King Rat

Flies were swarming the bucket and its rough lid on top. The afternoon rains came early and settled the stench, and then the sun came out and began to dry the wetness of Changi.

The King walked down the line of bungalows, conscious of the eyes on him. He stopped cautiously outside the condemned bungalow. “Tabe, Shagata-san,” he said. “Ichi-bon day, no? Can I talk to my ichi-bon friend?”

Shagata stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“He begs thy permission to talk to me,” Peter Marlowe said.

Shagata thought a moment, then nodded. “Because of the money I made from the sale, I will let thee talk.” He turned to Peter Marlowe. “If I have thy words that thou wilt not try to escape.”

“Thou hast our words.”

“Be quick. I will watch.” Shagata moved so that he could keep an eye on the road.

“There’s a rumor that guards are pouring into the guardhouse,” the King began nervously. “Goddamned if I’m going to sleep tonight. They’re just the sort of bastards who’d do it at night.” His lips felt dry and he had been watching the wire all day hoping for a sign from the guerrillas that would trigger the decision to make a break. But there had been none. “Listen.” He dropped his voice and told them about the plan. “When the killing starts, rush the guard and break out near our hut. I’ll try and cover for the three of you, but don’t hope for much.”

Then he got up and nodded to Shagata and walked away. Once in the American hut he called a council of war. He told them of his plan, but he didn’t tell them that only ten could go. They all discussed the plan and then decided to wait. “Can’t do more,” Brough said, echoing their fears. “If we tried now, we’d be shot to pieces.”

Only the very sick slept that night. Or those—the infinite few—who could commit themselves peacefully into the hands of God—or Fate. Dave Daven was sleeping.

“They brought Dave back from Utram Road this afternoon,” Grey had whispered as he brought them their evening meal.

“How is he?” Peter Marlowe asked.

“He only weighs seventy pounds.”

Daven slept that night and the next awesome day, and he died in his coma as Mac was listening to the news commentator: “The second atom bomb has destroyed Nagasaki. President Truman has issued a last ultimatum to Japan—surrender unconditionally or face total destruction.”

The next day the work parties went out and, unbelievably, returned. Rations continued to come into the camp and Samson weighed the rations in public and took extra down to the men who had put him in charge of the supplies. There were still two days’ rations in the store hut and cookhouses, and there was cooked food, and the flies swarmed and nothing had changed.

The bedbugs bit and the mosquitoes bit and the rats suckled their young. A few men died. Ward Six had three new patients.

Another day and another night and another day. Then Mac heard the holy words: “This is Calcutta calling. The Tokyo radio has just announced that the Japanese Government has surrendered unconditionally. Three years, two hundred and fifty days since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor—the war is over. God save the King!”

Soon all of Changi knew. And the words became part of the earth and sky and walls and cells of Changi.

Still, for two more days and two more nights nothing changed. On the third day the Camp Commandant walked along the line of bungalows with Awata, the Japanese sergeant.

Peter Marlowe and Mac and Larkin saw the two men approaching, and they died a thousand times for each pace the men took. They knew at once that their time had come.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Pity,” 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?”