “Watch soon maybe?”

“Maybe.”

Turasan offered his cigarettes. The King accepted one and let Turasan light it for him. Then Turasan sucked in his breath a last time and smiled his golden smile. He shouldered his rifle, bowed courteously and slipped away into the night.

The King beamed as he finished his smoke. A good night’s work, he thought. Fifty bucks for the pen, a hundred and fifty to the man who faked the white spot and etched the nib: three hundred profit. That the color would fade off the nib within a week didn’t bother the King at all. He knew by that time Turasan would have sold it to a Chinese.

The King climbed through the window of his hut. “Thanks, Max,” he said quietly, for most of the Americans in the hut were already asleep. “Here, you can quit now.” He peeled off two ten-dollar bills. “Give the other to Dino.” He did not usally pay his men so much for such a short work period. But tonight he was full of largess.

“Gee, thanks.” Max hurried out and told Dino to relax, giving him a ten-dollar note.

The King set the coffeepot on the hot plate. He stripped off his clothes, hung up his pants and put his shirt, underpants and socks in the dirty-laundry bag. He slipped on a clean sun-bleached loincloth and ducked under his mosquito net.

While he waited for the water to boil, he indexed the day’s work. First the Ronson. He had beaten Major Barry down to five hundred and fifty, less fifty-five dollars, which was his ten percent commission, and had registered the lighter with Captain Brough as a “win in poker.” It was worth at least nine hundred, easy, so that had been a good deal. The way inflation is going, he thought, it’s wise to have the maximum amount of dough in merchandise.

The King had launched the treated tobacco enterprise with a sales conference. It had gone according to plan. All the Americans had volunteered as salesmen, and the King’s Aussie and English contacts had bitched. But that was only normal. He had already arranged to buy twenty pounds of Java weed from Ah Lee, the Chinese who had the concession of the camp store, and he had got it at a good discount. An Aussie cookhouse had agreed to set one of their ovens aside daily for an hour, so the whole batch of tobacco could be cooked at one time under Tex’s supervision. Since all the men were working on percentage, the King’s only outlay was the cost of the tobacco. Tomorrow, the treated tobacco would be on sale. The way he had set it up, he would clear a hundred percent profit. Which was only fair.

Now that the tobacco project was launched, the King was ready to tackle the diamond …

The hiss of the bubbling coffeepot interrupted his contemplations. He slipped from under the mosquito net and unlocked the black box. He put three heaped spoons of coffee in the water and added a pinch of salt. As the water frothed, he took it off the stove and waited until it had subsided.

The aroma of the coffee spilled through the hut, teasing the men still awake.

“Jesus,” Max said involuntarily.

“What’s the matter, Max?” the King said. “Can’t you sleep?”

“No. Got too much on my mind. I been thinking. We can make one helluva deal outta that tobacco.”

Tex shifted uneasily, soaring with the aroma. “That smell reminds me of wildcatting.”

“How come?” The King poured in cold water to settle the grounds, then put a heaped spoonful of sugar into his mug and filled it.

“Best part of drilling’s in the mornings. After a long sweaty night’s shift on the rig. When you set with your buddies over the first steaming pot of Java, ’bout dawn. An’ the coffee’s steamy hot and sweet, an’ at the same time a mite bitter. An’ maybe you look out through the maze of oil derricks at the sun rising over Texas.” There was a long sigh. “Man, that’s living.”

“I’ve never been to Texas,” the King said. “Been all over but not Texas.”

“That’s God’s country.”

“You like a cup?”

“You know it.” Tex was there with his mug. The King poured himself a second cup. Then he gave Tex half a cup.

“Max?”

Max got half a cup too. He drank the coffee quickly. “I’ll fix this for you in the morning,” he said, taking the pot with its bed of grounds.

“Okay. ’Night, you guys.”

The King slipped under the net once more and made sure it was tight and neat under the mattress. Then he lay back gratefully between the sheets. Across the hut he saw Max add some water to the coffee grounds and set it beside the bunk to marinate. He knew that Max would rebrew the grounds for breakfast. Personally the King never liked rebrewed coffee. Itwas too bitter. But the boys said it was fine. If Max wanted to rebrew it, great, he thought agreeably. The King did not approve of waste.

He closed his eyes and turned his mind to the diamond. At last he knew who had it, how to get it, and now that luck had brought Peter Marlowe to him, he knew how the vastly complicated deal could be arranged.

Once you know a man, the King told himself contentedly, know his Achilles heel, you know how to play him, how to work him into your plans. Yep, his hunch had paid off when he had first seen Peter Marlowe squatting Woglike in the dirt, chattering Malay. You got to play hunches in this world.

Now, thinking about the talk he had had with Peter Marlowe after dusk roll call, the King felt the warmth of anticipation spread over him.

“Nothing happens in this lousy dump,” the King had said innocently as they sat in the lee of the hut under a moonless sky.

“That’s right,” Peter Marlowe said. “Sickening. One day’s just like the rest. Enough to drive you around the bend.”

The King nodded. He squashed a mosquito. “I know a guy who has all the excitement he can use, and then some.”

“Oh? What does he do?”

“He goes through the wire. At night.”

“My God. That’s asking for trouble. He must be mad!”

But the King had seen the flicker of excitement in Peter Marlowe’s eyes. He waited in the silence, saying nothing.

“Why does he do it?”

“Most times, just for kicks.”

“You mean excitement?”

The King nodded.

Peter Marlowe whistled softly. “I don’t think I’d have that amount of nerve.”

“Sometimes this guy goes to the Malay village.”

Peter Marlowe looked out of the wire, seeing in his mind the village that they all knew existed on the coast, three miles away. Once he had gone to the topmost cell in the jail and had clambered up to the tiny barred window. He had looked out and seen the panorama of jungle and the village, nestling the coast. There were ships in the waters that day. Fishing ships, and enemy warships—big ones and little ones—set like islands in the glass of the sea. He had stared out, fascinated with the sea’s closeness, hanging to the bars until his hands and arms were tired. After resting awhile he was going to jump up and look out again. But he did not look again. Ever. It hurt too much. He had always lived near the sea. Away from it, he felt lost. Now he was near it again. But it was beyond touch.

“Very dangerous to trust a whole village,” Peter Marlowe said.

“Not if you know them.”

“That’s right. This man really goes to the village?”

“So he told me.”

“I don’t think even Suliman would risk that.”

“Who?”

“Suliman. The Malay I was talking to. This afternoon.”

“It seems more like a month ago,” the King said.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“What the hell’s a guy like Suliman doing in this dump? Why didn’t he just take off when the war ended?”

“He was caught in Java. Suliman was a rubber tapper on Mac’s plantation. Mac’s one of my unit. Well, Mac’s battalion, the Malayan Regiment, got out of Singapore and were sent to Java. When the war ended, Suliman had to stick with the battalion.”

“Hell, he could’ve got lost. There are millions of them in Java…”

“The Javanese would have recognized him instantly, and probably turned him in.”

“What about the co-prosperity sphere yak? You know, Asia for the Asiatics?”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t mean much. It didn’t do the Javanese much good, either. Not if they didn’t obey.”

“How do you mean?”

“In ’42, autumn of ’42, I was in a camp just outside Bandung,” Peter Marlowe said. “That’s up in the hills of Java, in the center of the island. At that time there were a lot of Ambonese, Menadonese and a number of Javanese with us—men who were in the Dutch army. Well, the camp was tough on the Javanese because many of them were from Bandung, and their wives and children were living just outside the wire. For a long time they used to slip out and spend the night, then get back into the camp before dawn. The camp was lightly guarded, so it was easy. Very dangerous for Europeans though, because the Javanese’d turn you over to the Japs and that’d be your lot. One day the Japs gave out an order that anyone caught outside would be shot. Of course the Javanese thought it applied to everyone except them—they had been told that in a couple of weeks they were all to go free anyway. One morning seven of them got caught. We were paraded the next day. The whole camp. The Javanese were put up against a wall and shot. Just like that, in front of us. The seven bodies were buried—with military honors—where they fell. Then the Japs made a little garden around the graves. They planted flowers and put a tiny white rope fence around the whole area and put up a sign in Malay, Japanese and English. It said, These men died for their country.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No I’m not. But the funny thing about it was that the Japs posted an honor guard at the grave. After that, every Jap guard, every Jap officer who passed the ‘shrine,’ saluted. Everyone. And at that time POW’s had to get up and bow if a Jap private came within seeing distance. If you didn’t, you got the thick end of a rifle butt around your head.”

“Doesn’t make sense. The garden and saluting.”

“It does to them. That’s the Oriental mind. To them that’s complete sense.”

“It sure as hell isn’t. Nohow!”

“That’s why I don’t like them,” Peter Marlowe said thoughtfully. “I’m afraid of them, because you’ve no yardstick to judge them. They don’t react the way they should. Never.”

“I don’t know about that. They know the value of a buck and you can trust them most times.”

“You mean in business?” Peter Marlowe laughed. “Well, I don’t know about that. But as far as the people themselves … Another thing I saw. In another camp in Java—they were always shifting us around there, not like in Singapore—it was also in Bandung. There was a Jap guard, one of the better ones. Didn’t pick on you like most of them. Well, this man, we used to call him Sunny because he was always smiling. Sunny loved dogs. And he always had half a dozen with him as he went around the camp. His favorite was a sheepdog—a bitch. One day the bitch had a litter of puppies, the cutest dogs you ever saw, and Sunny was just about the happiest Jap in the whole world, training the puppies, laughing and playing with them. When they could walk he made leads for them out of string and he’d walk around the camp with them in tow. One day he was pulling the pups around—one of them sat on its haunches. You know how pups are, they get tired, and they just sit. So Sunny dragged it a little way, then gave it a real jerk. The pup yelped but stuck its feet in.”

Peter Marlowe paused and made a cigarette. Then he continued. “Sunny took a firm grip on the string and started swinging the pup around his head on the end of the rope. He whirled it maybe a dozen times, laughing as though this was the greatest joke in the world. Then as the screaming pup gathered momentum, he gave it a final whirl and let go of the string. The pup must have gone fifty feet into the air. And when it fell on the iron-hard ground, it burst like a ripe tomato.”

“Bastard!”

After a moment Peter Marlowe said, “Sunny went over to the pup. He looked down at it, then burst into tears. One of our chaps got a spade and buried the remains and, all the time, Sunny tore at himself with grief. When the grave was smoothed over, he brushed away his tears, gave the man a pack of cigarettes, cursed him for five minutes, angrily shoved the butt of the rifle in the man’s groin, then bowed to the grave, bowed to the hurt man, and marched off, beaming happily, with the other pups and dogs.”

The King shook his head slowly. “Maybe he was just crazy. Syphilitic.”

“No, Sunny wasn’t. Japs seem to act like children—but they’ve men’s bodies and men’s strength. They just look at things as a child does. Their perspective is oblique—to us—and distorted.”

“I heard things were rough in Java, after the capitulation,” the King said to keep him talking. It had taken him almost an hour to get Peter Marlowe started and he wanted him to feel at home.

“In some ways. Of course in Singapore there were over a hundred thousand troops, so the Japs had to be a little careful. The chain of command still existed, and a lot of units were intact. The Japs were pressing hard in the drive to Australia, and didn’t care too much so long as the POW’s behaved themselves and got themselves organized into camps. Same thing in Sumatra and Java for a time. Their idea was to press on and take Australia, then we were all going to be sent down there as slaves.”

“You’re crazy,” said the King.

“Oh no. A Jap officer told me after I was picked up. But when their drive was stopped in New Guinea, they started cleaning up their lines. In Java there weren’t too many of us, so they could afford to be rough. They said we were without honor—the officers—because we had allowed ourselves to be captured. So they wouldn’t consider us POW’s. They cut off our hair and forbade us to wear officers’ insignia. Eventually they allowed us to ‘become’ officers again, though they never allowed us back our hair.” Peter Marlowe smiled. “How did you get here?”

“The usual foul-up. I was in an airstrip building outfit. In the Philippines. We had to get out of there in a hurry. The first ship we could get was heading here, so we took it. We figured Singapore’d be safe as Fort Knox. By the time we got here, the Japs were almost through Johore. There was a lastminute panic, and all the guys got on the last convoy out. Me, I thought that was a bad gamble, so I stayed. The convoy got blown out of the sea. I used my head—and I’m alive. Most times, only suckers get killed.”

“I don’t think I would have had the wisdom not to go—if I had had the opportunity,” Peter Marlowe said.

“You got to look after number one, Peter. No one else does.”

Peter Marlowe thought about that for a long time. Snatches of conversation fled through the night. Occasionally a burst of anger. Whispers. The constant clouds of mosquitoes. From afar there was the mournful call of ship-horn to ship-horn. The palms, etched against the dark sky, rustled. A dead frond fell away from the crest of a palm and crashed to the jungle bed.

Peter Marlowe broke the silence. “This friend of yours. He really goes to the village?”

The King looked into Peter Marlowe’s eyes. “You like to come?” he asked softly. “The next time I go?”

A faint smile twisted Peter Marlowe’s lips. “Yes…”

A mosquito buzzed the King’s ear with sudden crescendo. He jerked up, found his flashlight and searched the inside of the net. At length the mosquito settled on the curtain. Deftly, the King crushed it. Then he double-checked to make certain that there were no holes in the net, and lay back once again.

In a moment he dismissed all things from his mind. Sleep came quickly and peacefully to the King.

Peter Marlowe still lay awake on his bunk, scratching bedbug bites. Too many memories had been triggered by what the King had said …

He remembered the ship that had brought him and Mac and Larkin from Java a year ago.

The Japanese had ordered the Commandant of Bandung, one of the camps in Java, to provide a thousand men for a work party. The men were to be sent to another camp nearby for two weeks with good food—double rations—and cigarettes. Then they would be transferred to another place. Fine working conditions.

Many of the men had offered to go because of the two weeks. Some were ordered. Mac had volunteered himself, Larkin, and Peter Marlowe. “Never can tell, laddies,” he had reasoned when they had cursed him. “If we can get to a wee island, well, Peter and I know the language. Ay, an’ the place cannot be worse than here.”

So they had decided to change the evil they knew for the evil that was to come.

The ship was a tiny tramp steamer. At the foot of the gangway there were many guards and two Japanese dressed in white with white face masks. On their backs were large containers, and in their hands were spray guns which connected with the containers. All prisoners and their possessions were spray-sterilized against carrying Javanese microbes onto the clean ship.

In the small hold aft there were rats and lice and feces, and there was a space twenty feet by twenty feet in the center of the hold. Around the hold, joined to the hull of the ship from the deck to the ceiling, were five tiers of deep shelves. The height between the shelves was three feet, and their depth ten feet.

A Japanese sergeant showed the men how to sit in the shelves, cross-legged. Five men in column, then five men in column beside them, then five men in column beside them. Until all the shelves were packed.

When panic protests began, the sergeant said that this was the way Japanese soldiers were transshipped, and if this was good enough for the glorious Japanese Army, it was good enough for white scum. A revolver fled the first five men, gasping, into the claustrophobic darkness, and the press of the men clambering down into the hold forced the others to get out of the shoving mass into the shelves. They, in turn, were forced by others. Knee to knee, back to back, side to side. The spill-over of men—almost a hundred—stood numbly in the small twenty-foot by twenty-foot area, blessing their luck that they were not in the shelves. The hatches were still off, and the sun poured down into the hold.

The sergeant led a second column which included Mac, Larkin, and Peter Marlowe to the fore hold, and that too began to fill up.

When Mac got to the steamy bottom he gasped and fainted. Peter Marlowe and Larkin caught him, and above the din they fought and cursed their way back up the gangway to the deck. A guard tried to shove them back. Peter Marlowe shouted and begged and showed him Mac’s quivering face. The guard shrugged and let them pass, nodding towards the bow.

Larkin and Peter Marlowe shoved and swore a space for Mac to lie down.

“What’ll we do?” Peter Marlowe asked Larkin.

“I’ll try and get a doctor.”

Mac’s hand caught Larkin. “Colonel.” His eyes opened a fraction and he whispered quickly, “I’m all right. Had to get us out of there somehow. For Christ’s sake look busy and don’t be afraid if I pretend a fit.”

So they had held on to Mac as he whimpered deliriously and fought and vomited the water they pressed to his lips. He kept it up until the ship cast off. Now even the decks of the ship were packed with men.

There was not enough space for all the men aboard to sit at the same time. But as there were lines to join—lines for water, lines for rice, lines for the latrines—each man could sit part of the time.

That night a squall lashed the ship for six hours. Those in the hold tried to escape the vomit and those on deck tried to escape the torrent.

The next day was calm under a sun-bleached sky. A man fell overboard. Those on deck—men and guards—watched a long time as he drowned in the wake of the ship. After that no one else fell overboard.

On the second day three men were given to the sea. Some Japanese guards fired their rifles to make the funeral more military. The service was brief—there were lines to be joined.

The voyage lasted four days and five nights. For Mac and Larkin and Peter Marlowe it was uneventful …

Peter Marlowe lay on his sodden mattress aching for sleep. But his mind raced uncontrolled, dredging up terrors of the past and fears of the future. And memories better not remembered. Not now, not alone. Memories of her.

Dawn had already nudged the sky when at last he slept. But even then his sleep was cruel.