The Lonely War (30 page)

When they pulled apart, Mitchell wore a sad grin. Andrew tried to say that he loved Mitchell, but before he could, the officer covered Andrew’s mouth with his fingertips.
He is right
, Andrew thought,
words will only diminish this passion
.

They passed through several minutes of living silence.

Inside Hut Twenty-nine, voices gathered into song. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me….” Moyer’s voice carried the others and gave each note its full measure.

Andrew pulled three rice balls, two eggs, and a pack of Kooas from his shoulder bag, passing them to Mitchell, who quickly hid them in his own bag. Contraband should only be shared with one’s own unit, and supplying the officers’ unit (Mitchell, Fisher, and Moyer) with food and smokes would have landed him in a world of hurt with his own unit. He remembered something else. He lifted a metal can from his bag and pressed it into Mitchell’s hands.

“Talcum powder?” Mitchell asked.

“I miss that smell on you.”

Mitchell took a cigarette from the pack and lit it. He waved the match out and dropped it in the dust as he exhaled.

“You seem so content,” Mitchell said.

“Of course—the war is over for us. We follow the rules and we’re okay.”

“Don’t you long for home?”

“You are my home.”

Mitchell seemed puzzled, but he didn’t linger on it.

“Don’t you miss the outside world?”

“What’s to miss?”

“Strolling down city streets, rare steak dinners in restaurants, taking your girl to the movies, baseball and beer on Saturdays, Sunday dinners with the family.”

“I’ve never done any of those things. Most people need all that outside activity. I do most of my living inside, so it doesn’t much matter what’s going on around me. Guess I’m simple.”

“There’s a beautiful, exciting world out there. Remembering it is all that keeps me living from this moment to the next while we suffer through this hell.”

“That outside world kept me silent when I needed to talk to you, drove me to nearly kill Lieutenant Hurlburt, beat me senseless and raped me while you watched. Here I can live, and love, and help people. Here I find moments of genuine happiness. Out there I’m a failure. Out there is my shame.”

“Happiness? Do you mean cooking for Tottori? Do you enjoy being with him?”

“I’m happy right now, sitting with you.”

“What’s he like? What kind of man is he?”

The question hung between them. Andrew fumbled for a response, but his words caught in his throat, like a sparrow trapped in a cage. This blockage was not caused by shame. He no longer felt guilt about Tottori, and he didn’t feel he betrayed one man for the other. They simply lived in different worlds. His feelings for both men were reconcilable. In fact, they were both necessary. Without Mitchell and Tottori, both worlds would collapse. But even secure in that knowledge, Andrew couldn’t bring himself to speak about one to the other. He needed to keep those two worlds separate and distinct.

“Speaking of Tottori, I think I can get him to send a letter to Stokes’s girl so that she knows he’s alive. I can do the same for you. It shouldn’t be difficult to get some paper and an envelope.”

“Thank you, Andy. Sure.”

“Can you have it ready by sundown?”

“I’ll do what I can. Now tell me about Tottori.”

Hudson walked around the corner of the hut with his arm slung around Clifford’s slim waist. “Look who I found on my way back from the Aussie blockhouse,” he said.

Clifford smiled at the sight of Andrew and Mitchell crouched together. When he noticed Andrew’s new sarong, his eyes widened and his chin trembled.

Andrew wished that there was some way to give the cloth to Clifford without insulting Tottori, but that was not possible. Andrew and Mitchell rose to their feet. Andrew leaned into Clifford and hugged him, whispering, “Looks like you two are quite an item.”

“W-w-w-well, he’s not giving me expensive presents,” Clifford said while fingering Andrew’s sarong.

When they pulled apart, Mitchell took Clifford’s hand and said, “I know I’ve thanked you a hundred times, but every time I see you I want to thank you again. The only bad part of being back on my feet is that I no longer have you caring for me.”

Clifford blushed and leaned into Hudson.

“My Aussie friend will show up an hour after lunch,” Hudson said. “So we’re all set.”

“What’s going on?” Mitchell asked.

“Clifford,” Andrew said, “can you take our lieutenant and find some paper and an envelope?”

“W-W-With pleasure. Co-co-co-come with me, Lieutenant.”

A
S
LUNCH
settled, Hudson cleared the hut and posted Banks, Cord, Allard, and Nash as lookouts. Stokes and Grady carried their iron-frame bunks out to the open area in front of the hut. With Ogden and Baker helping, they dismantled the posts on the top bunk, which fitted into slots in the lower bunk posts, and built a fire with dried coconut husks.

When they had enough coals, they spread the fire into a cigar shape, five feet long and as wide as a bunk. Keeping the flames low, they placed a bunk—support slats, kapok-stuffed mattress, and frame—over the coals. Quick as that, tiny bugs began falling into the flames, so many that smoke spewed up, smudging the afternoon air. The stench became noticeable. It drifted on the breeze and spread over every hut by the southern wall.

Stokes took a burning palm frond and passed it close under the mattress to burn out even the most tenacious bugs. When they had finished with one bunk, they lifted it off the fire and set the next one over the flames.

Meanwhile, Cocoa plugged a hotplate into a dangling light socket and heated a large skillet. Andrew and Hudson pried the lid off a
balachong
can, jumping back as the odor escaped. They had filled that five-gallon can to the brim with mashed cockroaches, each one as large as a man’s thumb. After two months of decomposing, there was only four inches of black goop at the bottom of the can.

“Hell’s bells. That smell would gag a maggot,” Cocoa choked.

Andrew used a spatula to scoop up a generous portion of paste into the frying pan. Hudson quickly closed the lid. The paste emitted an explosive, rich, earthy stench, like a newly fertilized field after a spring rain, but powerful enough to water the eyes of everyone in the hut. The reek traveled through the walls and wafted over the southern end of the camp. Everyone within a ten-hut radius took notice.

Andrew mashed the paste flat in the pan and stepped away to wipe his eyes.

“That’s the right thickness,” Andrew told Cocoa. “Cook it gently under low heat and turn it every two or three minutes or it will spoil. It’s got to be just right, not too dry and not too moist.”

Hudson paced the floor several feet away. He growled, “Well, is it two minutes or three? For Christ sakes, rookie, we’ve got to be exact.”

“Relax, Hud,” Cocoa said. “You’re squawking like an old hen. We know our way around a skillet.”

A high-pitched whistle cut the air.

Hudson whispered, “Someone’s coming. I’ll handle it.” He dashed to the doorway and saw Mitchell limping toward them. Hudson hurried to intercept him, taking him by the arm and leading him up the path away from Hut Twenty-nine.

“Sir, you don’t want to go down there. We’re burning bedbugs and it smells god-awful.”

“No kidding. Never smelt anything so bad. I have a letter I want to give to Andy. Is he here?”

“Ain’t seen him, sir, but you hand over that letter and I’ll see that he gets it.”

Mitchell was reluctant, but he passed Hudson the letter before limping toward his hut.

Hudson scurried into the hut in time to see Andrew turning the paste.

“How much longer?” Hudson asked.

“Three minutes, thereabouts.”

A cloud of flies grew thick over the pan. The drone became loud. After three minutes, Cocoa lifted the pan off the hot plate and flopped the
balachong
onto a metal plate to cool. Andrew scraped a pinch off a corner with a spoon, mixing it with his lunch rice. Hudson and Cocoa watched as Andrew ate a spoonful of rice.

“Good God, I’m going to be sick,” Cocoa said.

“Well, be sick outside, damn you,” Hudson snapped. “How is it, rookie?”

Andrew swallowed and nodded his head. “Perfect.”

“Let me,” Hudson said. He grabbed the rice from Andrew, stuffed a spoonful into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed. “Not bad. I mean, it adds a ton of flavor, and you wouldn’t think that fucking cockroaches could taste so good.”

Cocoa grabbed the mess-can and shoveled rice into his mouth. His eyes looked to the ceiling as he chewed. “Needs sugar. If it had a smidgen of sweetness, we could double the price.”

Hudson spit. “Jesus, what the fuck do you know? It’s fucking perfect the way it is.”

Hudson took another spoonful, followed by Andrew and Cocoa. Each man became a connoisseur as they thought of ways to improve the taste.

“You’re right, Cocoa,” Andrew said. “But where can we get sugar?”

“I got some from Little Sister Wu. You told me to get coffee beans and a grinder, but I like my coffee sweet, so I bought some. We’ll cook the next batch with a pinch of sugar and see how it tastes.”

“Great,” Andrew said. “I’ll mold this batch into cubes while you cook up another pan. Hud, better tell the boys to burn more beds. It’ll take us a while to cook up both cans.”

“I’m on it!” Hudson said as he hustled to the door with a smile on his face and dollar signs in his eyes.

They were cooking the fourth batch when a shrill whistle sent Hudson running to a window. He saw old Darby McGaven strolling down the path with his straw coolie hat cocked low and baritoning “Waltzing Matilda.”

“It’s our Aussie wholesaler,” Hudson said. “He wants to see the operation.” Hudson moved to the doorway and signaled the Aussie to step inside.

“Ruddy hell. What’s that stink?”

Hudson smiled. “The smell of money. This stuff tastes better than it smells.”

Old Darby glanced down at the frying pan and his eyes sparkled. “So that’s what ya blokes’ve been up to. The whole camp’s talkin’ about yer gathering borehole bugs. We thought you ruddy bastards was all eatin’ um like chips.”

“This stuff is pure protein,” Hudson said. “Once it’s cooked, it tastes pretty good. Try some.”

“No bloody way I’m eatin’ that shit. I’ll sell it, but I sure as hell won’t eat it.”

“Will prisoners pay good money for it?”

“Every man and his dog will want this, and they’ll pay dearly. Course, I’ll have to tell them some story about going under the wire. Can’t let them know about you blokes.”

Hudson showed him the entire operation, cans, cooking process, molded squares, and the weekly production schedule.

“Now that you’ve seen it all,” Hudson said with a broad smile, “let’s take a walk and talk about pricing.” Hudson led Darby out of the hut with the two already deep in negotiations.

“Funny,” Cocoa said to Andrew. “I think that’s the first time he ever liked my cookin’.”

They both burst out laughing.

Chapter Twenty-Five

July 15, 1942—1700 hours

A
N
HOUR
before sunset, Clifford and Andrew ambled along the road leading to the hospital. The sway of their silk sarongs enhanced the graceful quality of their motion. They talked about the day’s events, and Clifford carried a cigar box full of
balachong
cubes under his arm.

“Stop right there.” Fowler’s nasal voice pierced the hot air. He and Sargent Cox marched up, their backs stiff, their manner formal. “Swishing around in skirts like pansies,” Fowler sneered. “Balls are wasted on the both of you.”

“Is there some point to your stopping us?” Andrew asked.

“There are new camp orders. The British officers are now in command of all activities inside the wire.” Fowler smirked. “I’m the new Provost Marshal and Sargent Cox is my deputy. It is our responsibility to build a proper stockade and punish wrongdoers. I intend to see the both of you rotting behind bars for consorting with the enemy. You’re living well now while the rest of us starve, but I’ll make you nancy boys crawl for what you’ve done. You’ll pay for all that fine food and special treatment. I’m watching your every move, and one day soon I’ll have the evidence I need to put you away.”

Andrew began to move around Fowler.

“Hold on,” Fowler said. “What’s in that box?”

“B-b-b-
balachong
, for the hospital.” Clifford slid the box from under his arm and opened the lid to show a dozen cubes of dark gray paste.

“Where did you get it?” A rich aroma wafted up, which made Fowler swallow hard.

“F-f-f-from Darby McGaven. He has connections outside the wire that smuggle him a steady supply. He donated this to the hospital. Not that it’s any of your bloody business.” Clifford’s tone broadcasted his contempt as strongly as Fowler’s eyes revealed his envy.

“Everything you degenerates do is my business,” Fowler snapped. Sweat streamed down his face. That much
balachong
was a windfall that would tide any man over for six months. Fowler’s lips quivered as he added, “You’re lying. Darby McGaven is a skinflint who doesn’t donate anything to anybody.”

“I suggest you take that up with him,” Andrew said.

“I want an honest answer and I want it now.” Fowler bit his lower lip. “Are you letting him bugger your ass for food, like you do Tottori?”

“Envy is a vile emotion,” Andrew said. “It strips away all one’s dignity. I feel sorry for you.”

“Filthy whores,” Fowler hissed and spat on Andrew’s face.

Andrew wiped the spittle off his cheek as he leaned toward Fowler while cocking his fist. He stopped himself. Without another word he stalked away in the direction of the front gate.

Clifford eyed Fowler. “Y-y-you better tread carefully, Lieutenant, because all he has to do is whisper your name in Tottori’s ear. You’ll be swinging a pick on a Burma railroad gang the next day.”

Clifford sashayed around Fowler and glided on toward the hospital.