King Rat

“What does she mean by ‘Pray for me’?” Larkin asked. “She knows I do, every day. What’s going on? For Christ’s sake, is she sick or something?”

“There’s no need to worry, Colonel,” Peter Marlowe said.

“What the hell do you know about things?” Larkin flared abruptly. “How the hell can’t I worry!”

“Well, at least you know she’s all right, and your daughter’s all right,” Mac slammed back, beside himself with longing. “Bless your luck that far! We’ve not had a letter! None of us! You’re lucky!” And he stamped out furiously.

“I’m sorry, Mac.” Larkin ran after him and pulled him back. “I’m sorry, it’s just that, after such a time—”

“Eh, laddie, it wasn’t anything you said. It was just me. It’s me who should apologize. I was sick with jealousy. I think I hate these letters.”

“You can say that again,” the King said. “’Nough to drive you crazy. Guys that get ’em go crazy, guys that don’t go crazy. Nothing but trouble.”

It was dusk. Just after chow. The whole American hut was assembled.

Kurt spat on the floor and put the tray down.

“Here’s nine. I kept one. My ten percent.” He spat again and left.

They all looked at the tray.

“I think I’m going to be sick again,” Peter Marlowe said.

“Don’t blame you,” the King agreed.

“I don’t know about that.” Max cleared his throat. “They look just like rabbit legs. Small, sure, but still rabbit legs.”

“You want to try one?” the King asked.

“Hell no. I just said they looked like them. I can have an opinion, can’t I?”

“My ruddy oath,” Timsen said. “Never thought we’d really sell any.”

“If I didn’t know—” Tex stopped. “I’m so hungry. An’ I ain’t seen that much meat since we got that dog—”

“What dog?” Max asked suspiciously.

“Oh hell, it was, er, years ago,” Tex said. “Back in, er, ’43.”

“Oh.”

“Goddam!” said the King, still fascinated by the tray. “It looks all right.” He bent forward and sniffed the meat, but did not put his nose too close. “It smells all right…”

“But it ain’t,” Byron Jones III interrupted acidly. “It’s rat meat.”

The King pulled his head back. “What the hell you say that for, you son of a bitch!” he said through the laughter.

“Well, it is rat, for Chrissake. The way you were going on, it was enough to make a guy hungry!”

Peter Marlowe carefully picked up a leg and laid it on a banana leaf. “This I’ve got to have,” he said, and returned to his hut. He went to his bunk and whispered to Ewart, “Maybe we’ll eat very well tonight.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Something special.” Peter Marlowe knew that Drinkwater was overhearing them; furtively he put the banana leaf on his shelf and said to Ewart, “I’ll be back in a mo’.” Half an hour later he came back and the banana leaf was gone and so was Drinkwater. “Did you go out?” Peter Marlowe asked Ewart.

“Only for a moment. Drinkwater wanted me to get some water for him. Said he was feeling proper poorly.” And then Peter Marlowe had hysterics and everyone in the hut thought he had gone off his head. Only when Mike shook him could he stop laughing. “Sorry, just a private joke.”

When Drinkwater came back Peter Marlowe pretended to be mortally concerned about the loss of some food, and Drinkwater was concerned too and said, licking his chops, “What a dirty trick,” and Peter Marlowe’s hysterics began again.

At length Peter Marlowe groped into his bunk and lay back, exhausted by the laughter. And quickly this exhaustion added to the exhaustion of the last two days. He fell asleep, and in his dreams Drinkwater was eating mountains of little haunches and he, Peter Marlowe, was there watching all the time, and Drinkwater kept saying, “What’s the matter? They’re delicious, delicious…”

Ewart shook him awake. “There’s an American outside, Peter. Wants to talk to you.”

Peter Marlowe still felt weak and nauseated, but he got off the bed. “Where’s Drinkwater?”

“I don’t know. He took off after you had the fit.”

“Oh.” Peter Marlowe laughed again. “I was afraid it might have been a dream.”

“What?” Ewart studied him.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t know what’s getting into you, Peter. You’ve been acting very strange lately.”

Tex was waiting for Peter Marlowe in the lee of the hut. “Pete,” he whispered. “The King sent me. You’re overdue.”

“Oh blast! Sorry, I dropped off.”

“Yeah, that’s what he figured. ‘Better get with it,’ he told me to tell you.” Tex frowned. “You all right?”

“Yes. Still a bit weak. I’ll be all right.”

Tex nodded, then hurried away. Peter Marlowe rubbed his face and then walked down the steps to the asphalt road and stood under the shower, his body drinking strength from the cold. Then he filled his bottle and walked heavily to the latrines. He chose a hole at the bottom of the slope as near as possible to the wire.