The Lonely War

by Alan Chin

AN HOUR before sunrise, Mitchell woke from a terrible nightmare. He leaned over the bed to vomit. Andrew held his head in one hand and a pail in the other. When Andrew handed him a water bottle, he swished his mouth and spat into the bucket.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like the room is spinning and I’m going to be sick again. My leg?”

  “We treated it with antitoxin. We’re going to save it.”

  Mitchell lay on the pillow, visibly struggling to understand this new turn of events. Andrew explained about the treatment.

  “But where did you get the serum?”

  “In Asia, there’s a black market for everything, even in this place. It’s a way of life. You just have to know who to approach and what to bargain.” Andrew folded a cloth and wiped the beads of sweat from Mitchell’s forehead. Andrew told him that it was not over yet; Mitchell was still in danger. Now it was up to Mitchell to fight with all his will. Andrew adjusted the pillows so that Mitchell was propped up. He took an English cigarette from his pocket—one that he had pinched from Tottori—lit it, and placed it between the officer’s lips.

  “We need to move you out of here. If the doctors see you now, they’ll know we have the serum and they’ll take it. We’ll hide you in Hut Twenty-nine. Clifford will tell them you died in the night and the corpse detail took you away. If you feel up to walking, we should go now.”

  Mitchell nodded.

  Andrew helped him off the bed. Holding each other, they maneuvered down the stairs and out into the predawn. Clifford waited by the front door. They carried him along. It was a painfully slow journey, but they got him to the American hut before the sun rose over the treetops.

  THREE days later, after sundown, Clifford dropped by the hut, carrying the satchel. He put a thermometer in Mitchell’s mouth before removing the bandage. Hudson held a candle close to the leg while Clifford inspected the wound. The swelling was down and the green-purple coloring had disappeared. Clean scabs were beginning to form. He pulled the thermometer from Mitchell’s mouth, read it, and smiled. He applied more sulfa powder, wrapped a clean bandage around the leg, and, using the last of the antitoxin, administered the final injection. He patted Mitchell on the shoulder. “W-w-w-well Lieutenant, Lady Luck adores you. You’ll never dance the lead in Swan Lake, but I think we saved your leg.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Do-do-do-don’t thank me. Thank Andy.”

  “Where is he?”

  Clifford glanced to Hudson, who shook his head.

  “H-h-he’s off paying a debt.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  July 15, 1942—0600 hours

  SUNRISE in the tropics always happens quickly, yet by imperceptible degrees. Dawn’s hush broke with trumpeting cocks at the seaside village. Pristine light bled through the slats in Tottori’s bedroom windows, causing sanguine bands to spread across the mosquito netting and the pale green walls.

  Even before Andrew opened his eyes, he felt his body threaded around Tottori. His arms locked him to Tottori’s back, legs knotted together, and Andrew’s erection roosted between Tottori’s thighs. Andrew absorbed the warmth radiating from the man, luxuriating in the feel of smooth skin stretched over hard muscle. A sensation of safety enfolded him. He smiled sleepily before opening his eyes.

  He listened to Tottori’s rhythmic breathing, leaned closer to the officer’s bare shoulder, and kissed the exposed skin. His fingertips glided down the man’s flank and over the rise of hips. Tottori stirred. Andrew pulled away, not wanting to drag him from sleep.

  Andrew’s mind flashed on images of the previous night’s lovemaking—exploring hands, tasting flesh, inflamed passion. He guided Tottori’s hand to his face and kissed those fingers that had caressed him in the night.

  Andrew slowly untangled himself, inching away until he was free to slide from under the mosquito netting. His right arm was numb from Tottori’s pressing weight. He flexed both arms to restore the circulation, taking pleasure in his drowsy contentment.

  He slipped into a kimono and stumbled into the washroom to douse his face with water. Back on the terrace, he signaled Do-Han, the native servant boy, to prepare breakfast.

  Andrew strolled into the living room to find Jah-Jai leaning against the low chest of drawers. He lowered himself onto a pillow, folded his legs in his lap, took the flute, and played a melodious Chinese folk tune. The notes washed through the open windows, merging with the sounds of the prison stirring for roll call.

  Morning’s freshness intermingled with his music to bring a simple pleasure. He felt hungry after the night’s lovemaking, and the sweet anticipation of a beautiful fried egg and pickled radishes over steamed rice added to his joy. After breakfast, he would return to the prison, but he didn’t want to think about that hardship yet. He focused on the purity of his music and his growing hunger while keeping one ear cocked toward the bedroom, listening for the rustle of bedding.

  Do-Han traipsed through the front door carrying a pot of coffee and two cups. He bowed and placed the pot on the table. “I bring food now?”

  Andrew nodded, having heard Tottori moving about the bedroom.

  A few minutes later Tottori appeared at the doorway in full uniform. “Celestial music and the smell of coffee, I must be in heaven.”

  Andrew lowered his flute. “Hungry?”

  “Famished.” Tottori sat beside Andrew, ran his fingers through Andrew’s blue-black hair, and caressed the nape of his neck. “You were wonderful last night. We’ve been making love for two months and each night is like the first time.”

  “You were a tiger, but you look tired now. Did you sleep?”

  Tottori frowned. “When I try to sleep, my mind churns over camp problems.”

  “Wish I could help.”

  “No one can help. We’re low on troops, supplies are short, the prisoners are starving, and headquarters tells me to free up what few guards I have and use less food.” Tottori shook his head. “Are they mad? The prisoners are skeletons as it is. And fewer troops? It takes people to maintain order. What do they expect?”

  Do-Han scurried through the doorway carrying the breakfast tray. Tottori sat silent for as long as it took the boy to serve them and leave the room. Andrew dug into the mound of rice and egg while Tottori fumed.

  “I’ve spent ten years learning logistics, artillery, battle strategy, and how to lead men in combat. I’ve fought on the frontlines in China. Now the generals dump this camp in my lap and tell me to make do with nothing.”

  Andrew savored the egg-yolk-soaked rice as he heard Tottori’s frustration punctuate every syllable. For two months he had wondered how a man with Tottori’s obvious compassion could sit by while thousands of men starved to death. Now he realized that the commandant would like to improve the situation, but didn’t know how.

  “I hate this job. I’ve not been trained to nursemaid fifteen thousand prisoners. I’m a warrior, a samurai. I should be on the battlefield, not getting fat and lazy on good food and a desk job.” Tottori’s voice rose to a shout even as he visibly struggled to calm himself.

  “Thank you,” Andrew said as he leaned toward Tottori and touched his hand.

  “For what?”

  “Who else do you tell these troubles to?”

  Tottori pulled Andrew to him. They kissed. “If only you could help with more than kindness.”

  “The solutions are simple. You don’t need my help.”

  “Simple?” Tottori’s eyebrows lifted. “What is so damned simple?”

  “Let the English officers have their rank. Make them responsible for everything inside the wire—roll calls, work details, food storage, cooking, and maintaining discipline. That will remove the Indian guards, who are too brutal anyway, and give the English something to do. The only thing you have to do is guard outside of the wire. You can do that with a skeleton crew, because there’s no place to escape to. But you already know that.”

  “And if they refuse?”

  “Are you kidding? As f
or food shortages, make them grow vegetables to supplement their rice rations and let them raise chickens for meat and eggs. Everybody wins.”

  Tottori picked up his rice bowl and chopsticks. “Wasn’t it Shakespeare who referred to the general’s wife as the general’s general?” A grin spread under his nose before he shoveled rice into his mouth and chewed with gusto.

  Andrew felt himself reddening. “I’m not your wife.”

  “But you are telling me how to run my camp. No, no, I am grateful, truly. And you are right. It is so simple I am ashamed I didn’t think of it.”

  A knock sounded at the door, followed by the high voice of Tottori’s secretary, Lance Corporal Kenji Misawa, announcing that the colonel had mail. Tottori commanded him to enter and the young man bolted through the door, coming to attention beside the table.

  Kenji was medium height and slender, with droopy eyes that seemed to hide behind the wire-rimmed glasses of a ledger clerk. A whisper of peach fuzz above his full lips showed he was having little success at growing a mustache. Andrew stared into the youthful face as Kenji passed the stack of letters and a brown paper package to his senior officer. Once Kenji noticed Andrew’s interest, he smiled, winked.

  Tottori observed his secretary’s reaction and scolded the corporal. Kenji went rigid. Sweat beaded on his panic-stricken face. Tottori dismissed him with orders to arrange a staff meeting in fifteen minutes and assemble the senior English staff in one hour. The corporal ran from the room.

  Tottori chuckled as he opened a letter. “He approves of you. He disliked Clifford, but you are Asian, so he is happy for me, for you, and for him.”

  “Why him?”

  “His life became much easier since you came.”

  “So there haven’t been any others. Only Clifford and now me?”

  Tottori let a note of doubt creep into his voice, “Are you so sure? Perhaps Kenji was my lover. Perhaps that’s why he’s happier now.”

  “Tell me, please. Is it true?” Andrew’s voice had a mixture of pleading and pleasure. He could visualize them together—Kenji’s quiet gentleness contrasting with Tottori’s rough manliness. He found the image more than a little stimulating.

  “Do you want it to be true?”

  “Yes.” Andrew laughed. His voice sparkled. “I hope there were several others, that I am only another of your many boys, indistinguishable.”

  “After Clifford’s dramatic transformation, I decided to give up loving boys. But you’re different. I can’t change you. You, in fact, are changing me.”

  “How?”

  “Let me read. This is from my wife.”

  Tottori had never mentioned the fact that he had a wife. Even though Clifford had told Andrew about her, Andrew went quiet with surprise.

  A smile as wide as Tokyo spread across Tottori’s face. He passed a photograph to Andrew, telling him that she had delivered a son and they were both fine. He leaned over and bear-hugged Andrew.

  Andrew studied the picture as Tottori finished reading the letter. The pudgy boy’s head had a thick wad of black hair and a scrunched-up face. Andrew grinned at his comical expression.

  “She sends you her warmest wishes and said she is grateful that you keep me company.”

  Andrew dropped the picture on the table. He was so stunned he was unable to speak. Minutes later, he recovered. “You told her about me?”

  “Did you think I was ashamed of you?”

  “I suppose I did.”

  Tottori handed the brown paper package to Andrew. “Her gift to you.”

  Speechless again, Andrew fumbled with the string holding the paper together. He finally broke it and ripped away the paper. A sea-blue silk sarong emerged, followed by strong leather sandals and a sturdy shoulder bag. Andrew’s head went numb with shock.

  “I told her your fatigues were too hot for this climate.”

  “Please tell her that I am honored, but this is too fine a gift.”

  “She reads English. Write her a letter and tell her yourself. I’ll mail it for you.”

  It was an intriguing idea, but Andrew knew he would be too embarrassed.

  “How I long to take you there, have you meet her, and show you Kyoto. It is the spiritual heart of my people. Kyoto holds our imperial past and our finest culture. You will love it.”

  Andrew wondered what Tottori would be like at home, with no camp and no soldiers snapping to attention at the sound of his voice. This is how I desire him, Andrew thought, with all his trappings of power. Would he be as desirable if he were stripped of this war?

  “I’ll take you there,” Tottori said while he finished his rice. “But for now, get dressed and go to camp. I have meetings to attend to.”

  A SCATTERING of bleached clouds meandered across a cobalt sky. It was already hot. The sun hammered Andrew’s back golden as he strolled past the guards and into the compound.

  As he walked, he concentrated on the whisper of silk sensuously caressing his thighs. With Tottori, he allowed himself the luxury of self-indulgence, taking pleasure in the man’s attention, but inside the wire, his thoughts turned away from himself. That territory of self-awareness was sucked clean, like marrow from a rib bone. In place of Andrew burned a drive to help others.

  Dressed in his new sarong and carrying his shoulder bag, he thought of the treats he would give his unit. Before leaving, Do-Han had slipped him several rice balls stuffed with pickled plums, and two full packs of Kooa cigarettes.

  Out of nowhere, a medium-sized stone smashed into Andrew’s left shoulder, followed by English curses. He had been cursed and spit at daily, but this was the first physical attack. He ran out of throwing distance and kept running to where the go-downs began. A familiar tap, tap, tapping turned his head. Cocoa hobbled toward him. His wooden leg thumped out a sound like a metronome marking time.

  Cocoa was a changed man. In addition to losing his leg, he had shed thirty-five pounds over the rest of his body. His large eyes dominated his bony face. His clothes hung on him like gunnysacks. A cord tied around his shrunken waist kept his baggy pants from falling, and loose folds of skin hung over the cord. It was not only Cocoa—every member of the crew now carried that same emaciated appearance, indistinguishable from the English and Australians. In this hellhole of starvation, only Andrew’s face had firm, rounded flesh. Only he maintained a sturdy muscle mass and tight, supple skin.

  Cocoa carried two mess-cans in each hand.

  “Andy, you’re just in time for breakfast. I got your rice gruel and tea ration for you. Man-oh-man, don’t you look like a regular wog in that dress.”

  “Gee, thanks, Cocoa. Divvy up my chow with the unit.”

  Cocoa beamed. “God knows it must be rough as a corncob cooking for that stone-faced son of a bitch, but what a blessing that you get to eat your fill outside the wire and we get your rations.”

  Cooking for Tottori was the lie that Clifford spread to explain Andrew’s leaving the camp every night and not returning until morning. The story was that Andrew left camp in time to cook Tottori’s dinner, played music for him during the evening meal, slept on a cot in the kitchen in case the commandant woke and needed a midnight snack, and returned to camp after fixing Tottori’s breakfast. Knowing Andrew’s accomplishments in the galley, none of the Americans questioned the lie, but they were the only prisoners who believed it. Andrew had never confirmed or denied the story to anyone.

  “Cocoa, I won’t tolerate you calling Tottori names. He’s an honorable man and he doesn’t want to be here any more than we do.”

  “Sorry, Andy. I didn’t mean to offend you. I mean, good God, I owe you my life.”

  Andrew was not sure if he referred to the serum or the fact that Andrew had brought Cocoa into the unit over loud protests from Hudson, Grady, and even Stokes. In Changi, no one could survive alone. The optimum number in a unit was three. In some cases units of four sprang up, but any more than four and the unit couldn’t forage enough food. Andrew’s unit already had four when Cocoa came out of t
he hospital, and no other unit would take him.

  “You’d do the same for me. Say, you’re getting around pretty good on that stump. Is the pain bad?”

  “Only when I walk more than a dozen steps, but it sure beats layin’ in bed. And thank God I can finally walk without those Goddamned crutches. They was wearin’ holes in my armpits. Yes sir, I’ll never be a ship’s cook again, but at least I’m mobile. Speaking of which, have you seen Lieutenant Mitchell?”

  Andrew shook his head. He had not seen Mitchell in two weeks, since they had moved all three officers in with the Aussie brass. Mitchell had been bedridden with malaria; Andrew had smuggled him quinine pills, but he had had a rough time of it.

  “Saw him walking about this mornin’,” Cocoa said. “First time I’ve seen him on his feet since we got here. I guess that gangrene treatment really threw him for a loop.”

  “He has a strong will to live. That’s the main thing that saved him.”

  “Don’t you believe that, laddie. You’re the only reason he’s alive, and don’t we all know it.”

  “Laddie? You’re spending so much time with the Brits you’re beginning to talk like ’em.”

  Cocoa chuckled, “Guess I am at that.”

  They made their way to Hut Twenty-nine. Hudson, Stokes, and Grady sat in a line against the hut’s shady side, eating their rice gruel and tea.

  Hudson let out a long wolf-whistle. “Hubba hubba. Look at those pretty new duds. Miss Clifford will die of envy when she sees that getup.”

  Cocoa handed Andrew’s mess-can to Hudson and told him that everyone got a share. Andrew lifted a pack of Kooas from his shoulder bag, tossed it to Stokes, and doled out four riceballs.

  “One more crack about my clothes and I’ll stop stealing cigarettes for you bums.”

  Soft laughter floated up as Andrew helped Cocoa to a sitting position and squatted next to him.

  “Say, rookie,” Hudson said. “Any luck on getting some cigars?”

  “Sorry, Hud. I’m still working on those.”