“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?”
“Yes. I’ve just seen the General.” The Camp Commandant looked around the speechless faces, collecting his thoughts. “At least I think it’s over,” he said. “Yoshima was with the General. I said—I said, ‘The war’s over.’ The General just stared at me when Yoshima translated. I waited, but he said nothing, so I said again, ‘The war’s over. I—I—I demand your surrender.’” The Camp Commandant rubbed his bald head. “I didn’t know what else to say. For a long time the General just looked at me. Yoshima said nothing, nothing at all.
“Then the General said and Yoshima interpreted, ‘Yes. The war is over. You will return to your post in the camp. I have ordered my guards to turn their backs on the camp and guard you against anyone who tries to force an entrance into the camp to hurt you. They are your guards now—for your protection—until I have further orders. You are still responsible for the camp’s discipline.’
“I didn’t know what to say, so I asked him to double the rations and give us medicines and he said, ‘Tomorrow the rations will be doubled. You will receive some medical supplies. Unfortunately, we do not have much. But you are responsible for discipline. My guards will protect you against those who wish to kill you.’ ‘Who are they?’ I asked. The General shrugged and said, ‘Your enemies. This interview is over.’”
“Goddam,” Brough said. “Maybe they want us to go out—to give them an excuse to shoot us.”
“We can’t let the men out,” Smedly-Taylor said, appalled, “they’d riot. But we must do something. Perhaps we should tell them to hand over their weapons—”
The Camp Commandant held up his hand. “I think all we can do is wait. I’m—I think someone will arrive. And until they do, I think it’s best we carry on as usual. Oh yes. We are allowed to send a bathing party to the sea. Five men from each hut. In rotation. Oh my God,” he said, and it was a prayer, “I hope no one goes off half-cocked. There’s still no guarantee that the Japs here will obey the surrender. They may even go on fighting. All we can do is hope for the best—and prepare for the worst.”
He paused and looked at Larkin. “I think that the wireless should be left here.” He nodded at Smedly-Taylor. “You’ll arrange for permanent guards.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course,” the Camp Commandant said to Larkin, including Peter Marlowe and Mac, “you are still to operate it.”
“If you don’t mind, sir,” Mac said, “let someone else do that. I’ll repair it if anything goes wrong, but, well, I suppose you’ll want to have it connected twenty-four hours a day. We couldna do that—and somehow—well, speaking for mysel’, now that it’s in the open, let people share in the listening.”
“Take care of it, Colonel!” the Camp Commandant said.
“Yes, sir,” Smedly-Taylor said.
“Now we’d better discuss operations.”
Outside the Camp Commandant’s quarters a group of curious bystanders—including Max—began to collect, impatient to learn what was being said, and what had happened, and why the Japanese guard had been taken off the radio.
When Max could stand the strain no longer, he ran back to the American hut.
“Hey, you guys!” he managed to shout.
“The Japs’re coming?” The King was ready to jump through the window and head for the fence.
“No! Jesus,” Max said, out of breath, unable to go on.
“Well, what the hell’s up?” the King said.
“They’ve taken the Jap guards off Pete and the radio!” Max said getting his breath. “Then the Camp Commandant took Pete, Larkin and the Scot—and the radio—up to his quarters. There’s a big powwow going on there right now. All the senior colonels are there—even Brough’s there!”
“You sure?” the King asked.
“I tell you I saw it with my own eyes, but I don’t believe it either.”
In the violent silence, the King pulled out a cigarette and then Tex said what he had already realized.
“It’s over then. It’s really over. That’s what it’s gotta mean—if they’ve taken the guard off the radio!” Tex looked around. “Doesn’t it?”
Max sank heavily onto his bunk and wiped the sweat off his face. “That’s what I figure. If they’ve taken the guard away, that means that they’re gonna give up here—not go on fighting.” He peered at Tex helplessly. “Doesn’t it?”
But Tex was lost in his own private bewilderment. At length he said impassively, “It’s over.”
The King soberly puffed his cigarette. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Then, suddenly, in the eerie silence, he was afraid.
Dino was automatically maiming flies. Byron Jones III absently moved a bishop. Miller took it and left his queen unguarded. Max was staring at his feet. Tex scratched.
“Well, I don’t feel different,” Dino said and stood up. “I gotta go take a piss,” and he went out.
“Don’t know whether I’m gonna laugh or cry,” Max said. “Just feel like I’m gonna throw up.”
“Don’t make sense,” Tex said aloud, but he was talking to himself and did not know that he had spoken. “Just don’t make sense
.”
“Hey, Max,” the King said. “You want to fix some coffee?”
Automatically Max went out and filled the saucepan with water. When he came back he plugged in the hot plate and set the saucepan on it. He began to go back to his bunk, but he stopped in his tracks, turned around and stared at the King.
“What’s the matter, Max?” the King said uneasily.
Max just looked at him, his lips moving spastically and soundlessly.
“What the hell’re you staring at?”
Suddenly Max grabbed the saucepan and hurled it through the window.
“You out of your goddam mind?” the King exploded. “You got me all wet!”
“That’s tough,” Max shouted, his eyes bulging.
“I ought to beat the bejesus outta you! You gone crazy?”
“The war’s over. Get your own goddam coffee,” Max screamed, a touch of foam in the corners of his lips.
The King was on his feet and towering over Max, his face mottled with rage. “You get outta here before I put my foot through your face!”
“You do that, just do that, but don’t forget I’m a top sergeant! I’ll have you court-martialed!”
Max began to laugh hysterically, then abruptly the laughter turned to tears, shattering tears, and Max fled the hut, leaving a horrified silence in his wake.
“Crazy son of a bitch,” the King muttered. “Fix some water, will you, Tex,” and he sat down in his corner.
Tex was at the doorway, staring after Max. He looked around slowly. “I’m busy,” he said after an agony of indecision.
The King’s stomach turned over. He forced back his nausea and set his face.
“Yeah,” the King said with a grim smile. “So I notice.” He could feel the depths of the stillness. He took out his wallet and selected a note. “Here’s a ten-spot. Get unbusy and go get some water, will you.” He hid the ache in his bowels and watched Tex.
But Tex said nothing, just shuddered nervously and looked away.
“You still got to eat—till it’s really over,” the King said disdainfully, then looked around the hut. “Who wants some coffee?”
“I’d like some coffee,” Dino spoke up, unapologetically. He fetched the saucepan and filled it and set it to cook.
The King dropped the ten-dollar note on the table. Dino stared at it.
“No thanks,” he said throatily, shaking his head, “just the coffee.”
He walked unsteadily back down the length of the hut.
Self-consciously the men turned away from the King’s smoldering contempt. “I hope for your sakes, you sons of bitches, the war’s over for real,” the King said.
When the Colonel returned, a week later, Mema was shocked to see him look so ill. He interrupted her brusquely.
She stared at him incredulously. “I don’t understand.”
“We have—surrendered,” he began again. “The war is over. We have lost.”
“But that’s impossible,” Mema cried, brinked on insanity. “You told me—”
“Apparently,” said the Colonel, “my—information was incorrect.”
“But then”—Mema stared at him, bewildered—“then they’ve—the English and Americans—they’ve beaten us, I mean—” the words were almost too extraordinary to say, “you mean we’ve beaten you?”
“Yes.”
The Colonel grimly took off his Samurai sword and sat down.
“But that means—” Mema sank onto a chair, staring at him, trying to understand. Then the thought burst through her: “Then Mac, my husband—”
“You will have to speak in Japanese if you wish me to understand you!” the Colonel said curtly.
“Then my husband, what about my real husband?”
“He may be dead. He may be alive, perhaps he is!”
“Alive?” Mem repeated weakly.
“Yes.” The Colonel got up. “You are free to go.”
“Go where?” she burst out.
“Anywhere. With the loss of the war, my love for you is lost. The war is over. My love is over.”
“But, but, what shall I do?”
“That is your problem.”
Mema got up and weakly sat again, for her legs did not seem to be her own, trying to understand, trying to think, but it was too difficult. Too difficult. “Be patient with me, my husband,” she said. “The war is over and you—and we have lost.”
“I’ve said so,” the Colonel snapped. “This whole interview is distasteful.”
Mema didn’t hear the words, so locked was she in her nightmare. “Then what I think—I—will you please kill me, before, before you—commit hari kiri.” The tears were streaming.
“I’m not going to commit hari kiri,” said the Colonel contemptuously.
“But, but our code of honor, Bushido, you’re a Samurai…”
“I obey the orders of the Emperor. He has ordered that we surrender.”
The scales fell from Mema’s eyes and she saw him standing before her. In one clear instant she knew. She KNEW. “You’re afraid,” she gasped. “You’re afraid!”
“I’m not.”
The Colonel’s face was ashen.
“You’re afraid, you, the Samurai, you’re afraid.”
“I am going now. With my men. We have orders to assemble for transshipment for home.” He bowed curtly and walked, the heels of his polished boots clicked on the veranda steps and he began to walk down them.
“But what about me?” Mema gasped. “And our children?”
The Colonel stopped and looked back at her. “Angus is your child, not mine. And as for the girl, she’s a half-caste and a bastard. Do what you like with her.”
Mema stared at him blankly. “What?”
The Colonel’s fury lashed out. “It would be easy to kill you. Very easy. But you can live or take your own life. You damned whites! You’ve beaten us, but by my ancestors, I can have a little revenge by leaving you alive. Let’s both be honest—you bought yourself a soft life with your body. You’re no better than a whore. Rot in the stupid hell you believe in, for all I care.”
Then he walked down the path and his chauffeur bowed and he got into the car and the chauffeur closed the door and the car was lost in the Sumatran night.
Mema was crying now, piteously.
“Okasan,” piped Angus as he ran across the room. “Okasan, doshita naiterulno?”
Mema stared at him blankly, not understanding the gibberish words. “What did you say, darling?”
Angus stared at her frightened, not understanding the strange gibberish that his mother was speaking and not understanding her tears. So he said again, pathetically, “Okasan.”
And Mema forced her brain to think the words her son understood, Japanese words, only Japanese words, her son—the son of her and Angus McCoy, who might be alive, her true husband. “I don’t know, my son,” she said, the tears streaming.
Then there were more frightened little feet and then little Nobu was in her arms, whimpering; too young to know speech, but old enough to know terror and know that tears were frightening and that her mother was frightened, even as she.
And because Mema was crying, silently, helplessly, frighteningly, and moaning in a strange gibberish, Angus and little Nobu began crying too. Caught in her arms.
“Oh God,” Mema said aloud. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”
Peter Marlowe walked out of the Camp Commandant’s quarters and hurried towards the American hut. He replied automatically to the greetings of the men he knew and he could sense the constant eyes—incredulous eyes—that watched him. Yes, he thought, I don’t believe it either. Soon to be home, soon to fly again, soon to see my old man again, drink with him, laugh with him. And all the family. God, it’ll be strange. I’m alive. I’m alive. I made it!
“Hello, you fellows!” He beamed as he entered the hut.
“Hi, Peter,” Tex said as he jumped to his feet and shook his hand warmly. “Boy, were we glad to hear about the guard, old buddy!”
>
“That’s a masterpiece of understatement,” Peter Marlowe said and laughed. As they surrounded him, he basked in the warmth of their greetings.
“What happened with the Brass?” Dino asked.
Peter Marlowe told them, and they became even more apprehensive. All except Tex. “Hell, there’s no need to prepare for the worst. It’s over!” he said confidently.
“It’s over for sure,” Max said gruffly as he walked into the hut.
“Hello, Max, I—” Peter Marlowe did not continue. He was shocked by the frightening look in Max’s eyes.
“You all right?” he asked, perturbed.
“’Course I’m all right!” Max flared. He shoved past and fell on his bunk. “What the hell’re you staring at? Can’t a guy lose his temper once in a while without all you bastards staring?”
“Take it easy,” Tex said.
“Thank Christ, I’ll be outta this lousy dump soon.” Max’s face was gray-brown and his mouth twitched. “And that goes for you lousy bastards!”
“Shut up, Max!”
“Go to hell!” Max wiped the spittle from his chin; he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of ten-dollar notes, then savagely ripped them and scattered them like confetti.
“What the hell’s gotten into you, Max?” Tex asked.
“Nothin’, you son of a bitch! The bills’re no goddam good.”
“Huh?”
“I just been to the store. Yeah. Thought I’d get me a coconut. But that goddam Chinee wouldn’t take my dough. Wouldn’t take it. Said he’d sold his whole stock to the goddam Camp Commandant. On a note. ‘The English Government promises to pay X Straits Dollars!’ You can wipe your goddam ass on the Jap bucks—that’s all they’re good for!”
“Wow,” Tex said. “That’s the clincher. If the Chinese won’t take the dough, then we’ve really got it made, eh, Peter?”
“We have indeed.” Peter Marlowe felt warmed by their friendship. Even Max’s malevolent stare could not destroy his happiness. “Can’t tell you how much you fellows have helped me, you know, kidding around and all that.”
“Hell,” Dino said. “You’re one of us.” He punched him playfully. “You’re not bad for a goddam Limey!”
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