The Lonely War (27 page)

Andrew kissed Tottori, a kiss so gentle that Andrew was reminded of kissing a baby. A heartbeat later, as easily as taking a breath of air, their mouths came together, hard. Tottori grabbed the back of Andrew’s neck, locking his head in a vise, lifting him to his toes. Tottori’s teeth brought blood. Andrew was only aware of those lips, but through the heat of their mingling passions, he felt the officer’s pain, the sum of a lifetime of loneliness.

Tottori became as rigid as the yellow chert stone. Andrew leaned his forehead against the side of Tottori’s neck, pressing chests and groins and thighs together, feeling the thump of his own heart and those rough hands caressing his nakedness. He embraced the man’s pain.

“Hikaru, if you only want a body to use, I’ll be that. I’ll be whatever you need, and I’ll return as much affection as you show me.”
There,
Andrew thought,
I’ve used your name for the first time, and in so doing I’ve sealed the intimacy between us. This is my first victory, which eclipses all your earlier wins.
Andrew smiled.

Tottori groped for a response, letting Andrew know that the situation had teetered out of the commandant’s control. He, who must always be in command, stood at a loss. His hands caressed Andrew’s sumptuous amber softness, this sleek and imposing body, while staring into the depths of the youth’s fragile eyes. He whispered, “If I love you, as Clifford suggested, will you love me in return?”

“Please, don’t talk of love.”

“Does that mean you can never love me?”

Andrew wondered if what he was feeling could already be love. It was not what he felt for Mitchell, but it felt equally as potent.

“I’m your whore.”

They kissed. Deep, needful kisses. Seemingly in control again, Tottori lifted Andrew into his arms and carried him to the bedroom, leaving the red sarong strewn across the floor. He pulled the mosquito-netting aside and spread Andrew over the quilts like frosting over a wedding cake. As his lips explored the youth’s porcelain smoothness, he became visibly enmeshed in powerful emotions. He pulled away.

Andrew patiently drew Tottori back again and, with trembling hands, fumbled at the knot holding Tottori’s kimono. Tottori’s hands moved to help, but Andrew whispered
no
. He wanted to do it himself.

A moment later the robe fell away. Andrew’s body fused with Tottori. Flesh enfolded him, drawing him closer. Legs entwined. Tottori’s body felt like sculpted stone, made inflexible by the assault of war. Years of fighting had battered and slashed and stiffened this flesh into an unyielding mass of scar tissue. Andrew felt afire against this granite dream.
Not yet,
he ordered himself.
Don’t wake up yet
. He was convinced that this was too extraordinary to be substantial.

Andrew desperately wanted to bring gentleness into this body, to reel this man away from the ravages of war and restore the human quality to this injured flesh.

Tottori’s lips murmured against Andrew’s neck.

That smell, that manly smell, made Andrew tipsy. His breath quickened. He shivered. Tottori’s lips moved over amber goose bumps until his tongue traced the outline of Andrew’s nipples. Hands wandered, finding Andrew’s stiff sex surrounded by downy softness. Tottori fulfilled Andrew’s need with slow deliberateness, handling Andrew as if he were something incredibly delicate.

Andrew tried to respond in kind, tried to return this pleasure, but he lay paralyzed, overcome by electrifying sensations. Tottori built Andrew to the brink of climax and backed off, only to build him up again, teasing Andrew until he begged.

Andrew’s head spun as lusty sensations shot along his body. This was his baptism, his flash of Enlightenment, the moment of total understanding about flesh. Andrew tumbled through the vast, miraculous reaches of space, falling toward an unknown destination. He was unafraid, however. He welcomed this exchange.

Instinctively, Andrew glided his hand down Tottori’s chiseled torso and took hold of the man’s hardness, guiding it to him. A spasm of intense pain made Andrew fall through space again. How long he tumbled he had no idea; enough time for the pain to withdraw. Bestial breathing echoed in his head, erupting from both their mouths. Desire welled up in Andrew that was more powerful than he was capable of controlling. Sweat-drenched, he clung to Tottori and felt the man’s beating heart beneath the sensually sleek skin. He cried out and the room expanded to encompass the entire universe. Release. Pure, sweet, delirious release plunged him into an intoxicating liberation.

A collapsing of energy pressed them into a lingering embrace. Gratifying warmth spread throughout Andrew as his breathing returned to a tranquil rhythm. They lay tangled. Their separate breaths merged into a single stream. 

Dim moonlight drifted between the window slats, dividing the light into bars across the floor. Nothing solid separated them from the guards or the prison. The camp sounds became loud. Voices brushed against the slats, as if the prisoners were standing on the terrace.

Tottori whispered, “Did I hurt you?”

“Not much.”

“Then why look so sad?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“I was thinking of my losses. What I’ve given up and can’t retrieve.”

“Think about what you’ve gained. A man’s life and a lover to care for you.”

They fell silent. The camp din grew harsher, more penetrating.

Andrew couldn’t look into Tottori’s face. Sadness held him prisoner, replacing the man who, moments ago, had propelled him into ecstasy. His sorrow grew overwhelming.

Tottori seized a box at the edge of the quilts and extracted a ceramic jar, pipe, and lighter. He opened the jar and the odor of raw opium drifted up. The jar’s contents looked like a dark and sticky loam. Andrew had seen men at home who smoked to the point where they could no longer eat. They melted away until death came striding by and, in a cloud of wonder, they followed.

Tottori filled the pipe, held a flame over the bowl, and inhaled. He didn’t offer any to Andrew. The odor was sweet, like incense.

In this aftermath, Andrew fondled the notion of what it would feel like to cuddle Mitchell like this, and thinking of Mitchell brought back the purpose of the night’s adventure. He pulled away from Tottori’s embrace and peeked through the shutters.

“Yes, Lingtse, go to him. But come here at sunset tomorrow. I need you too.”

They kissed, and Andrew understood that their passion had survived the sudden intrusion of his sadness, of Mitchell and the war. He felt a slight chest spasm, nearly imperceptibly. It was his heartbeat shifting into a new rhythm, a scarcely noticeable difference in cadence.

Chapter Twenty-Two

May 16, 1942—0100 hours

A
NDREW
strolled through the camp gates, kicking a stone as he went. He booted it three or four feet up the path, ambled to it, and kicked it again, repeating, repeating. His thoughts still lolled in Tottori’s quilts. He knew he would never go hungry as long as Tottori was commandant, and he would have no problems from the guards; they would treat him with respect, at least to his face. Yet, he would always regret what he had gained and what he had lost. His losses seemed immense: the camaraderie of the
Pilgrim
’s crew, Mitchell’s friendship, the joy of sharing a coconut with his unit. He was an outcast henceforth.

Other prisoners tramped about as if sleepwalking, moving fast or slow, forcing their way through the night, mangy as stray dogs. They were restless but without impatience, without happiness or sadness, without curiosity, moving from here to there, alone in a crowd where they were never and always by themselves.

Someone stepped onto Andrew’s path to block his way. Andrew stopped and gazed into the shadowy face of Lieutenant Fowler.

“I saw you and that degenerate march to the commandant’s quarters. Are you the new camp stoolie, or are you letting the head Jappo bugger your arse in exchange for food? You’ve been in camp only two days, and you’ve already sold your soul.”

Andrew’s mind struggled to engage this new obstacle. He saw the hate embedded in those colorless eyes. It was pointless to defend himself, he knew. This was the first salvo in a battle that would involve everyone. Regrets were equally useless. He had made his decision; there was no turning back. But all the same, his anger swelled, choking him. He was not fuming at Fowler, but at his situation, his lack of control within the chaos.

Fowler smirked. “You’re the lice who cling to the conquerors’ pubic hairs. Shameless. One thing about selling out: there is always a reckoning. You’ll pay, and I’ll see to it that you pay dearly.”

Andrew understood that Fowler meant to destroy him, and it would be all too easy. His destruction would feed the hate that raged in Fowler’s heart. Andrew also realized that his own destruction, his death, was the cleanest solution to this quagmire. Fowler’s hatred could very well be his only ally.

Andrew’s fury evaporated. He even grinned. “I’ve already paid, thank you very much.” He stepped around Fowler and hurried toward the hospital.

A
NDREW
climbed the hospital stairs two at a time. Clifford waited by Mitchell’s bed while Hudson and Stokes stood in the shadows.

Clifford took Andrew in his arms. “A-a-a-are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine. How’s our patient?”

“H-h-h-his pulse is fast and his temperature is normal, which is bad. We’ll start as soon as Grady brings some water. I asked your friends to help.”

Hudson shuffled up and laid a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Don’t know how you managed to get this serum, but God love you both. I asked Nash to help, him being a pharmacist’s mate, but he’s scared shitless, so fuck him. We’ll do it ourselves. I’ll be in the stairwell and Stokes will be down the hall. We’ll whistle if anybody comes near.”

“Where’s Grady?” Andrew asked.

“Keep your shirt on.” Grady glided past them carrying an enameled basin full of steaming water. He sat it on the nightstand, and fanned his hands to cool his fingers. He lifted a candle from his pocket and lit it while Hudson and Stokes took their lookout positions.

Clifford opened the surgical haversack and, after draping a clean towel on the bed, placed the equipment on the towel. He told Andrew, “I-I-I-I’ve already performed an inventory. We have everything we need for the operation and follow-up treatments. O-o-one thing about Tottori, he doesn’t skimp on a deal. There’s enough for Mr. Cocoa too. I’ll give him an injection when we’ve finished here.”

Andrew removed the wool blanket from Mitchell’s sweat-soaked body. The officer’s chest was pocked with puncture wounds and a bandage hugged the right leg. Andrew hooked him under the arms and muscled the officer onto his back. He pressed Mitchell’s head into the rough pillow. “We’re here to fix your leg,” he whispered.

“Cut my leg off?” Mitchell mumbled. “Oh God, no!”

“Sssssh. We have the antitoxin.”

“H-h-he’s delirious. Try to keep him quiet.”

Clifford took a pair of surgical tongs and placed a syringe, forceps, and scalpel into the steaming water. He washed his hands with a new cake of soap, wiped his hands dry on the towel, and used the tongs to pull the syringe from the pan. Holding a vile of morphine up to the candlelight, he stuck the needle through the rubber stopper, drew a syringe full, thumbed the plunger back to the proper dose, and gave Mitchell an injection in the buttocks.

“T-t-t-this should dull the pain.” Clifford handed Andrew a length of rubber hose. “P-p-put this between his teeth.” Clifford waited until the hose was in place before unwinding the bandage around Mitchell’s leg.

A putrid odor radiated from the wound as it emerged. The bandage against the leg had clotted to the wound, becoming meshed with the muscle tissue. His only option was to rip the wound bare, which he did quickly so as not to draw out the pain. Mitchell jerked an inch off the mattress. His screams were muffled as he bit the hose. Andrew fought to keep him on the bed.

“T-t-t-there, there, poor baby. The worst is over.”

Mitchell lost consciousness. Clifford checked his pulse. “J-j-j-just as well.” He turned to Grady. “H-h-hold the candle here, honey, so I can see.” He studied the open wound, which was saturated with mucus. The flesh had large patches of greenish-purple discoloring. “Ch-ch-ch-christ, have mercy. Baby, this is bad. Mu-mu-much worse than I thought.”

The fear in Clifford’s voice brought Andrew close enough to peer into his face, which was now devoid of color. “What’s wrong?”

“W-w-we’re too late.”

Andrew inspected the wound and fought off the urge to vomit.

“Do your best, Cliff.”

Clifford removed the scalpel from the hot water and meticulously carved away the putrid, rotting flesh, probing deep to insure he removed it all.

Andrew wiped the sweat from Clifford’s forehead with the towel. Minutes ticked by. Andrew was amazed at how much flesh was sliced away. The procedure seemed to take hours. By the time Clifford glanced up again, the towel in Andrew’s hands was damp and smeared with makeup.

Clifford dropped the knife into the water and painstakingly washed the wound. He sprinkled sulfa powder over the entire area before rebandaging the leg.

Andrew asked, “Cliff, are you Tottori’s lover?”

“W-w-w-when I first came here, he couldn’t keep his hands off me. My blond hair and white skin drove him crazy. But after I became a woman, he lost interest. You see, he’s already got a wife. He doesn’t want another.”

“He’s married? How can he be that way with me if he likes women?”

“H-h-h-he pledged to his wife that he would never take another woman. Believe me, he keeps his promises. He told me that a samurai gives his word and lives or dies according to his word. You understand? He’s like Master Jung-Wei.”

Clifford finished tying the bandage. “T-t-t-that leaves only two options: go without or do it with boys. He wouldn’t dare corrupt a Japanese soldier, so that leaves the prisoners. I’m the only prisoner he’s been with, but I knew he’d go for you because you have Asian beauty. He’s a tender lover, which seems strange for someone so masculine.”