The Lonely War (21 page)

Commandant Tottori’s supercilious voice broke over the prisoners like a sea surge. Andrew felt a jolt in his testicles, as if the force in the man’s voice were crushing his most tender flesh. He knew that resistance to this man’s authority was unthinkable. In fact, even the officers and soldiers under Tottori’s command leapt with surprising fervor at his most trivial orders.

As Tottori stepped from the makeshift podium and stomped from the courtyard, a short, pugnacious-looking captain took his place on the box. Using an interpreter, the captain explained the camp rules.

As the officer’s truculent voice droned on, Andrew scanned the prisoners gathered on the courtyard’s borders, the ones leaning against the cell block walls. They stared at the newcomers as if they were inspecting themselves in a mirror, seemingly afraid of what they found.

Andrew focused on one middle-aged prisoner wearing loose-fitting shorts soiled with tropic mold, wooden clogs, and a green Tank Corps beret. Round, protruding eyes dominated his face, and his body, wasted by malnutrition and amoebic dysentery, was nothing more than parchmentlike brown skin stretched over sinew and bone, like the tortured steel framework of a building from which everything else had been sandblasted away. But those eyes, those colorless eyes, were so dull they didn’t reflect any light. The other prisoners all carried that same emaciated look. The only differences between them were age, height, and color of hair.

Andrew tried to focus on the interpreter’s words, but the heat allied with his exhaustion to make his head spin, and he couldn’t reach through his dizziness to understand.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead on Mitchell’s chest. The rhythm of the officer’s heartbeat vibrated through his skull.

Mitchell’s body rose. British prisoners lifted the litters and carried the wounded to the camp hospital. The man wearing the green beret led the Americans who could walk out of the courtyard.

Andrew and Grady struggled to their feet and followed a ragged line of the
Pilgrim
’s crew outside the high walls and down the outer road that cut through the go-downs. The crew turned off the main road and headed down a path to the ninth hut in a row of ten: Hut Twenty-nine. They filed into the hut and Andrew collapsed on the floorboards inside the entrance. Out of the scorching sun, his head cleared and his thoughts returned.

The man in the beret lingered inside the doorway, watching the crew file in. Ensign Fisher was the last one through the door, and the man addressed him with a nasal British accent.

“My name is Lieutenant Fowler. Welcome to Changi. This is Hut Twenty-nine and the American enlisted men will be housed here. I’m afraid that we weren’t expecting you, so it will take us a day or so to make room for your officers. Until then, you’ll have to sleep here.”

“Ensign Monte Fisher.” Fisher held out his hand, but Fowler only peered down at the gesture until Fisher pulled his hand to his side. “It won’t be necessary to find other accommodations. There are only three officers. We can bunk with the enlisted men.”

“Rather bad form for officers to fraternize with the ranks. Next thing you know they’ll be calling you by your Christian name. You Yanks are notoriously undisciplined. Respect for the chain of command is essential. Now that America has been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the war, I suppose you’ll have to sort that all out.” He paused for a moment, and added with a smirk, “Along with growing some spine.”

Fisher’s face reddened and his eyes smoldered, but he held his tongue.

Fowler glanced down at Andrew and his nose wrinkled, as if detecting a foul stench. “Curious—are you Yanks enlisting Wogs?”

Andrew glanced up at the smirking officer and said, with a weary voice, “I’m an American.”

“When you address an officer you will use the term, ‘sir.’”

“If you’re an officer, then you are pathetically out of uniform. And as I said, I’m an American. I’m not under British authority and don’t have to kowtow to you or your bloody rules.”

Fowler’s face flushed. “Pity. If you are an American, that would make you yellow on the inside as well as the outside.”

Ogden stepped forward from the circle of onlookers and grabbed Fowler by the throat, slamming him up against the flimsy wall. “Watch your mouth, you skinny fuck!”

Andrew held up his hand to stop Ogden, who let go of the lieutenant and retreated a step.

Andrew struggled to his feet to face Fowler. “I’ve always heard that a British officer is the consummate gentleman, but a gentleman would never humiliate himself by insulting another man to his face. So it seems that only the British upper class are gentlemen, and not the commoners.”

Fowler’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He hissed, “You’ll pay dearly for that remark. I can promise you that, you yellow bastard!” He turned on Ogden. “And you assaulted an officer. That’s a criminal offense.”

“Lieutenant Fowler.” A tall, gray-haired man wearing a shabby uniform and clogs, carrying a wooden cigar box under his arm, appeared in the doorway. He twisted one end of his handlebar mustache with his fingertips. “We can give our American allies a warmer welcome than that, don’t you think? After all, we’re all on the same side, eh?” The man’s eyebrows lifted.

“Colonel Henman, I-I was….” Fowler stammered. “Yes, you are right of course. Frightfully sorry.” He moved to the doorway and turned to Fisher, still visibly struggling to regain his composure. “You will catch on to the routine soon enough, old boy. Nothing changes from one day to the next. On each bunk you will find a water bottle, a tin mug, a spoon, and two billycans—one for rice and one for soup. You will need those to eat. Anything else you need, like tobacco and soap, can be purchased from Little Sister Wu. She’s the Chinese woman who runs the camp store. Of course you’ll need something of value to trade. Showers are at the end of the row and the latrines are up the hill from the west wall. Every day, a few men from each hut must work. Details gather wood for the cooking fires, bury the dead, and repair the airstrip. Be careful to tuck your mosquito netting in thoroughly—one tiny opening and those tenacious buggers will drain you dry in a single night.”

Fowler paused, as if considering whether he had covered all the bases, and added, “Oh yes. If you’re caught outside the wire, they’ll kill you. And if you’re caught breaking any camp rules, they’ll send you north to the work gangs building the Burma railway. If you think this is hell, think again. Here they only starve you to death. There they also work you to death and beat you to death. Life expectancy on a work gang is three weeks.” Fowler’s voice shivered at the mere mention of the railway gangs.

Fowler turned to leave, but Fisher said, “Hold on, Lieutenant. I believe you owe Seaman Waters an apology.”

“I quite agree,” Colonel Henman added. “Come now, Fowler. Let’s have it.”

Fowler opened his mouth, but paused. His lips trembled as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. His expression went hard as he twisted his head toward Andrew, saying in a softer voice, “You have my apology, Seaman Waters.” He glanced at Henman, who dismissed him with a flash of his eyes and a nod. Fowler whirled about and disappeared through the doorway.

Henman shook his head as he watched Fowler stride away, and asked to speak with the senior American officer.

Moyer stepped forward. “Hello, sir. I’m Chaplain Moyer, I mean, Ensign Moyer.”

“A chaplain? Oh, capital! You have no idea how badly we require religious guidance. Seems our English clergy fell sick and passed on during the first months. They say the meek shall inherit the earth, but not in this camp, I’m afraid. I am sure you are not Church of England, but no matter. I would love to work with you to organize services for our boys, and of course the brave souls in the hospital need you so desperately. In this camp of perpetual starvation and sickness, the men who keep to their faith in those moments of deep anguish are the ones who survive. But so many boys give up too easily. It is as if they will themselves to die in order to end the suffering. Surrendering the spirit is an infectious disease, and it is spreading all too quickly here. Can I count on you, sir?”

Moyer’s eyes shone. “Of course,” he stammered. “It will be a privilege.” His bewildered expression metamorphosed into an aura of joy.

“Smashing. Oh, I am forgetting my manners. I’m Colonel Thomas Henman.” He extended his hand and Moyer clasped it firmly.

“This is Ensign Fisher, Monte Fisher.”

“So pleased.”

Henman stared at Andrew. “Young man, you’re either frightfully clever or you know a thing or two about Englishmen. Your comment about not being upper class was the most injurious insult you can give a man like Fowler. Either way, I’d say you’ve made an enemy during your first hour in camp. I certainly hope you are not planning to make a habit of this sort of behavior, eh?”

“No, sir.”

“Interesting that you call me ‘sir’ but refused Lieutenant Fowler the same courtesy.”

“Sir, you earned my respect.” The effort to speak used up Andrew’s remaining strength. His voice trailed off until it was overpowered by the drone of flies.

“Well put, young man. Here, let me help you to bed.” The colonel helped Andrew to lie on the bunk nearest the door. He pulled the cap off his own water bottle and held Andrew’s head up to drink. Andrew swallowed a few mouthfuls before Henman laid his head on the pillow to rest.

“Sir,” Andrew rasped. “When can I see Lieutenant Mitchell?”

“You must be referring to the officer they carried to the hospital. Do not worry about him, young man. Our medical staff are giving him the best possible care. I am sure he will be allowed visitors in the next day or two. You concentrate on getting yourself stronger.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Now,” Henman said, facing the officers. “I popped in to pump you for news about the latest battle developments. Perhaps we could take a walk and you can fill me in.”

Fisher nodded. “Can’t tell you much, and what I know isn’t encouraging, but I’ll be happy to.”

“Jolly good. Any information helps.” Henman lifted the box from under his arm and handed it to Moyer. “We took up a tobacco collection. Java tobacco is rather harsh, but one acquires a taste for it.”

Moyer opened the lid. It was full of raw tobacco, rice papers, and matches. “Holy cow.” Moyer smiled. “Thanks a million. I’ll pass this around.”

“A word to the wise,” Henman said, his face falling into a pained expression. “Beware of the Indian guards. They are savagely cruel. They will beat you to death if you give them the least provocation.” He wagged his head as his eyes turned a watery blur. “We trained them, brought them here, and worked beside them. When the Japs came, they turned on us. I swear I thought they loved us.” His voice tailed off to nothing. A moment later, he said, “You officers must remove any symbol of rank. They stripped us of that, turned us into one chaotic mass with no visible chain of command. No sense to it, really, except to deprive us of our dignity. Damned inexcusable.

“One other bit of advice,” Henman added. “Here we live by camp rules and by our wits. It is not much of a living, but most of the men manage somehow. The men who do not make it are the ones who lick the boots of the guards to get handouts, the ones who rely on doctors to pull them through, and the squealers who rat on their chums to save their own skins. Keep that in mind and you will all do fine.” Henman took Fisher by the arm and led him through the doorway. “Cheerio.” Henman saluted Moyer as he and Fisher strolled up the path between the go-downs.

The hut stood on three-foot-high stilts to avoid the creatures that crawl or slither, and to raise the hut above floodwaters during the monsoons. The door and windows were simple openings in the rough walls and provided no deterrent for flying insects: flies during the day and mosquitoes at night. Indeed, the drone from swarms of flies was loud. The thatched roof had low overhangs to keep out the sweltering sun, but the mildewed layers of thatching gave off a claustrophobic odor, like rotting flesh. Electric wires crawled through the rafters like centipedes, with naked bulbs hanging down every fifth bunk. There were two rows of bunk beds, and mosquito netting covered each one. Forty for sixty-five men, but twenty men were in the hospital, so for the time being only a few men would need to sleep in shifts.

Andrew’s head cleared while he lay on the lumpy, kapok-stuffed mattress, and he sipped more water from his own bottle. Grady flopped down beside him and they pressed together, like babies instinctively nuzzling into the comfort of their mother.

Two hours passed before Andrew pulled himself to a sitting position and thought about cleaning up at the showers. Several crewmen had already showered and washed their clothes. Andrew longed to be clean. The only thing better would be something to eat, but dinner was hours away. He yanked Grady to his feet and they helped each other down the line of huts to the showers. They had no soap, but they scrubbed their bodies free of as much grime as possible, and they soaked and rinsed their clothes in a wooden washtub.

Walking back to his hut, Andrew lay down again and fell into a dreamless sleep. At sundown, Moyer jostled him awake and handed him a billycan full of rice and another full of fish broth.

Andrew savored his meal, and after eating, he felt fit enough to play Jah-Jai. He withdrew the flute from beneath his shirt, amazed that the instrument had survived the three-week journey intact. He folded his legs into a lotus position, brought Jah-Jai to his lips. He spread his fingers over the holes and ran through a series of notes. Sound rippled through the hut. He found it difficult to force air through his parched throat, but Mozart had a slightly rejuvenating effect and the notes grew stronger. But even so, he played the piece slowly, mournfully.

Men chose bunks, inspected the netting, and peered out windows. Some hobbled off to the showers while others rolled cigarettes and blew smoke toward the swarms of flies. Others simply paced about while getting accustomed to their new surroundings. They shuffled through the room as if dancing a slow waltz to Andrew’s melancholy tune.

Moyer ambled to the far end of the hut and asked the men to gather around and kneel while he led them in prayer.