King Rat

Meekly he got into the back of the truck and stood while everyone else sat, and around him there were excited men talking one to another, but not to him. No one seemed to notice him. He held to the side of the truck as it roared into life and swept the Changi dust into the air.

Peter Marlowe frantically ran forward and held up his hand to wave at his friend. But the King did not look back. He never looked back.

Suddenly, Peter Marlowe felt very lonely, there by Changi Gate.

“That was worth watching,” Grey said, gloating.

Peter Marlowe turned on him. “Go away before I do something about you.”

“It was good to see him go like that. ‘You, Corporal, get your goddam arse in the truck.’” There was a vicious glint in Grey’s eyes. “Like the scum he was.”

But Peter Marlowe only remembered the King as he truly was. That wasn’t the King who meekly said, “Yes, Sergeant.” Not the King. This had been another man, torn from the womb of Changi, the man that Changi had nurtured so long.

“Like the thief he was,” Grey said deliberately.

Peter Marlowe bunched his good left fist. “I told you before, a last time.”

Then he slammed his fist into Grey’s face, knocking him backwards, but Grey stayed on his feet and threw himself at Peter Marlowe. The two men tore at each other and suddenly Forsyth was beside them.

“Stop it,” he ordered. “What the hell are you two fighting about?”

“Nothing,” Peter Marlowe said.

“Take your hand off me,” Grey said and pulled his arm from Forsyth. “Get out of the way!”

“Any more trouble out of either of you and I’ll confine you to your quarters.” Appalled, Forsyth noticed that one man was a captain and the other a flight lieutenant. “Ought to be ashamed of yourselves, brawling like common soldiers! Go on, both of you, get out of here. The war’s over, for God’s sake!”

“Is it?” Grey looked once at Peter Marlowe, then walked off.

“What’s between you two?” Forsyth said.

Peter Marlowe stared into the distance. The truck was nowhere to be seen. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said and turned away.

Forsyth watched him until he had disappeared. You can say that a million times, he thought exhaustedly. I don’t understand anything about any of you.

He turned back to Changi Gate. There were, as always, groups of men silently staring out. The gate was, as always, guarded. But the guards were officers and no longer Japanese or Koreans. The day he had arrived, he had ordered them away and posted an officer guard to keep the camp safe and to keep the men in. But the guards were unnecessary, for no one had tried to break out. I don’t understand, Forsyth told himself tiredly. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing here makes sense.

It was only then that he remembered he had not reported the suspicious American—the corporal. He had had so much to worry about that the man had completely slipped his mind. Bloody fool, now it’s too late! Then he recalled that the American major was coming back. Good, he thought, I’ll tell him. He can deal with him.

Two days later more Americans arrived. And a real American General. He was swarmed like a queen bee by photographers and reporters and aides. The General was taken to the Camp Commandant’s bungalow. Peter Marlowe and Mac and Larkin were ordered there. The General picked up the earphone of the radio and pretended to listen.

“Hold that, General!”

“Just one more, General!”

Peter Marlowe was shoved to the front and told to bend over the radio as though explaining it to the General.

“Not that way—let’s see your face. Yeah, let’s see your bones, Sam, in the light. That’s better.”

That night the third and last and greatest fear crucified Changi.

Fear of tomorrow.

All Changi knew, now, that the war was over. The future had to be faced. The future outside of Changi. The future was now. Now.

And the men of Changi withdrew into themselves. There was nowhere else to go. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere but inside. And inside was terror.

The Allied Fleet arrived at Singapore. More outsiders converged on Changi.

It was then that the questions began.

—Name, rank, serial number, unit?

—Where did you fight?

—Who died?

—Who was killed?

—What about atrocities? How many times were you beaten? Who did you see bayoneted?

—No one? Impossible! Think, man. Use your head! Remember. How many died? On the boat? Three, four, five? Why? Who was there?

—Who’s left in your unit? Ten? Out of a regiment? Good, that’s better. Now, how did the others die? Yes, the details!

—Ah, you saw them bayoneted?

—Three Pagoda Pass? Ah, the railroad! Yes. We know about that. What can you add? How much food did you get? Anesthetics? Sorry, of course, I forgot. Cholera?

—Yes, I know all about Camp Three. What about Fourteen? The one on the Burma-Siam border? Thousands died there, didn’t they?

With the questions, the outsiders brought opinions. The men of Changi heard them furtively whispered, one to another.

—Did you see that man? My God, it’s impossible! He’s walking around naked! In public!