'You're dismissed, Corporal. I won't forget you. And I'll certainly make sure I see Captain Brough at the earliest opportunity.'
'Now what the hell does that mean?'
'It means I find you entirely suspicious,' Forsyth rapped. 'I want to know why you're fit and others aren't. To stay fit in a place like this you've got to have money, and there would be very few ways to get money. Very few ways. Informing, for one! Selling drugs or food for another—'
'I'll be goddamned if I'll take that crap —'
'You're dismissed, Corporal! But don't forget I'll make it my business to look into you!'
It took a supreme effort for the King to keep from smashing his fist into the captain's face.
'You're dismissed,' Forsyth repeated, then added viciously, 'Get out of my sight!'
The King saluted and walked away, blood filming his eyes.
'Hello,' Peter Marlowe said, intercepting the King. 'My God, I wish I had your guts.'
The King's eyes cleared and he croaked, 'Hi. Sir.' He saluted and began to pass.
'My God, Rajah, what the hell's the matter?'
'Nothing. Just don't — feel like talking.'
'Why? If I've done something to hurt you, or get you fed up with me, tell me. Please.'
'Nothing to do with you.' The King forced a smile, but inside he was screaming, Jesus, what've I done that's so wrong? I fed the bastards and helped them, and now they look at me as though I'm not here any more.
He looked back at Forsyth and saw him walk between two huts and disappear. And him, he thought in agony, he thinks I'm a goddam informer.
'What did he say?' Peter Marlowe asked.
'Nothing. He — I've got to — do something for him.'
'I'm your friend. Let me help. Isn't it enough that I'm here?'
But the King only wanted to hide. Forsyth and the others had taken away his face. He knew that he was lost. And faceless, he was terrified.
'See you around,' he muttered and saluted and hurried away. Jesus God, he wept inside, give me back my face. Please give me back my face.
The next day a plane buzzed the camp. Out of its belly poured a supply drop. Some of the supplies fell into the camp. Those that fell outside the camp were not sought. No one left the safety of Changi. It still could be a trick. Flies swarmed, a few men died.
Another day. Then planes began to circle the airstrip. A full colonel strode into the camp. With him were doctors and orderlies. They brought medical supplies. Other planes circled and landed.
Suddenly there were jeeps screaming through the camp and huge men with cigars and four doctors. They were all Americans. They rushed into the camp and stabbed the Americans with needles and gave them gallons of fresh orange juice and food and cigarettes and embraced them-their boys, their hero boys. They helped them into the jeeps and drove them to Changi Gate, where a truck was waiting.
Peter Marlowe watched, astonished. They're not heroes, he thought, bewildered. Neither are we. We lost. We lost the war, our war. Didn't we?
We're not heroes. We're not!
He saw the King through the fog of his mind. His friend. He had been waiting the days to talk with him, but each time he had found him the King had put him off. 'Later,' the King had always said, 'I'm busy now.' When the new Americans had arrived there still had been no time.
So Peter Marlowe stood at the gate, with many men, watching the departure of the Americans, waiting to say a last goodbye to his friend, waiting patiently to thank him for his arm and for the laughter they had had together.
Among the watchers was Grey.
Forsyth was standing tiredly beside the lorry. He handed over the list.
'You keep the original, sir,' he said to the senior American officer. 'Your men are all listed by rank, service and serial number.'
'Thanks,' said the major, a squat, heavy-jowled paratrooper. He signed the paper and handed back the other five copies. 'When're the rest of your folks arriving?'
'A couple of days.'
The major looked around and shuddered. 'Looks like you could use a hand.'
'Have you any excess drugs, by any chance?'
'Sure. We got a bird stacked with the stuff. Tell you what. Once I've got our boys on their way, I'll bring it all back in our jeeps. I'll let you have a doc and two orderlies until yours get here.'
'Thanks.' Forsyth tried to rub the fatigue out of his face. 'We could use them. I'll sign for the drugs. SEAC will honor my signature.'
'No goddam paper. You want the drugs, you got 'em. That's what they're there for.'
He turned away. 'All right, Sergeant, get 'em in the truck.' He walked over to the jeep and watched as the stretcher was lashed securely. 'What you think, Doc?'
'He'll make it state-side.' The doctor glanced up from the unconscious figure neatly trussed in the straitjacket, 'but that's about it. His mind's gone for good.'
