King Rat

Suddenly there were jeeps screaming through the camp and huge men with cigars and four doctors. They were all Americans. They rushed into the camp and stabbed the Americans with needles and gave them gallons of fresh orange juice and food and cigarettes and embraced them—their boys, their hero boys. They helped them into the jeeps and drove them to Changi Gate, where a truck was waiting.

Peter Marlowe watched, astonished. They’re not heroes, he thought, bewildered. Neither are we. We lost. We lost the war, our war. Didn’t we? We’re not heroes. We’re not!

He saw the King through the fog of his mind. His friend. He had been waiting the days to talk with him, but each time he had found him the King had put him off. “Later,” the King had always said, “I’m busy now.” When the new Americans had arrived there still had been no time.

So Peter Marlowe stood at the gate, with many men, watching the departure of the Americans, waiting to say a last good-by to his friend, waiting patiently to thank him for his arm and for the laughter they had had together.

Among the watchers was Grey.

Forsyth was standing tiredly beside the lorry. He handed over the list. “You keep the original, sir,” he said to the senior American officer. “Your men are all listed by rank, service and serial number.”

“Thanks,” said the major, a squat, heavy-jowled paratrooper. He signed the paper and handed back the other five copies. “When’re the rest of your folks arriving?”

“A couple of days.”

The major looked around and shuddered. “Looks like you could use a hand.”

“Have you any excess drugs, by any chance?”

“Sure. We got a bird stacked with the stuff. Tell you what. Once I’ve got our boys on their way, I’ll bring it all back in our jeeps. I’ll let you have a doc and two orderlies until yours get here.”

“Thanks.” Forsyth tried to rub the fatigue out of his face. “We could use them. I’ll sign for the drugs. SEAC will honor my signature.”

“No goddam paper. You want the drugs, you got ’em. That’s what they’re there for.”

He turned away. “All right, Sergeant, get ’em in the truck.” He walked over to the jeep and watched as the stretcher was lashed securely. “What you think, Doc?”

“He’ll make it State-side.” The doctor glanced up from the unconscious figure neatly trussed in the straitjacket, “but that’s about it. His mind’s gone for good.”

“Son of a bitch,” the major said wearily, and he made a check mark against Max’s name on the list. “Seems kinda unfair.” He dropped his voice. “What about the rest of them?”

“Not good. Withdrawal symptoms generally. Anxiety about the future. There’s only one that’s in halfway decent shape physically.”

“I’ll be goddamned if I know how any of ’em made it. You been in the jail?”

“Sure. Just a quick runaround. That was enough.”

Peter Marlowe was watching morosely. He knew his unhappiness was not due solely to the departure of his friend. It was more than that. He was sad because the Americans were leaving. Somehow he felt he belonged there with them, which was wrong, because they were foreigners. Yet he knew he did not feel like a foreigner when he was with them. Is it envy? he asked himself. Or jealousy? No, I don’t think so. I don’t know why, but I feel they’re going home and I’m being left behind.

He moved a little closer to the truck as the orders began to sound and the men began to climb aboard. Brough and Tex and Dino and Byron Jones III and all the others resplendent in their new starched uniforms, looked unreal. They were talking and shouting and laughing. But not the King. He stood slightly to one side. Alone.

Peter Marlowe was glad that his friend was back once more with his own people, and he prayed that once the King was on his way all would be well with him.

“Get in the truck, you guys.”

“C’mon, get in the goddam truck.”

“Next stop State-side!”

Grey was unaware that he was standing beside Peter Marlowe. “They say,” he said looking at the truck, “that they’ve a plane to fly them all the way back to America. A special plane. Is that possible? Just a handful of men and some junior officers?”

Peter Marlowe had also been unaware of Grey. He studied him, despising him. “You’re such a goddam snob, Grey, when it comes down to it.”

Grey’s head whipped around. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes.” Peter Marlowe nodded at the truck. “They think that one man’s as good as another. So they get a plane, all to themselves. It’s a great idea when you think of it.”

“Don’t tell me the upper classes have at last realized—”

“Oh shut up!” Peter Marlowe moved away, his bile rising.

Beside the truck was a sergeant, a vast man with many stripes on his sleeve and an unlit cigar in his mouth. “C’mon. Get in the truck,” he repeated patiently.

The King was the last on the ground.

“For Chrissake, get in the truck!” the sergeant growled. The King didn’t move. Then, impatiently, the sergeant threw the cigar away, and stabbing the air with his finger shouted, “You! Corporal! Get your goddam ass in the truck!”

The King came out of his trance. “Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant!”