King Rat

by James Clavell

  “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!”

  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!

  —And look over there! There’s a man doing it in public! And good God, he’s not using paper! He’s using water and his hands! My God—they all do!

  —Look at that filthy bed! My God, the place is crawling with bugs!

  —What degradation these poor swine have sunk to—worse than animals!

  —Ought to be in an insane asylum! Certainly the Japs did it to them, but all the same it’d be safer to lock them up. They don’t seem to know what’s right and what’s wrong!

  —Look at them lap up that filth! My God, you give them bread and potatoes and they want rice!

  —Got to get back to the ship. Can’t wait to bring the fellows out. Chance of a lifetime, never see this again.

  —My God, those nurses are taking a chance, walking around.

  —Rubbish, they’re safe enough. Seen a lot of the girls coming up to have a look. By jove, that one’s a corker!

  —Disgusting the way the POW’s are looking at them!

  With the questions and the opinions the outsiders brought answers.

  —Ah, Flight Lieutenant Marlowe? Yes, we’ve had a cable answer from the Admiralty. Captain Marlowe RN is, er, I’m afraid your father’s dead. Killed in action on the Murmansk run. September 10, ’43. Sorry. Next!

  —Captain Spence? Yes. We’ve a lot of mail for you. You can get it at the guardhouse. Oh yes. Your—your wife and child were killed in London in an air raid. January this year. Sorry. A V2. Terrible. Next!

  —Lieutenant Colonel Jones? Yes, sir. You’ll be on the first party leaving tomorrow. All senior officers are going. Bon voyage! Next!

  —Major McCoy? Oh yes, you were inquiring about your wife and son. Let me see, they were aboard the Empress of Shropshire, weren’t they? The ship that sailed from Singapore on February 9, 1942? Sorry, we’ve no news, except that we know it was sunk somewhere off Borneo. There are rumors that there were survivors, but if there were or where they would be—no one knows. You’ll have to be patient! We hear there are POW camps all over—the Celebes—Borneo—you’ll have to be patient! Next!

  —Ah, Colonel Smedly-Taylor? Sorry, bad news, sir. Your wife was killed
in an air raid. Two years ago. Your youngest son, Squadron Leader P. R. Smedly-Taylor VC, was lost over Germany in ’44. Your son John is presently in Berlin with the occupation forces. Here is his address. Rank? Lieutenant Colonel. Next!

  —Colonel Larkin? Oh, Australians are dealt with somewhere else. Next!

  —Captain Grey? Ah, well, it’s somewhat difficult. You see, you were reported lost in action in ’42. I’m afraid your wife remarried. She’s—er—well, here’s her present address. I don’t know, sir. You’ll have to ask the Solicitor General’s Office. Afraid legalities are out of my line. Next!

  —Captain Ewart? Oh yes, the Malayan Regiment? Yes. I’m happy to tell you your wife and three children are safe and well. They’re at Cha Song Camp in Singapore. Yes, we’ve transport for you this afternoon. I beg your pardon? Well, I don’t know. The memo says three—not two children. Perhaps it’s an error. Next!

  More men went swimming now. But the outside was still fearful and the men that went were glad to be back inside once more. Sean went swimming. He walked down to the shore with the men and in his hand was a bundle. When the party got to the beach, Sean turned away, and the men laughed and jeered, most of them, at the pervert who wouldn’t take off his clothes like anyone else.

  “Pansy!”

  “Bugger!”

  “Rotten fairy!”

  “Homo!”

  Sean walked up the beach, away from the jeers, until he found a private place. He slipped off his short pants and shirt and put on the evening sarong and padded bra and belt and stockings and combed his hair and put on makeup. Carefully, very carefully. And then the girl stood up, confident and very happy. She put on her high-heeled shoes and walked into the sea.

  The sea welcomed her and made her sleep easy, and then, in the course of time, devoured the clothes and body and the time of her.

  A major was standing in the doorway of Peter Marlowe’s hut. His tunic was crusted with medal ribbons and he seemed very young. He peered around the hut at the obscenities lying on their bunks or changing or smoking or preparing to take a shower. His eyes came to rest on Peter Marlowe.

  “What the fucking hell are you staring at?” Peter Marlowe screamed.

  “Don’t talk to me like that! I’m a major and—”

  “I don’t give a goddam if you’re Christ! Get out of here! Get out!”

  “Stand to attention! I’ll have you court-martialed!” the major snapped, eyes popping, sweat pouring. “Ought to be ashamed of yourself, standing there in a skirt—”

  “It’s a sarong—”

  “It’s a skirt, standing in a skirt, half-naked! You POW’s think you can get away with anything. Well, thank God you can’t. And now you’ll be taught respect for—”

  Peter Marlowe caught up his hafted bayonet, rushed to the door and thrust the knife in the major’s face. “Get away from here or by Christ I’ll cut your fucking throat…”

  The major evaporated.

  “Take it easy, Peter,” Phil muttered. “You’ll get us all into trouble.”

  “Why do they stare at us? Why? Goddammit why?” Peter Marlowe shouted. There was no answer.

  A doctor walked into the hut, a doctor with a Red Cross on his arm, and he hurried—but pretended not to hurry—and smiled at Peter Marlowe. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” he said, indicating the major who was walking through the camp.

  “Why the hell do all you people stare at us?”

  “Have a cigarette and calm down.”

  The doctor seemed nice enough and quiet enough, but he was an outsider—and not to be trusted.

  “Have a cigarette and calm down! That’s all you bastards can say,” Peter Marlowe raged. “I said, why do you all stare at us?”

  The doctor lit a cigarette himself and sat on one of the beds and then wished he hadn’t, for he knew that all the beds were diseased. But he wanted to help. “I’ll try to tell you,” he said quietly. “You, all of you, have suffered the unsufferable and endured the unendurable. You’re walking skeletons. Your faces are all eyes, and in the eyes there’s a look…” He stopped a moment, trying to find the words, for he knew that they needed help and care and gentleness. “I don’t quite know how to describe it. It’s furtive—no, that’s not the right word, and it’s not fear. But there’s the same look in all your eyes. And you’re all alive, when by all the rules you should be dead. We don’t know why you aren’t dead or why you’ve survived—I mean each of you here, why you? We, from the outside, stare at you because you’re fascinating…”

  “Like freaks in a goddam side show, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” said the doctor calmly. “That would be one way of putting it, but—”

  “I swear to Christ I’ll kill the next bugger who looks at me as though I’m a monkey.”

  “Here,” the doctor said, trying to appease him. “Here are some pills. They’ll calm you down—”

  Peter Marlowe knocked the pills out of the doctor’s hand and shouted, “I don’t want any goddam pills. I just want to be left alone!” And he fled the hut.

  The American hut was deserted.

  Peter Marlowe lay on the King’s bed and wept.

  “’By, Peter,” Larkin said.

  “’By, Colonel.”

  “’By, Mac.”

  “Good luck, laddie.”

  “Keep in touch.”

  Larkin shook their hands, and then he walked up to Changi Gate, where trucks were waiting to take the last of the Aussies to ships. To home.

  “When are you off, Peter?” Mac asked after Larkin had disappeared.

  “Tomorrow. What about you?”

  “I’m leaving now, but I’m going to stay in Singapore. No point in getting a boat until I know which way.”

  “Still no news?”

  “No. They could be anywhere in the Indies. But if she and Angus were dead, I think I’d know. Inside.” Mac lifted his rucksack and unconsciously checked that the secret can of sardines was still safe. “I heard a rumor there are some women in one of the camps in Singapore who were on the Shropshire. Perhaps one of them will know something or give me a clue. If I can find them.” He looked old and lined but very strong. He put out his hand. “Salamat.”

  “Salamat.”

  “Puki ’mahlu!”

  “Senderis,” said Peter Marlowe, conscious of his tears but not ashamed of them. Nor was Mac of his.

  “You can always write me care of the Bank of Singapore, laddie.”

  “I will. Good luck, Mac.”

  “Salamat!”

  Peter Marlowe stood in the street that bisected the camp and watched Mac walk the hill. At the top of the hill, Mac stopped and turned and waved once. Peter Marlowe waved back, and then Mac was lost in the crowd.

  And now, Peter Marlowe was quite alone.

  Last dawn in Changi. A last man died. Some of the officers of Hut Sixteen had already left. The sickest ones.

  Peter Marlowe lay under his mosquito net on his bunk in half-sleep. Around him men were waking, getting up, going to relieve themselves. Barstairs was standing on his head practicing yoga, Phil Mint was already picking his nose with one hand and maiming flies with the other, the bridge game already started, Myner already doing scales on his wooden keyboard, and Thomas already cursing the lateness of breakfast.

  “What do you think, Peter?” Mike asked.

  Peter Marlowe opened his eyes and studied him. “Well, you look different, I’ll say that.”

  Mike rubbed his shaven top lip with the back of his hand. “I feel naked.” He looked back at himself in the mirror. Then he shrugged. “Well, it’s off and that’s that.”

  “Hey, grub’s up,” Spence called out.

  “What is it?”

  “Porridge, toast, marmalade, scrambled eggs, bacon, tea.”

  Some men complained about the smallness of their portions, some complained about the bigness.

  Peter Marlowe took only scrambled eggs and tea. He mixed the eggs into some rice he had saved from yesterday and ate
with vast enjoyment.

  He looked up as Drinkwater bustled in. “Oh, Drinkwater.” He stopped him. “Have you got a minute?”

  “Why, certainly.” Drinkwater was surprised at Peter Marlowe’s sudden affability. But he kept his pale blue eyes down, for he was afraid that his consuming hatred for Peter Marlowe would spill out. Hold on, Theo, he told himself. You’ve stuck it for months. Don’t let go now. Only a few more hours, then you can forget him and all the other awful men. Lyles and Blodger had no right to tempt you. No right at all. Well, they got what they deserved.

  “You remember that rabbit leg you stole?”

  Drinkwater’s eyes flashed. “What—what are you talking about?”

  Across the aisle, Phil stopped scratching and looked up.

  “Oh, come on, Drinkwater,” Peter Marlowe said. “I don’t care any more. Why the hell should I? The war’s over and we’re out of it. But you do remember the rabbit leg, don’t you?”

  Drinkwater’s eyes flashed. “What—what are you talking about? No,” he said gruffly, “no I don’t.” But he was hard put not to say, delicious, delicious!

  “It wasn’t rabbit, you know.”

  “Oh? Sorry, Marlowe—it wasn’t me. And I don’t know, to this day, who took it, whatever it was!”

  “I’ll tell you what it was,” Peter Marlowe said, glorying in the moment. “It was rat meat. Rat meat.”

  Drinkwater laughed. “You’re very amusing,” he said sarcastically.

  “Oh but it was rat! Oh yes it was. I caught a rat. It was big and hairy and there were scabs all over it. And I think it had plague.”

  Drinkwater’s chin trembled, his jowls shaking.

  Phil winked at Peter Marlowe and nodded cheerfully, “That’s right, Reverend. It was all scabby. I saw Peter skin the leg…”

  Then Drinkwater vomited all over his nice clean uniform and rushed out and vomited some more. Peter Marlowe began laughing and soon the entire hut was roaring.

  “Oh God,” Phil said weakly. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Peter. What a brilliant idea. To pretend it was a rat. Oh my God! That pays the bugger back!”

  “But it really was rat,” Peter Marlowe said. “I planted it so he’d steal it.”