by Alan Chin
Clifford glided to the medicine closet, returning with a bottle of iodine. He smeared the red liquid over Andrew’s wound.
“S-s-s-sure, balachong is protein, but the ocean is two miles away. Even if you get under the wire and make it to the sea, you couldn’t catch enough to make a spoonful.”
“It doesn’t have to be shrimp. There’s a source of protein right here in camp, and they’re breeding like rats.”
Clifford stood silent, puzzled. A look of sheer disgust flashed across his face. “Y-y-y-you don’t mean…. N-n-n-no! It’s revolting. No one will eat it.”
“I would eat it to save my eyesight, wouldn’t you? Maybe we can keep people from knowing where it came from. We’d have to clean them thoroughly before we bury them, but it would solve the protein problem.”
Clifford visibly fought off the urge to vomit. Recovering, he said, “I-I-I-I’ll get as many cans as you need and we can make a net with one of my nylon stockings. But we must do it under cover of night.” Clifford wrapped Andrew’s wound with a clean bandage. “W-w-we’ll make up a story about someone going under the wire to buy it in the village. The hospital could use a dozen cubes each week, but the whole camp needs it. Can you make enough for fifteen thousand men?”
“That’s too big an operation to keep secret. Let me study it. Meantime, get me a couple of cans, your nylon stocking, and a pole. We’ll start by making enough for the hospital.”
“O-o-o-okay, I’ll bring it to your hut after sundown.”
“Great. Now, I really came here to see Lieutenant Mitchell. Where can I find him?”
Clifford caressed Andrew’s face. “O-o-oh, baby, is he your friend?”
Andrew shuddered at the touch, his abhorrence becoming stronger.
“He’s more than a friend. Much more.”
Andrew followed Clifford up concrete steps to the second floor. Clifford explained as they climbed. “H-h-h-he has the same problem as Mr. Cocoa: gangrene. The doctors plan to operate tonight, but the wound is on his thigh, so they need to take off the whole leg. With a wound that large, we have no chance of controlling the infection, not without drugs. It will be a miracle if he pulls through. Even if he does, there won’t be enough stump left to attach a wooden leg.”
“If they treat the gangrene, could they save his leg?”
“Y-y-y-yes, if it hasn’t spread. But we don’t have the antitoxins. The Japs have them, but they don’t just hand them over. Everything has a price, and drugs have the highest price of all.”
“What does that mean?”
“T-t-there may be a way to get the antitoxins from Commandant Tottori. But even so, there’s a long list of British officers who need it as badly as your lieutenant. There’s no way Tottori will give you enough for everyone.”
“If we get the antitoxin, can you fix him up before the doctors operate? I mean, cure him without them knowing we have the drugs?”
“I-I-I can do the procedure. At least I’ve seen it done. But how do we keep them from operating?”
They reached the top of the stairs and Mitchell’s bed, Bed 201, was the first one on the left.
Mitchell lay unconscious. He seemed much smaller against the mattress, as if he was shriveling away. His breathing was shallow and rapid, and his body jerked about as if he was dreaming. He let out a moan, flailing at the air with his arms. He jerked up to a sitting position.
Clifford’s voice soothed, “I-I-I-I’m here. It’s okay, baby, you’re safe.”
Mitchell’s eyes opened as Clifford cradled him. Sitting on the bed in the dimly lit cell, Clifford rocked him like a child. “A-a-a-a dream, baby, it’s only a dream.”
Mitchell wrapped his arms around Clifford’s waist and squeezed hard, burying his face into Clifford’s neck. His body shook uncontrollably as pain pinched his face. Clifford laid him on the pillow. Mitchell’s eyes focused on Andrew, hovering on the other side of the bed.
“My God, how did you get here?”
Shocking. He had aged ten years overnight. He had the same short growth of fawn-colored beard, but his eyes and forehead had aged. They had taken on a drooping disposition. The eyes were larger and had the dull glow caused by intense pain. Deep lines scored his forehead, and his grayish skin seemed leathery.
Andrew decided that Mitchell had become even more attractive with that ravaged face, like a stirring Verdi opera: sad, and yet tragically beautiful.
“Ensign Moyer brought me. How’s your leg?” He stroked Mitchell’s hair.
“It has my full attention.” He stopped suddenly, squinted. “I’m about to throw up.”
Clifford grabbed a bucket from beneath the bed and supported Mitchell’s head in his arm while Mitchell vomited. “P-p-p-poor man. Andy, hand me that water bottle on the nightstand.”
Andrew uncorked the bottle and passed it to Clifford, who held the bottle to Mitchell’s lips. Mitchell swished water around his mouth and spat into the bucket. Clifford leaned him onto the pillow. After taking a clean handkerchief from his purse, Clifford wet it and dabbed it across Mitchell’s forehead.
“Y-y-you’re doing fine, Lieutenant. The doctors will fix you up tonight. We’re going to take that pain away very soon.”
Mitchell struggled to get enough air. He seemed on the verge of hyperventilating.
Clifford wiped the sweat from Mitchell’s face, being careful to clean the drops of vomit at the edges of the officer’s mouth. He hummed a lullaby while his misty eyes shone down on Mitchell in a way that Andrew would never forget.
Andrew felt the smoldering heat of shame, shame that he had been disgusted by this gentle, compassionate friend.
“H-h-he’ll sleep now. He’s so weak from fighting the infection, poor baby.”
Andrew leaned over to kiss Mitchell on the forehead. As he did, Clifford stroked Andrew’s head. Again, Clifford’s eyes smiled, lighting up his face. Andrew bent further over Mitchell to kiss Clifford on the cheek.
“O-o-oh, you’re still my lover-boy. I was afraid you despised me.”
They kissed again. This time lips lovingly caressed lips. Clifford looped his arm around Andrew and led him down the stairs.
“What do I have to do to get the antitoxin from Tottori?”
“S-s-s-sell your mind, body, and soul. He’ll take it all, but it’s the only way.”
“Okay.” There was no hesitation. “We’ll need enough to stop Cocoa’s infection too. How fast can you arrange it?”
“A-A-A-Andy, Tottori was the man who gave me this sarong, the one who made me what I am. Do you understand?”
Andrew swallowed. “How soon?”
“P-p-p-perhaps tonight. But how will we keep the doctors from operating?”
“That’s your job. Listen, you set me up with Tottori and stall the doctors long enough to save Mitchell’s leg, and I’ll find a way to produce enough balachong to drown this damned camp. Deal?”
“I-I-I-I’ll do my best, Andy. Anything for you.”
Clifford led Andrew along the line of beds toward the front door. As they passed a bed, Clifford glanced over at the man and sighed. He shuffled to the man’s side and checked his pulse, pulling the blanket over the man’s head.
A pack of Kooas and a tin of matches sat on the nightstand. Clifford took them both to Andrew and held them out.
“Y-y-y-you know anyone who smokes?”
“Sure,” Andrew said, taking the pack. He counted five cigarettes inside.
When they came to Cocoa’s bed, Andrew said, “Come on, Hud. We’ve got work to do.”
“Work, what kind of work?”
“We’re going to mass-produce food!”
Chapter Twenty-One
May 15, 1942—1600 hours
“COCKROACHES!” Hudson shrieked. “I don’t give a flyin’ fuck what the wogs eat, no white man is gonna chow down on cockroaches.”
Hudson, Stokes, and Grady sat on the ground with their backs against Hut Twenty-nine. Andrew squatted alongside them. “Keep your voice down,” he said. “Nobo
dy needs to know what it is.” He lifted the pack of Kooas from his pocket along with the tin of matches. A hush fell over the men as Andrew passed the treasures to Stokes, their unit supply officer. Stokes examined the pack’s contents and removed two cigarettes. He slid one behind his ear and the other between his lips.
Andrew said, “There’s more where that came from, if you play along.”
“Well, how do we make this stuff?” Stokes asked as he struck a match, lit the Kooa, and passed it to Grady.
“We scoop cockroaches out of the boreholes with a net.”
“Sweet Jesus, I’m going to be sick,” Hudson gasped.
“We clean them in a tub of water, mash them into five-gallon cans, bury the cans under the hut, and let it simmer for two months. The roaches decompose into an inch or so of thick paste with a smell that will blow your head off.”
“I sure as hell believe that,” Hudson snorted.
Andrew glared at Hudson, shaking his head. “We cook the paste in a frying pan and mold it into two-inch cubes. A tiny sliver in your rice is like eating an egg. It’s pure protein.”
“Don’t it go bad rottin’ in the ground?” Grady asked as he exhaled, passing the cigarette to Hudson.
“If flies get at it, you can get dysentery. But aged and fried properly, it’s completely safe.”
“If it smells so bad,” Stokes said, “how are we going to keep it secret? Won’t it smell up the whole hut when we cook it?”
“Good point. Let me think about that.”
“It won’t work.” Hudson’s tone was adamant.
“Two five-gallon cans per week,” Andrew said. “Half of one can goes to the hospital, free of charge. That leaves three dozen cubes that we sell for a reasonable profit to the rest of the camp. With that money, we’ll buy food, tobacco, and whatever else we need.”
“Sell?” Hudson’s eyebrows lifted high on his forehead. “Now you’re talking sense. How much can we get per cube?”
“Maybe as much as ten dollars. Remember, a cube will feed three men for two weeks.”
Hudson rubbed his chin as his eyes drifted skyward. “We’ll need a middleman so if anyone sees us collecting bugs, it won’t cause suspicion. A limey, or better yet, an Aussie. Someone everybody trusts. And the whole crew must be part of the production. There’s no way to keep this secret inside the hut. That means splitting the profits.”
“That’s okay,” Grady said. “That means splittin’ the work, too. We’ll get them to gather the critters.” He pointed a thumb at the others hanging around the hut.
Hudson slapped Grady on the shoulder. “You bet, partner. We’ll be management.”
“Okay, we’re agreed,” Andrew said. “Grady, you’re our digger. Use the machete to dig two holes under the hut tonight, about three feet deep, and mark the holes with dates so we know when to dig them up. When Clifford delivers the cans and net, I’ll organize the gathering party. We’ll need to clean them before we bury them. Stokes, can you manage the washing?”
“Count on me, Andy. I’ll get Cord, Nash, and Banks to help.”
“Hud, you organize security. Let the others in on the plan and have them standing guard when we clean the bugs. We don’t want anyone walking in when we’re up to our elbows in critters. And make sure no one breathes a word to anybody.”
Hudson said that if anybody spilled the beans, he’d personally stuff them down a borehole. His tone was deadly serious because this operation meant survival for the entire crew, or what was left of it. Andrew added that they had to be careful even talking among themselves, and since they needed to do this under cover of darkness, and considering the nature of the job, they’d call it Operation Nightcrawler.
The unit shared a collective groan, but their excitement couldn’t be masked. It was not so much the thought of making money, but rather the idea of pulling the wool over British eyes that sizzled every fiber of their beings.
Hudson lifted a deck of playing cards from his shirt pocket. “Let’s get a few of the boys into a poker game. Once we get them gathered around, we’ll break the news. Who knows, we might even fleece some of those future profits off them suckers before they earn them.”
Andrew’s eyes hardened. “Where did you get those cards?”
“Same damn place you got those Kooas. You don’t think I was standing around that hospital with my head up my ass, do you? Besides, never ask where things come from. Consider it manna from heaven and let it go at that, even if you are a damned heathen.” Hudson chuckled.
ANDREW took his place in the chow line behind Grady. The sun turned orange as it dipped into the haze above the treetops, infusing the sky with peach-colored light. Andrew gazed at the top of the rainforest, which seemed to nibble at the lower edge of the sun. He stared at the huge disc, unblinking, and it appeared to revolve as it sank.
Clifford’s face suddenly blocked Andrew’s view. He told Andrew that Tottori had agreed to see them, and if Andrew wanted the serum, they had better hurry.
Andrew handed his mess-cans to Grady and followed Clifford out of the compound. Two guards led them beyond the guards’ barracks to the commandant’s hut, which was his office and living quarters. They climbed four plank steps and came to attention under a covered veranda.
Commandant Hikaru Tottori sat on a straightback chair, having his head shaved by a Japanese corporal. Andrew noted that the corporal was extremely adept and meticulous, making slow, graceful sweeps with the razor. The commandant’s eyes were closed. He appeared cool and relaxed in the shade as the corporal hovered above him. Ever so slowly, the corporal scraped away the officer’s stubby hair to reveal the raw, animated contour of his naked head. The process seemed to take an eternity for that shiny, newborn head to emerge, looking fresh as a sunrise.
Without opening his eyes, Tottori barked, “Prisoners, at ease.”
Andrew relaxed into a comfortable stance as the corporal wrapped a hot towel around the officer’s head. Tottori remained motionless, but Andrew had the distinct impression that Tottori scrutinized him through the slits between his eyelids, as if studying a caged animal without seeming to notice at all.
Two minutes crawled by before the corporal unwrapped the hot towel and replaced it with a cool one. As the cloth touched Tottori’s head, the officer moaned as if he were eating something delicious. The corporal began to massage Tottori’s shoulders.
Andrew noticed a tortoise resting on the veranda next to a stone lantern. Its rugged, grayish-brown shell was about the size of a hog’s head and it had a cord tied around its leathery neck. The other end of the cord was attached to the lantern. Its wrinkled face had a sharp beak and two solid black eyes that stared intently at Andrew. Its face expressed a vast contentment, as if it were enjoying the tranquility of evening’s cooler temperature.
The commandant stood, unwrapped the cloth, wiped his hands with it, and tossed it to the corporal, who bowed low. He dumped the towels into a pan next to the chair and made his departure while Tottori examined the prisoners.
“Well, prisoner Baldrich, what have you brought me?” He spoke with impeccable, American-accented English, and his penetrating voice was like hearing a rainstorm form words. He scrutinized Andrew with an unflinching stare.
Andrew was accustomed to being stared at. He’d been an oddity all his life. But Tottori’s expression was so oddly reflective that Andrew felt Tottori was somehow studying himself as well. Andrew saw something quite different reveal itself in the commandant’s eyes—raw desire. Andrew felt the heat of it burn his flesh.
Andrew grew confused and curious. He was not pretty like Clifford, so it could not be a question of beauty. Andrew wondered what qualities he possessed that could kindle desire in another man. Could it be his youth, a thin connection to vitality at a time when life could be cut short? Perhaps Tottori saw something of what he once was, and he wanted to devour that. Andrew said nothing. In the silence, he wondered if it was his move; was he expected to say something?
Clifford bowed; An
drew followed suit. They bent at the waist, dipping to the same level as Tottori’s leather belt.
“Lower,” Tottori commanded.
They bowed to the tops of Tottori’s black boots.
“Lower.”
Andrew sank to his knees and laid his forehead on the floorboards in front of Tottori’s boots. Clifford followed his example.
This war revealed a new face to Andrew—the commandant’s boots. Aboard the Pilgrim, war had a vague, shadowy, hidden face. The horror of that war was real, but impersonal. Andrew could only imagine the stricken faces of sailors passing into death’s womb, could only guess at the anguish that wives, children, and parents felt when the telegram came. But that war had been replaced by this officer with shiny boots who had only to lift his foot to crush Andrew’s skull. This new war was about domination—a strong, confident, conqueror holding Andrew within his power.
Andrew smelled the pungent aroma of shoe polish mixed with the sour stench of sweat. He felt those eyes, bright with lust, boring into him. And that voice, magical in its power, echoed in the pit of his stomach, fearsome and yet electrifying in the way the terse commands vibrated through his being. He was reminded of the men who had raped him. This new face of war was an intensely personal violation, a defilement of his being.
“Excellent.” A tone of satisfaction shaded Tottori’s voice. “You will dine with me, but first you will bathe. Clifford, escort him to the tub and give him a robe to wear after he cleans himself.”
The prisoners rose. With downcast eyes, they shuffled along the veranda to a room with a large wooden tub filled with rainwater. Andrew stripped out of his fatigues and sat on a three-legged stool. His body trembled, still affected by the encounter with Tottori.
Clifford removed Andrew’s head bandage, then used a bamboo dipper to pour cool rainwater over Andrew’s head.
Andrew groaned. For the moment, he forgot about Tottori. He took a bar of English soap, Yardley’s, and lathered his chest. The soap smelled like lavender. It overwhelmed him that, in this place and after all he had endured, he could remember what lavender smelled like. He meticulously scoured his body from crown to toenails.
