King Rat

“No. It’s just a rumor.” Ewart tried not to show his fear. “I’m scared to death that as soon as the fleet comes into the harbor the Japs’ll go crazy.”

“They won’t!”

“I went up to the Camp Commandant’s office. There’s a whole group of chaps there, they keep giving out news bulletins. The last one said that—” for a moment Ewart couldn’t speak, then he continued—“that the casualties in Hiroshima and Nagasaki are over three hundred thousand. They say people are still dying like flies there—that this hell-bomb does something to the air and keeps on killing. My God, if that happened to London and I was in charge of a camp like this—I’d—I’d slaughter everyone. I would, by God I would.”

Peter Marlowe calmed him, then left the hut and walked to the gate in the gathering light. Inside, he was still afraid. He knew that Ewart was right. Such a hell-bomb was too much. But he knew, of a sudden, a great truth, and he blessed the brains that had invented the bombs. Only the bombs had saved Changi from oblivion. Oh yes, he told himself, whatever happens because of the bombs, I will bless the first two and the men who made them. Only they have given me back my life when there was truly no hope of life. And though the first two have consumed a multitude, by their very vastness they have saved the lives of countless hundred thousand others. Ours. And theirs. By the Lord God, this is the truth.

He found himself beside the main gate. The guards were there, as usual. Their backs were toward the camp, but they still had rifles in their hands. Peter Marlowe watched them curiously. He was sure that these men would blindly die in defense of men who only a day ago were their despised enemies.

My God, Peter Marlowe thought, how incredible some people are.

Then suddenly, out of the growing light of dawn, he saw an apparition. A strange man, a real man who had breadth and thickness, a man who looked like a man. A white man. He wore a strange green uniform and his parachute boots were polished and his beret decal flashed like fire and he had a revolver on his wide belt and there was a neat field pack on his back.

The man walked the center of the road, his heels click-clicking until he was in front of the guardhouse.

The man—now Peter Marlowe could see that he wore the rank of a captain—the captain stopped and glared at the guards and then he said, “Salute, you bloody bastards.”

When the guards stared at him stupidly, the captain went up to the nearest guard and ripped the bayoneted rifle out of his hands and stuck it viciously in the ground, and said again, “Salute me, you bloody bastards.”

The guards stared at him nervously. Then the captain pulled out his revolver and fired a single round into the earth at the feet of the guards and said, “Salute, you bloody bastards.”

Awata, the Japanese sergeant, Awata the Fearful, sweating and nervous, stepped forward and bowed. Then they all bowed.

“That’s better, you bloody bastards,” the captain said. Then he tore the rifle out of each man’s hands and threw it on the ground. “Get back in the bloody guardhouse.”

Awata understood the movement of his hand. He ordered the guards to line up. Then, on his command, they bowed again.

The captain stood and looked at them. Then he returned the salute.

“Salute, you bloody bastards,” the captain said once more.

Again the guards bowed.

“Good,” the captain said. “And next time I say salute, salute!”

Awata and all the men bowed and the captain turned and walked to the barricade.

Peter Marlowe felt the eyes of the captain on him and on the men near him, and he started with fear and backed away.

He saw first revulsion in the eyes of the captain, then compassion.

The captain shouted at the guards. “Open this bloody gate, you bloody bastards.”

Awata understood the point of the hand and quickly ran out with three guards and pulled the barricade out of the way.

Then the captain walked through, and when they began to close it again he shouted, “Leave that bloody thing alone.” And they left it alone and bowed in salute.

Peter Marlowe tried to concentrate. This was wrong. All wrong. This could not be happening. Then, suddenly, the captain was standing in front of him.

“Hello,” the captain said. “I’m Captain Forsyth. Who’s in charge here?” The words were soft and very gentle. But Peter Marlowe could only see the captain looking at him from head to toe.

What’s the matter? What’s wrong with me? Peter Marlowe desperately asked himself. What’s the matter with me? Frightened, he backed another step.

“There’s no need to be afraid of me.” The captain’s voice was deep and sympathetic. “The war’s over. I’ve been sent to see that you’re all looked after.”

The captain took a step forward. Peter Marlowe recoiled and the captain stopped. Slowly the captain took out a pack of Players. Good English Players.

“Would you like a cigarette?”

The captain stepped forward, and Peter Marlowe ran away, terrified.