King Rat

“That was before,” Byron Jones III was saying. “I’ll bet the son of a bitch cooks it and eats it in front of us.” But he was thinking about his home. Goddamned if I’m going to stay there any more. Got to get me my own apartment. Yeah. But where the hell’s the dough coming from?

“So what if he does?” Tex asked. “We got maybe two or three days to go.” Then home to Texas, he was thinking. Can I get my job back? Where the hell will I live? What am I going to use for dough? When I get in the hay, is it going to work?

“What about the Limey officer, Tex? You think we should go talk with him?”

“Yeah, we should. But hell, later today, or tomorrow. We gotta get used to the idea.” Tex suppressed a shudder. “When he looked at me—it was as though, just like he was looking at a—a geek! Holy cow, what’s so goddam wrong with me? I look all right, don’t I?”

They all studied Tex, trying to see what the officer had seen. But they saw only Tex, the Tex they had known for three and a half years.

“You look all right to me,” Dino said finally. “If anyone’s a freak it’s him. Goddamned if I’d parachute into Singapore alone. Not with all the lousy Japs around. No sir! He’s the real freak.”

The King was walking along the jail wall. You’re a stupid son of a bitch, he told himself. What the hell’re you so upset about? All’s well in the world. Sure. And you’re still the King. You’re still the only guy who knows how to get with it.

He cocked his hat at a rakish angle and chuckled as he remembered Dino. Yeah, that bastard would be cursing, wondering if he’d really get the chicken, knowing he’d been aced into working. The hell with him, let him sweat, the King thought cheerfully.

He crossed the path between two of the huts. Around the huts were groups of men. They were all looking north, towards the gate, silently, motionless. He rounded another hut and saw the officer standing in a pool of emptiness, staring around bewildered, his back towards him. He saw the officer go toward some men and laughed sardonically as he saw them retreat.

Crazy, he thought cynically. Plain crazy. What’s there to be scared of? The guy’s only a captain. Yep, he’s sure going to need a hand. But what the hell they’re so scared about beats me!

He quickened his pace, but his footsteps made no noise.

“’Morning, sir,” he said crisply, saluting.

Captain Forsyth spun around, startled. “Oh! Hello.” He returned the salute with a sigh of relief. “Thank God someone here is normal.” Then he realized what he had said. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“That’s all right,” the King said agreeably. “This dump’s enough to put anyone off kilter. Boy, are we pleased to see you. Welcome to Changi!”

Forsyth smiled. He was much shorter than the King but built like a tank. “Thank you. I’m Captain Forsyth. I’ve been sent to look after the camp until the fleet arrives.”

“When’s that?”

“Six days.”

“Can’t they make it any sooner?”

“These things take time, I suppose.” Forsyth nodded toward the huts. “What’s the matter with everyone? It’s as though I was a leper.”

The King shrugged. “Guess they’re in a state of shock. Don’t believe their eyes yet. You know how some guys are. And it has been a long time.”

“Yes it has,” Forsyth said slowly.

“Crazy that they’d be scared of you.” The King shrugged again. “But that’s life, and their business.”

“You’re an American?”

“Sure. There are twenty-five of us. Officers and enlisted men. Captain Brough’s our senior officer. He got shot down flying the hump in ’43. Maybe you’d like to meet him?”

“Of course.” Forsyth was dead-tired. He had been given this assignment in Burma four days ago. The waiting and the flight and the jump and the walk to the guardhouse and the worry of what he would meet and what the Japanese would do and how the hell he was going to carry out his orders, all these things had wrecked his sleep and terrored his dreams. Well, old chap, you asked for the job and you’ve got it and here you are. At least you passed the first test up at the main gate. Bloody fool, he told himself, you were so petrified all you could say was “Salute, you bloody bastards.”

From where he stood, Forsyth could see clusters of men staring at him from the huts and the windows and the doorways and shadows. They were all silent.

He could see the bisecting street, and beyond the latrine area. He noticed the sores of huts and his nostrils were filled with the stench of sweat and mildew and urine. Zombies were everywhere—zombies in rags, zombies in loincloths, zombies in sarongs—boned and meatless.

“You feeling okay?” the King asked solicitously. “You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m all right. Who are those poor buggers?”

“Just some of the guys,” the King said. “Officers.”

“What?”

“Sure. What’s wrong with them?”

“You mean to tell me those are officers?”