King Rat

“Hey, chaps!” he shouted. “There’s some mail in the camp!”

Mac’s stomach turned over. Oh God, let there be one for me.

But there was no letter for Mac.

In all there were forty-three letters among the ten thousand. The Japanese had given mail to the camp twice in three years. A few letters. And on three occasions the men had been allowed to write a post card of twenty-five words. But whether these cards were ever delivered they did not know.

Larkin was one who got a letter. The first he had ever received.

His letter was dated April 2, 1945. Four months old. The age of the other letters varied from three weeks to more than two years.

Larkin read and reread the letter. Then he read it to Mac, Peter Marlowe and the King, sitting on the veranda of the bungalow.

Darling, This letter is number 205, it began. I am well and Jeannie is well and Mother is staying with us and we live just where we’ve always lived. We have had no news of you since your letter dated February 1, 1942, posted from Singapore. But even so we know you’re well and happy, and we’re praying for your safe return.

I’ve started each letter off the same, so if you’ve read the above before, forgive me. But it’s difficult, not knowing if this one will reach you, if any of them have. I love you. I need you. And I miss you more than I can bear at times.

Today I feel sad, I don’t know why, but I am. I don’t want to be depressed and I wanted to tell you all manner of wonderful things.

Perhaps I’m sad because of Mrs. Gurble. She got a post card yesterday and I didn’t. I’m just selfish I suppose. But that’s me. Anyway, be sure to tell Vic Gurble that his wife, Sarah, got a post card dated January 6, 1943. She is well and his son is bonny. Sarah is so happy that she is back in contact again. Oh yes, and the Regiment girls are all right. Timsen’s mother is just grand. And don’t forget to remember me to Tom Masters. I saw his wife last night. She’s well too and making a lot of money for him. She’s in a new business. Oh yes and I saw Elizabeth Ford, Mary Vickers…

Larkin looked up from the letter. “She mentions maybe a dozen wives. But the men’re dead. All of ’em. The only man who’s alive is Timsen.”

“Read on, laddie,” said Mac quickly, achingly aware of the agony that was written in Larkin’s eyes.

Today’s hot, Larkin continued, and I’m sitting on the veranda and Jeannie’s playing in the garden and I think this weekend I’ll go up to the cottage in the Blue Mountains.

I’d write about the news, but that’s not allowed.

Oh God, how do you write into a vacuum? How do I know? Where are you, my love, for the love of Christ, where are you? I won’t write any more. I’ll just finish the letter here and won’t send it… oh my love, I pray for you—pray for me. Please pray for me, pray for me—

After a pause, Larkin said, “There’s no signature and it’s—the address is in my mother’s handwriting. Well, what do you think of that?”

“You know how it is with a lass,” Mac said. “She probably just put it in a drawer and then your mother found it and air-posted it off, without reading it, without asking her. You know how mothers are. More than likely Betty forgot all about it and the next day she wrote another letter when she felt better.”