The Lonely War (25 page)

“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.

A
NDREW
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; Andrew 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.

Clifford filled a bucket with water and washed Andrew’s fatigues with soap and a scrub brush. Once Andrew and his clothes were clean, Clifford rinsed them both with rainwater.

Andrew slipped into the tub. The cool sensation felt erotic.

Clifford carried Andrew’s clothes out to the veranda and hung them on the railing to dry. Returning, he stripped off his white smock, silk sarong, and cream-colored panties. Naked except for a thin silver necklace, he soaped down and rinsed before joining Andrew in the tub.

Andrew couldn’t believe the alabaster whiteness of Clifford’s body. The silver chain around his neck highlighted his pure skin tones.  

There was no embarrassment about being naked together. They had bathed together many times while growing up. The war, the camp, the hunger all faded as the refreshing water reminded Andrew of his joyful youth. They splashed each other and kissed while pressing together. Not sexually—rather, kisses from boys who had discovered that they still loved each other in a way that they could never love anyone else. They were two halves of the same being: yin and yang.

Clifford reached over the edge of the tub, grabbed a nail file, and gave Andrew a manicure. He filed each nail. When it was time to dry and dress, he covered his slim hips with his silk sarong, but did not put on his sleeveless smock. He pulled a sarong of mandarin red cotton from a shelf and wrapped it around Andrew’s waist.

Clifford stepped back to inspect him, tilting his head to the left while admiring Andrew’s black hair, sculpted chest, and mandarin red hips. He draped his silver chain around Andrew’s neck and nodded his approval.

Andrew watched with fascination as Clifford opened his purse and removed a bottle of Crème Tokalon, which he applied to his cheeks. Over that he patted skin-colored powder—Houbigant. He reapplied his lipstick and dabbed a drop of eau de cologne behind each ear. His face done, he took the Houbigant puff and patted around Andrew’s head wound, hiding it as best he could. They didn’t bother to put the bandage back on.

“T-t-t-there, now everything is perfect. Let’s go.”

Tottori knelt before a Shinto shrine in the corner. He wore a sober gray kimono made from fine Chinese silk that was tied at the waist by a black cord. Andrew and Clifford waited at the door of Tottori’s living quarters for ten minutes while Tottori remained perfectly still. Finally, he rose to greet them. They bowed into the room. Tottori bowed too, but not nearly so low. He waved them in and smiled broadly.

Andrew scanned the spacious room. The well-used furnishings looked as if they had been hastily thrown together. Light filtered through the open shutters, highlighting the sheen of dark, polished wood. The room had a traditional Japanese
tokonoma
alcove—the focal point in any Japanese house, where a classic scroll hangs or a flower arrangement sits, enhanced by the play of light and shadows. A wooden chest of drawers occupied the alcove, and on the chest lay several polished stones surrounding a simple flower arrangement: birds of paradise in a natural salt-glazed ceramic vase. In one corner rested a Shinto shrine—a stone statue sat beside a red porcelain bowl full of sand, which had smoking incense sticks poking out like porcupine quills. The spicy scent of the incense mixed with the aroma of broth simmering in a nearby kitchen, giving the room a rich fragrance.

Tottori addressed Andrew. “I didn’t choose the furnishings.”

Andrew dropped his gaze, saying nothing. He paid careful attention to externals—the dim light filtering through the shuttered windows, the density of silence engulfing the room broken only by a porcelain wind chime catching the evening breeze, Tottori’s stiffness as he waited for a response, and the fact that Clifford’s hands were trembling. He wondered why Clifford was fearful.

His focus moved inward. He felt no hate, no repugnance, and no longer any dread of Tottori, only a tinge of fear that Tottori would fail to deliver the serum.

“I don’t know your name.”

“Seaman First Class Andrew Waters,
Kakka-dono
.” Andrew used the formal Japanese term for “Your Excellency, sir.”

“Seaman? Your uniform suggests that you are a marine. What job did you perform aboard ship that required you to dress in fatigues?”

“I was the officer’s mess cook,
Kakka-dono
.”

They waited through a long silence before Tottori said, “In addressing officers up to a colonel’s rank, it is proper to use the title ‘dono,’ but since my rank is that of colonel, you should address me as ‘Your Excellency, Tottori.’ But for tonight, let us forget about rank and formalities. Please call me Hikaru.”

Andrew nodded. It was extraordinary how, by simply offering his first name, Tottori had transformed the entire situation into an intimate affair. With a single word he had created a personal relationship between them. Was that by design? Andrew saw a smile in Tottori’s eyes and realized the answer was assuredly yes. It was a small yet important victory for Tottori.

“Will you join me in a whiskey?” Tottori asked.

Clifford shuffled to a low chest against the wall and opened the lid. He removed a bottle of Haig & Haig Scotch Whiskey and three crystal glasses, placing them on a silver tray.

“Thank you, but I don’t drink spirits.”

Tottori nodded. “The French believe that strong liquor before dinner dulls the palate, but I will have some now. It is a habit that I picked up while studying in America. During my four years at Amherst, I acquired several such habits.”

No doubt that’s where you perfected your English
, Andrew thought.
My compliments
.

Tottori stalked to a low table surrounded by thick pillows. Andrew followed and sat at the same time as Tottori, facing the commandant. Clifford glided up, carrying the drink tray. He stood at the edge of the table, waiting.

Andrew realized that he had not been invited to sit. Panic. He didn’t know if he should jump up and apologize, or remain seated. He silently cursed his stupidity. Glancing at Tottori, he saw the officer perversely smiling at his obvious discomfort. Another small victory.

Tottori waved his hand in the direction of a pillow.

“Clifford, will you join us?”

Clifford lowered himself onto a pillow while placing the tray on the table. He poured one glass half full of Scotch, and in another he trickled a few drops, enough to be social. The officer took the half-full glass and sipped. He lifted a pack of English cigarettes off the table and offered one to Andrew.