King Rat

Down the shed, atapped and bugpooled above, one of the women was weeping in her sleep. That’d be Mrs. Font. Still worrying about the disease she’d caught from the guard to get food to keep Georgie alive, but the medicine didn’t keep him alive and now all she had was the disease and the hurt of it. Poor woman. Well, they’ll get her well too when we get out.

Grace wouldn’t ever think of Harold. No. Harold was sacrosanct. He was in Changi and someday they would be together again and they would go back home for a visit, but never, never, never would they ever live in Birmingham. Oh my dear no! Somewhere in England perhaps, but never in a city. In the country. Somewhere small and nice and open. No more smoke and dust and dirt. No. Over her dead body.

Grace turned over and tried to sleep. She was content and knew that while her children were alive, she would live to guard them. And if they died, they died, and she would still live because a woman can always have more children and must live for the husband who was still alive. And even if her husband died, then she must still live for there are always people to take care of and look after and this was the world, the whole meaning of a woman’s life.

Lying in her bunk thinking, she came to a decision. She decided to do something about Sammy and the Kirk girl. Yes. She’d adopt them and they would live happily together, two boys and two girls. Both children had lost their mothers, their shields, this last week but they were good children and good thieves. Yes, that will be very nice. They can move their bunks next to ours and we’ll eat together and live together, the five of us. And if, when we get out, their fathers are lost too and they have no one to care for them, then Sammy and Linda can live with us always. There will always be enough to feed the family.

She turned over and slept happily. It was so good to have a family to care for.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Getting out of the camp was too simple. Just a short dash to a shadowed part of the six-wire fence, then easily through and a quick run into the jungle. When they stopped to catch their breath, Peter Marlowe wished he were safely back talking to Mac or Larkin or even Grey.

All this time, he told himself, I’ve been wanting to be out, and now when I am, I’m frightened to death.

It was weird—on the outside, looking in. From where they were they could see into the camp. The American hut was a hundred yards away. Men were walking up and down. Hawkins was walking his dog. A Korean guard was strolling the camp. Lights were off in the various huts and the evening check had long since been made. Yet the camp was alive with the sleepless. It was always thus.

“C’mon Peter,” the King whispered and led the way deeper into the foliage.

The planning had been good. So far. When he had arrived at the hut, the King was already prepared. “Got to have tools to do a job right,” he had said, showing him a well-oiled pair of Jap boots—crepe soles and soft noiseless leather—and the “outfit,” a pair of black Chinese pants and short blouse.

Only Dino was in the know about the trip. He had bundled up the two kits and dumped them secretly in the jumping-off point. Then he had returned, and when all was clear Peter Marlowe and the King had walked out casually, saying that they were playing bridge with Larkin and another Aussie. They had had to wait a nerve-wracking half hour before the way was clear for them to run into the storm drain beside the wire and change into their outfits and mud their faces and hands. Another quarter hour before they could run to the fence unobserved. Once they were through and in position, Dino had collected their discarded clothes.

Jungle at night. Eerie. But Peter Marlowe felt at home. It was just like Java, just like the surrounds of his own village, so his nervousness subsided a little.

The King led the way unerringly. He had made the trip five times before. He walked along, every sense alert. There was one guard to pass. This guard had no fixed beat, just a wandering patrol. But the King knew that most times the guard found a clearing somewhere and went to sleep.

After an anxious time, a time when every rotten stick or leaf seemed to shout their passing, and every living branch seemed to want to hold them back, they came to the path. They were past the guard. The path led to the sea. And then the village.

They crossed the path and began to circle. Above the heavy ceiling of foliage, a half-moon stuck in the cloudless sky. Just the right amount of light for safety.

Freedom. No circling wire and no people. Privacy at last. And it was a sudden nightmare to Peter Marlowe.

“What’s up, Peter?” the King whispered, feeling something wrong.

“Nothing … it’s just—well, being outside is such a shock.”

“You’ll get used to it.” The King glanced at his watch. “Got about a mile to go. We’re ahead of schedule, so we’d better wait.”