The Lonely War (29 page)

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 the 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.”

Stokes seemed even glummer than usual. Every day that passed he slumped deeper into depression. He was convinced that Chew-Gin had given him up for dead and started dating other sailors. The fact that they hadn’t had time to marry meant that she was not family, so she wasn’t notified that the ship had sunk. Andrew wished for the hundredth time that he could do something to cheer up his friend. Then he remembered something Tottori had said.

“Say, John, you think you can scrounge up some paper and an envelope?”

“Depends. What’s it for?” His tone sounded suicidal.

“If you write a letter to Chew-Gin, I can get Tottori to mail it.”

Stokes leaped to his feet, seized Andrew by the shoulders, yanked him up, and pushed him against the wall. “You mean it? You aren’t fuckin’ with me?”

“If Tottori won’t mail it, I’ll get Do-Han to do it.”

Stokes hugged Andrew mightily, squeezing painfully hard, to the point that Andrew struggled to breathe. Stokes finally loosened his grip and Andrew sank to a squatting position next to Cocoa.

“I’ll have it before you leave camp. I… I mean, I don’t know how to—” Stokes turned his head away and covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow. A moment later he sat beside Andrew with a quiet grin.

Cocoa grabbed the nape of Andrew’s neck and squeezed.

The men devoured their gruel to the sounds of spoons scraping metal. Stokes passed each man a cigarette and they all lit up. Andrew told them that Tottori was placing the British officers in charge of everything inside the wire, and prisoners could grow vegetables and raise chickens.

“Where we gonna get chickens?” Grady asked.

“Buy them from Little Sister Wu. We’ll need wood and chicken-wire to build cages.”

“That takes money we haven’t got,” Stokes stated flatly.

“We’ll sell our
balachong
,” Hudson said. “I’ve got an Aussie buyer all lined up. Too many people have seen us gathering roaches, but if we wholesale to this Aussie, no one will link him and us, so nobody’s the wiser.”

“S’matter with you?” Grady said. “An Aussie won’t sell bugs to his own.”

“This bum would sell to his mother for a twenty-percent cut.”

“Sounds like the right kind of business partner,” Cocoa said.

Hudson asked, “Is it time to make another midnight roach run?”

“Jesus, Hud, not after I’ve eaten,” Cocoa groaned. “And why am I always the one who has to wash those damned things?”

“Why do ya think we let you in this unit? Sure as hell wasn’t for your Hollywood good looks,” Hudson snapped. “You gotta pull your weight, or what’s left of it.”

Grady removed a slip of paper from his hip pocket and studied the pencil markings. He announced that tomorrow they would gather a new batch, but today was two months since they’d buried the first batch.

“Jesus, no kidding?” Stokes said. “It’s harvest day?”

Cocoa told them that he could rent a hotplate, spatula, and frying pan for a half dozen Kooas, but asked how they could keep it secret. Once they cooked that stuff, the smell would give them away. They needed a diversion, he added, something to mask the smell.

“Say,” Grady said, “you know what waters my eyes? When those limeys drag their bedding out and burn away the bedbugs. We could carry out a few beds, start a fire under them, and burn our own bedbugs. Kill two birds with one stink.”

“Good God, boys,” Hudson said. “We got us a fucking Albert Einstein here.”

Andrew didn’t want to rent the cooking equipment, because they’d need it every week and the Brits might get suspicious. He suggested trading his old uniform and combat boots at Little Sister Wu’s for what they need.

Cocoa scratched his head. “For good boots, sure. I could even get her to throw in more pots and some grub. Are you sure you want to give up your clothes?”

“I’ve got these new clothes now. See if you can get us some coffee beans and a grinder. We’ll open up a coffee shop.”

Cocoa’s smile split his face in half. “Hot damn, boys, I’m in charge of the galley again!”

A chorus of groans erupted, followed by laughter. Grady snubbed out his cigarette, opened the unit’s tobacco box, and dropped the pinch of unused tobacco into the box. “I’ll go and dig up cans one and two. I’ll leave the holes cause we’re gonna bury two more cans tomorrow.”

Hudson nodded. “Right. Stokes, you scrounge up some coconut husks. I’ll pull KP and go contact our Aussie wholesaler. We’ll meet here for lunch and cook the bugs after we eat.”

“We better wait for an hour after we eat,” Andrew said. “You can’t believe what that smell is like.”

“What are you going to do, rookie?” Hudson asked.

“Sit here and enjoy the morning. Don’t worry, I’ll be plenty busy come cooking time.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

July 15, 1942—1000 hours

A
NDREW
hunkered in the shade with his back against the hut wall as he watched thin-blown clouds creep across the sky. His mind drifted in a sphere of emptiness as his chi expanded. His essence was about to take flight when he noticed something moving toward him. He felt it more than he saw it. When he narrowed his attention on it, Mitchell adjusted into sharp focus while everything else faded away.

The lieutenant limped down the line of go-downs, flanked by Moyer and Fisher. He wore a sweat-stained officer’s hat and his soiled uniform hung loosely on his gaunt frame. Hunger and sickness had reduced him to leathery skin stretched taut over bones, leaving deep valleys at his temples and under his bony cheeks. His skin’s curious, sallow glow was a result of taking the antimalarial drug, Atabrine, which Andrew had been able to get from Tottori. Dark rings surrounded those clear and discerning eyes, which were still the color of pale jade.

Mitchell smiled, his first smile since standing on the
Pilgrim
’s deck. His teeth seemed too big for his mouth, as if they belonged to some larger animal.

Andrew sucked in his breath. For him, Mitchell’s face had become shatteringly beautiful.

The officers strolled up and stood before Andrew, studying his fleshy chest, sea-blue sarong, and leather sandals.

“You’ve gone native,” Fisher said. His smile seemed friendly, but his voice carried a disapproving undertone. “Fine cloth like that could only have come from one place.”

Mitchell pressed his hand against Fisher’s shoulder to stop him from exploring the obvious.

“Fatigues are too hot,” Andrew said, fingering the cloth. “This is more comfortable.”

Moyer nodded. “I’ll have to keep my eye out for one of those.” 

“I don’t have an extra sarong, but this came my way.” Andrew lifted a black book from his shoulder bag and handed it to Moyer.

Moyer’s eyes opened wide. “Praise God, a New Testament? Where on earth—” After a pause he said, “Bless you, Andy. God bless you. We’re here to conduct the morning prayer. Will you join us?”

Andrew shook his head.

Moyer grasped Fisher’s elbow, guiding him into the hut while Mitchell eased himself to the ground. He leaned against the hut and exhaled a deep breath.

Andrew’s senses were keenly alive. He noticed everything—Mitchell’s body so deliciously close, Moyer’s voice murmuring thought the hut, the prisoners who paraded by with exaggerated slowness, buzzing flies, and sweat sliding over his skin. This existence would last only as long as it took Moyer to utter his prayers. Then they would depart, leaving Andrew with an intense sense of loss. He wanted to fully experience the moment, every attribute of this coming together. It was the moment’s mortality that made him so desperate to savor it.

They smiled at each other.

Mitchell seized Andrew’s hand in his with a gentle pressure. He curved an arm over Andrew’s shoulders and pulled him nearer, staring out at nothing with a look that showed poignant emotions churning within, either joy or sadness or both. The intensity of that stare terrified Andrew. He felt the officer’s heart thumping.

Andrew let Mitchell have his silence while the officer visibly struggled with a puzzle, trying to fit the pieces together. Andrew made himself wait until enough pieces fell into place.

“I saw Cocoa this morning,” Mitchell said. “I swear, every time I see that stump I go crazy thinking how close I came. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You’d do the same for me.”

“You nursed me, smuggled me drugs, and cleaned my diarrhea. I wish I could repay you.”

“All that was easy. Easy as falling in love. I can’t explain how, but caring for you has made me happier than I’ve ever been.”

Mitchell edged closer. Their bodies pressed together until their faces brushed against each other. Andrew tried to pull away, but Mitchell’s eyes held him there. They kissed. Andrew focused his entire being on those lips. He ceased to exist, becoming nothing more than the glorious feel of skin touching skin.