King Rat

—And look over there! There’s a man doing it in public! And good God, he’s not using paper! He’s using water and his hands! My God—they all do!

—Look at that filthy bed! My God, the place is crawling with bugs!

—What degradation these poor swine have sunk to—worse than animals!

—Ought to be in an insane asylum! Certainly the Japs did it to them, but all the same it’d be safer to lock them up. They don’t seem to know what’s right and what’s wrong!

—Look at them lap up that filth! My God, you give them bread and potatoes and they want rice!

—Got to get back to the ship. Can’t wait to bring the fellows out. Chance of a lifetime, never see this again.

—My God, those nurses are taking a chance, walking around.

—Rubbish, they’re safe enough. Seen a lot of the girls coming up to have a look. By jove, that one’s a corker!

—Disgusting the way the POW’s are looking at them!

With the questions and the opinions the outsiders brought answers.

—Ah, Flight Lieutenant Marlowe? Yes, we’ve had a cable answer from the Admiralty. Captain Marlowe RN is, er, I’m afraid your father’s dead. Killed in action on the Murmansk run. September 10, ’43. Sorry. Next!

—Captain Spence? Yes. We’ve a lot of mail for you. You can get it at the guardhouse. Oh yes. Your—your wife and child were killed in London in an air raid. January this year. Sorry. A V2. Terrible. Next!

—Lieutenant Colonel Jones? Yes, sir. You’ll be on the first party leaving tomorrow. All senior officers are going. Bon voyage! Next!

—Major McCoy? Oh yes, you were inquiring about your wife and son. Let me see, they were aboard the Empress of Shropshire, weren’t they? The ship that sailed from Singapore on February 9, 1942? Sorry, we’ve no news, except that we know it was sunk somewhere off Borneo. There are rumors that there were survivors, but if there were or where they would be—no one knows. You’ll have to be patient! We hear there are POW camps all over—the Celebes—Borneo—you’ll have to be patient! Next!

—Ah, Colonel Smedly-Taylor? Sorry, bad news, sir. Your wife was killed in an air raid. Two years ago. Your youngest son, Squadron Leader P. R. Smedly-Taylor VC, was lost over Germany in ’44. Your son John is presently in Berlin with the occupation forces. Here is his address. Rank? Lieutenant Colonel. Next!

—Colonel Larkin? Oh, Australians are dealt with somewhere else. Next!

—Captain Grey? Ah, well, it’s somewhat difficult. You see, you were reported lost in action in ’42. I’m afraid your wife remarried. She’s—er—well, here’s her present address. I don’t know, sir. You’ll have to ask the Solicitor General’s Office. Afraid legalities are out of my line. Next!

—Captain Ewart? Oh yes, the Malayan Regiment? Yes. I’m happy to tell you your wife and three children are safe and well. They’re at Cha Song Camp in Singapore. Yes, we’ve transport for you this afternoon. I beg your pardon? Well, I don’t know. The memo says three—not two children. Perhaps it’s an error. Next!

More men went swimming now. But the outside was still fearful and the men that went were glad to be back inside once more. Sean went swimming. He walked down to the shore with the men and in his hand was a bundle. When the party got to the beach, Sean turned away, and the men laughed and jeered, most of them, at the pervert who wouldn’t take off his clothes like anyone else.

“Pansy!”

“Bugger!”

“Rotten fairy!”

“Homo!”

Sean walked up the beach, away from the jeers, until he found a private place. He slipped off his short pants and shirt and put on the evening sarong and padded bra and belt and stockings and combed his hair and put on makeup. Carefully, very carefully. And then the girl stood up, confident and very happy. She put on her high-heeled shoes and walked into the sea.

The sea welcomed her and made her sleep easy, and then, in the course of time, devoured the clothes and body and the time of her.

A major was standing in the doorway of Peter Marlowe’s hut. His tunic was crusted with medal ribbons and he seemed very young. He peered around the hut at the obscenities lying on their bunks or changing or smoking or preparing to take a shower. His eyes came to rest on Peter Marlowe.

“What the fucking hell are you staring at?” Peter Marlowe screamed.

“Don’t talk to me like that! I’m a major and—”

“I don’t give a goddam if you’re Christ! Get out of here! Get out!”

“Stand to attention! I’ll have you court-martialed!” the major snapped, eyes popping, sweat pouring. “Ought to be ashamed of yourself, standing there in a skirt—”

“It’s a sarong—”

“It’s a skirt, standing in a skirt, half-naked! You POW’s think you can get away with anything. Well, thank God you can’t. And now you’ll be taught respect for—”

Peter Marlowe caught up his hafted bayonet, rushed to the door and thrust the knife in the major’s face. “Get away from here or by Christ I’ll cut your fucking throat…”

The major evaporated.

“Take it easy, Peter,” Phil muttered. “You’ll get us all into trouble.”