The Lonely War (36 page)

Andrew began to play a spirited Mozart tune, but Grady crooned, “Come on Andy, play ‘Swinging Shepherd Blues’.”

Andrew nodded and the flute took on the jazzier tune. As he played, Grady sang in his clear, strong voice. “In a mountain pass there is a patch of grass where the swinging shepherd plays his tune….” Grady felt the music, and snapping fingers and tapping toes accompanied him. “His sheep never stray, dancing all day till they see the pale and yellow moon….”

Stokes swallowed some hooch and his face scrunched up like a prune. He jumped to his feet, swayed his hips seductively, and danced around the hut. Kelso struck a feminine pose and batted his eyelashes. Wolf whistles erupted as Stokes took Kelso in his arms. The music swung them around the room.

Hudson, who was already tipsy, bowed in front of Clifford. “May I have this dance, kitten?”

Clifford was giddy with laughter. He stood and was swallowed by Hudson’s arms. They spun around the room. Others joined them.

“Wail on, shepherd, let it echo through the hills….” As Andrew played, he felt Mitchell’s arm slide across his shoulder and gently pull him closer. Andrew smelled talcum powder mixed with the spicy aroma of hooch.

Andrew and Grady performed five more tunes before stopping. The men groaned when Andrew quit. The party was in full swing and everyone, for the first time, had forgotten where they were. The food had miraculously put the sap of life into their bodies and they wanted to laugh, to dance, to feel like men again. Their laughter sparkled like a rare diamond.

The joy, the moment, Andrew would carry in his memory to his last hour. He gave in and played more tunes, wanting to prolong the gift. Grady’s voice brought soulful enchantment to the music. They played through the afternoon.

When Andrew finally stopped, exhausted but happy, Mitchell whispered that a breeze was blowing. His words were slightly slurred. Andrew could tell from the glow in his eyes that he’d had enough hooch to be flying himself.

They scooped up the kite and dashed out of the hut, making their way to the clearing between the go-downs and the wire. They attached the string and Andrew held the kite downwind as Mitchell let out thirty feet of string. The tight paper crackled against the wind. All at once, it flew upward.

Mitchell unreeled his ball of string as the kite climbed over the go-downs and even higher than the prison walls. The golden bird swooped this way and that while dancing high over the prison. In unison, the prisoners pointed skyward, tracking the kite with their eyes and fingers. The sun’s rays reflected off the paper, causing the kite to radiate a golden light, like a lesser sun dodging around the clouds.

Mitchell’s smile shined brighter than the sun itself. He let out a howl. “This is fantastic! It’s as if I were soaring up there with it. I wish you had one too.”

“I don’t need a kite to fly. I’m a crane.”

“What the hell does that mean? No, don’t tell me. I don’t care. I’ve never been as happy as I am right now.” A startled look flashed across Mitchell’s face. “I’m such a fool.”

“What are you talking about?” Andrew said.

“I really am as happy as I’ve ever been. All I’ve thought about for years is getting out of this hellhole so I could be happy again, and what-da-ya-know, it was under my nose the whole time.”

“When you look at something differently,” Andrew said, “it changes what you’re looking at.”

They hugged each other. As they did, Mitchell accidentally dropped the ball of string and the kite tumbled to earth. As it hit the ground, an English prisoner rushed over and stomped on it, destroying the paper and wooden frame. He disappeared into the crowd that had gathered. The other British prisoners erupted in a malignant cheer.

Andrew and Mitchell ran over to the kite and stared down at the broken carcass. Andrew could still make out some of the words written in red paint: “man creates tension.”

“Andrew, I’m so sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. What you felt while you were flying it is what matters. Hold on to that.”

“Stop right there, you two.” Lieutenant Fowler’s nasal voice pierced the hot air. 

Mitchell stepped between Fowler and Andrew. “What is it this time, Lieutenant?”

Fowler barked, “Andrew Waters, I arrest you for collaboration with the enemy. I will escort you to the stockade, where you will await court-martial proceedings. I told you that some day I’d have enough evidence to hang you, and I’ve finally got it.”

Mitchell flared. “I’ve had a bellyful of your picking on Andy. What the hell’s this about?”

“Eyewitnesses saw Seaman Waters willingly having sex with Commandant Tottori on the beach last night. Took it right up the bum like the whores of Babylon. Filthy trollop!”

Mitchell whirled around to face Andrew. “That can’t be. Tell him it’s not true.”

Wounded by the look in Mitchell’s eyes, Andrew felt like someone was yanking his guts out a yard at a time. Bile forced its way to the back of his mouth; he had to swallow it down.

He dropped his head and stared at the ground.

Chapter Thirty

December 27, 1944—1600 hours

T
HE
MP hut crouched on the south side of the camp between the go-downs and the front gate. The sweltering room was divided in half by bamboo bars. It was so hot that even the flies hovered close to the floor, where it was marginally cooler.

On one side of the bars, Fowler slumped over a makeshift desk, staring out the open doorway. While he squinted against the refracted glare of the sun hammering the hard-packed earth, a spasm built in his bowels. He held perfectly still, hoping it would pass.
It doesn’t feel like dysentery,
he thought, somewhat relieved.
It must be a touch of dengue.
He glanced toward the borehole toilets. He felt it turning into a bout of diarrhea, and he knew he needed to run for it, but before he could lift himself, it climaxed with only a small amount of bloody mucus oozing out of him.

Thank God
, he thought, for the grass pad he wore in his underpants. He needed to change the pad for the second time that day, but that was more hygienic than soiling his only pair of pants.
Why haven’t they brought lunch yet?
he wondered, hoping that food would calm his stomach. Waiting was agony.

Fowler glanced at Andrew for the millionth time and his mood turned even more sour. Although pleased to have nabbed the little traitor, he was not feeling the ecstasy that he had imagined. What didn’t sit right was that Andrew didn’t seem angry, sad, fearful, or anything else that a normal man would feel considering his predicament. He sat with a serene façade, as if his mind were soaring in the clouds.

Fowler watched Hudson and Clifford shuffle arm in arm toward the MP hut until they stood in the doorway. Hudson held a billycan of rice crowned with a fried egg. Clifford carried a mug of fresh coffee. The coffee’s fragrance caused another spasm to jolt Fowler’s bowels, and staring at that egg made his stomach growl like a wounded lion.

Fowler told them to leave the food on his desk and he would feed the prisoner.

“Nothin’ doing,” Hudson spat. “I’ll hand it to him myself and watch him eat it, just so you can’t steal it.”

“That kind of impertinence should earn you a horsewhipping, and it would if you were in a proper army. A healthy dose of discipline is what you all need.”

“I’m here to feed the prisoner, not to listen to your pompous bullshit. Are you going to let us by or do I have to get Lieutenant Mitchell?”

Fowler stared at that beautiful fried egg, still hot from the skillet, and nodded.

A
NDREW
spent a second day behind bamboo bars, sitting serenely on the floor while trying not to think of what he had done to himself only last night, but he could not quiet those thoughts. As evening’s darkness had turned into pitch-black, before the moon rose, the voices from the graves grew loud, forceful. He saw the corpses rotting in the earth, oozing like poison into the cells of his brain. His head spun and his depression grew more unbearable by the minute. He pressed his hands to his ears, but that did nothing to silence the accusations from those festering carcasses. The hisses combined with the vision of Mitchell’s outrage so clearly that he had wanted only to free himself of these ghastly circumstances. The idea of atonement swept into his thoughts, and he found himself willing to do anything, pay any penance, if it would wash away his shame and stop the maddening voices. Anything!

Desperate, he untied his sarong and twisted it into a rope. He fashioned a noose at one end, climbed onto the only chair in his cell, and secured one end of the rope to a rafter. He had no tears in his eyes when, without giving himself time to change his mind, he pulled the noose around his neck and stepped into space, kicking the chair aside so that he couldn’t turn back.

The noose tightened. A harsh pain pulsed through his spine. Knowing he was about to die, he felt a rush of exquisite relief wash through him. His bowels and bladder loosened. His head spun from lack of oxygen. It felt gratifying to finally be in a position that he was powerless to change.

He let go of life and a veil of inky blackness covered everything. He had stepped off the path of striving, given up the suffering and strife and vanity the world had to offer, and stepped into the void. Nothingness. He felt himself merging with the blackness.

But while losing consciousness, the sarong ripped under his weight and he dropped to the floor before he could fathom what had happened. Crawling to his knees, he vomited.  When his gut was empty, he fell over and lay in his own vomit.

He lay dead still through the night. In the dark hours before dawn, he gave up caring, content to let life have its way with him until death finally soothed his pain.

Now, with eyes closed and legs crossed, he sat wondering about what he had witnessed from his barred window at dawn’s first light—a black Mercedes Benz drove up to Tottori’s office and a Japanese officer emerged. Tottori waited on the terrace to salute the man before they disappeared into Tottori’s office. Could Tottori’s request for transfer have come through?

Hudson and Clifford moved to the bars and passed the mess-cans through an opening, but Andrew wouldn’t take it. He said he was not hungry, but he did take the coffee, sipped the strong, bitter drink.

Clifford’s face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Only the sheen of sweat covered it. He looked like a fourteen-year-old boy again, as fresh and pure as rainwater.

Andrew grasped his hands through the bars. “You’re beautiful.”

They leaned toward each other and kissed.

“Y-y-y-you look dreadful, my darling.”

“How’s Nathan?”

“Taking it hard, rookie,” Hudson said. “I’ve never seen him like this. Can’t tell what kind of bug is up his ass. He’ll preside over your court-martial tomorrow, seeing as how he’s the senior American officer, but I wouldn’t expect any favors.”

Andrew sipped more coffee. “I talked to Ensign Moyer this morning. He’s defending me. He’s how they found out. How they know everything.”

“How’s that?” Hudson said.

“You saw me on the beach, Hud, you and Darby McGaven. You told Moyer what you saw in confession. You’ve been telling him everything all along, about the
balachong
, the money stash, the radio at the village. He repeated it all to Fisher, never realizing that Fisher was feeding that information to the English brass.”

“Mother of God,” Hudson whispered. He choked, unable to breathe, then stammered, “That can’t be. Priests are supposed to keep that shit to themselves. That was between me and God, for Christ sakes.” Hudson dropped his head, looking defeated. “Fuck! I finally get religious and look how I screw things up. I’ll kill that stupid bastard.”

Hudson went silent, grinding his teeth together as if he were crunching on Moyer’s bones.

“It’s done,” Andrew said. “I knew the risk I was taking when I started this.”

“No, it’s me,” Hudson said. “Why is it always me who louses things up?” He shook his head as if still not quite believing. “They’ll never get me to say a word against you, I can promise you that. Moyer won’t talk either. Hell, he’s your lawyer for Christ sake.”

“They’ve got Darby. He’s all they need.”

Clifford said, “B-b-b-baby, tell them the truth. Tell them why you did it. Once they know it was to save Nathan’s life, all will be forgiven. They’ll give you a medal.”

“I don’t want Mitchell to know. Did you see the horror on his face? I don’t want him knowing that it was for him. It would crush him. You understand?”

“Hold on a Goddamned minute,” Hudson snapped. “You’re being ridiculous. You could get twenty years. You’ve got to spill your guts. It’s the only way.”

“I tried to kill myself last night because I couldn’t stand facing him again, couldn’t stand seeing what was in those accusing eyes. If this comes out, next time I won’t fail. Besides, Nathan won’t find me guilty. He can’t. Believe me, he won’t punish me.”

“What makes you so sure?” Hudson said.

“Because he loves me, body and soul. He couldn’t do anything to hurt me.”

Hudson wagged his head. “He told you that? He said that he loves you?”

“Well, no. He never actually said it.”

Clifford opened his purse, removed a compact mirror and a tube of lipstick, and began to reshape his lips.

“I want you both to promise me you won’t say a word about the serum to anybody.”

“D-d-d-darling, it sounds to me like you’re using this trial to see if he still loves you. You’re betting twenty years in prison that he loves you enough to find you innocent. And you want us to let you take such a reckless risk? That’s a decision I simply can’t make looking like a boy.”

Hudson gnashed his teeth. “Don’t be a fool,” he snarled. “This isn’t three days’ bread and water.”

“If he doesn’t love me, the prison sentence doesn’t matter. Promise me.”

Guided by the mirror, Clifford finished his lips and applied Crème Tokalon and Houbigant powder to his cheeks, penciled the rims of his eyes, spread a hint of pale blue powder on the lids, and dabbed eau de cologne behind each ear. Once he was made up, he moaned a mournful sigh.