King Rat

They all had their rag shirts tucked into grub-bags. Grub-bags were an institution, and took many forms. Sometimes they were regulation haversacks, sometimes suitcases, sometimes rattan baskets, sometimes bags, sometimes a cloth and a stick, sometimes a piece of material. But all the men carried some container for the plunder to be. On a work party there was always plunder, and if it wasn’t millionaire’s cabbage or coconut, it could be driftwood, firewood, coconut husks, bananas, oil palm nuts, edible roots, leaves of many types, or even sometimes papaya.

Most of the men wore clogs of wood or tire rubber. Some wore shoes with the toes cut out. And some had boots. Peter Marlowe was wearing Mac’s boots. They were tight, but for a three-mile march and a work party they were better than clogs.

The snake of men began marching through the gate west, an officer in charge of each company. At the head was a group of Koreans and at the tail was a single Korean guard.

Peter Marlowe’s group waited near the rear for space to join the march. He was looking forward to the trek and the prospect of the trees. He shifted his shirt more comfortably in the rucksack strap and adjusted his water bottle—not the bottle, for to take that would have been dangerous on a work party. You could never tell when a guard or someone else might want to take a drink.

Finally it was time to move, and he and his men began to walk towards the gate. As they passed the guardhouse they saluted, and the squat little Japanese sergeant stood on the veranda and returned their salute stiffly. Peter Marlowe gave the number of his men to the other guard, who checked them against the total already tallied.

Then they were outside the camp and walking the tarmac road. It curled easily, with gentle hills and dales, then sped through a rubber plantation. The rubber trees were unkempt and untapped. Now that’s strange, thought Peter Marlowe, for rubber was at a premium and a vital food for war.

“Hello, Duncan,” he said as Captain Duncan and his group began to pass. He fell into step beside Duncan, keeping his eyes on his own group, the next ahead.

“Isn’t it great to have the news again?” Duncan said.

“Yes,” he replied automatically, “if it’s true.”

“Must say it sounds too good to be true.”

Peter Marlowe liked Duncan. He was a little Scot, red-haired and middle-aged. Nothing seemed to faze him. He always had a smile and a good word. Peter Marlowe had the feeling that something was different about him today. Now what was it?

Duncan noted his curiosity and grimaced to show his new false teeth.

“Oh, that’s it,” said Peter Marlowe. “I was wondering what was different.”

“How do they look?”

“Oh, better than none at all.”

“Now that’s a fine remark. I thought they looked pretty good.”

“I can’t get used to aluminum teeth. They look all wrong.”

“Went through bloody hell to have mine taken out. Bloody hell!”

“Thank God my teeth are all right. Had to have them filled last year. Rotten business. You’re probably wise to have had all yours taken out. How many did—”

“Eighteen,” said Duncan angrily. “Makes you want to spit blood. But they were completely rotten. Doc said something about the water and lack of chewable material and rice diet and lack of calcium. But my God, these false ones feel great.” He chomped once or twice reflectively, then continued, “The dental chaps are very clever the way they make them. Lot of ingenuity. Of course, I have to admit it’s a bit of a shock—not having white teeth. But for comfort, why, lad, I haven’t felt so good in years, white or aluminum makes no difference. Always had trouble with my teeth. To hell with teeth anyway.”

Up ahead, the column of men moved into the side of the road as a bus began to pass. It was ancient and puffing and steaming and had seats for twenty-five passengers. But inside were nearly sixty men, women and children, and outside another ten were hanging on with fingers and toes. The top of the bus was piled with cages of chickens and baggage and mat-rolls. As the asthmatic bus passed, the natives looked curiously at the men and the men eyed the crates of half-dead chickens and hoped the bloody bus would break down or go into a ditch and then they could help push it out of the ditch and liberate a dozen or so chickens. But today the bus passed, and there were many curses.

Peter Marlowe walked alongside Duncan, who kept on chattering about his teeth and showing them in the broadness of his smile. But the smile was all wrong. It looked grotesque.

Behind them a Korean guard, slouching lethargically, shouted at a man who fell out of the line to the side of the road, but the man merely dropped his pants and quickly relieved himself and called out “Sakit marah”—dysentery—so the guard shrugged and took out a cigarette and lit it while he waited, and quickly the man was back in line once more.

“Peter,” said Duncan quietly, “cover for me.”