When his group was accounted for, Captain Spence walked along the road to Lieutenant Colonel Sellars, who was in nominal charge of four huts, and saluted. 'Sixty-four, all correct, sir. Nineteen here, twenty-three in hospital, twenty-two on work parties.'
'All right, Spence.'
And as soon as Sellars had all the numbers from his four huts, he totaled them and took them up the line to Colonel Smedly-Taylor, who was responsible for ten huts. Then Smedly-Taylor took them up the line. Then the next officer took them up the line, and this procedure was repeated throughout the camp, inside and outside the jail, until totals were given to the Camp Commandant. The Camp Commandant added the figures of men inside the camp to the number of men in hospital and the number of men on work parties, and then he passed the totals over to Captain Yoshima, the Japanese interpreter. Yoshima cursed the Camp Commandant because the total was one short.
There was an aching hour of panic until the missing body was found in the cemetery. Colonel Dr. Rofer, RAMS, cursed his assistant, Colonel Dr.
Kennedy, who tried to explain that it was difficult to keep a tally to the instant, and Colonel Rofer cursed him anyway and said that that was his job. Then Rofer apologetically went to the Camp Commandant, who cursed his inefficiency, and then the Camp Commandant went to Yoshima and tried to explain politely that the body had been found but it was difficult to keep numbers accurate to the second. And Yoshima cursed the Camp Commandant for inefficiency and told him that he was responsible
— if he couldn't keep a simple number perhaps it was about time another officer took charge of the camp.
While the anger sped up and down the line, Korean guards were searching the huts, particularly the officers' huts. Here would be the radio they sought. The link, the hope of the men. They wanted to find the radio as they had found the one five months ago. But the guards sweltered as the men on parade sweltered, and their search was perfunctory.
The men sweated and cursed. A few fainted. The dysenteric streamed to the latrines. Those who were very sick squatted where they were or lay where they were and let the pain swirl and consummate. The fit did not notice the stench. The stench was normal and the stream was normal and the waiting was normal.
After three hours the search was completed. The men were dismissed.
They swarmed for their huts and the shade, or lay on their beds gasping, or went to the showers and waited and fumed until the water cooled the ache from their heads.
Peter Marlowe walked out of the shower. He wrapped his sarong around his waist and went to the concrete bungalow of his friends, his unit.
'Puki mahlu!' Mac grinned. Major McCoy was a tough little Scot who carried himself neatly erect. Twenty-five years in the Malayan jungles had etched his face deeply — that and hard liquor and hard playing and bouts of fever.
'Mahlu senderis,' Peter Marlowe said, squatting happily. The Malay obscenity always delighted him. It had no absolute translation into English, though 'puki' was a four-letter part of a woman and 'mahlu' meant
'ashamed.'
'Can't you bastards speak the King's English for once?' Colonel Larkin said. He was lying on his mattress, which was on the floor. Larkin was short of breath from the heat and his head ached with the aftermath of malaria.
Mac winked at Peter Marlowe. 'We keep explaining and nothing can get through the thickness of his head. There's nae hope for the colonel!'
'Too right, cobber,' Peter Marlowe said, aping Larkin's Australian accent.
'Why the hell I ever got in with you two,' Larkin groaned wearily, 'I'll never know.'
Mac grinned. 'Because he's lazy, eh, Peter? You and I do all the work, eh?
An' he sits and pretends to be bedridden — just because he's a wee touch of malaria.'
'Puki mahlu. And get me some water, Marlowe!'
'Yes, sir, Colonel, sir!' He gave Larkin his water bottle. When Larkin saw it he smiled through his pain.
'All right, Peter boy?' he asked quietly.
'Yes. My God, I was in a bit of a panic for a time.'
'Mac and me both.'
Larkin sipped the water and carefully handed the water bottle back.
'All right, Colonel?' Peter Marlowe was perturbed by Larkin's color.
'My bloody oath,' Larkin said. 'Nothing a bottle of beer couldn't cure. Be all right tomorrow.'
Peter Marlowe nodded. 'At least you're over the fever,' he said. Then he took out the pack of Kooas with studied negligence.
'My God,' said Mac and Larkin in one breath.
Peter Marlowe broke the pack and gave them each a cigarette. 'Present from Father Christmas!'
'Where the hell you get them, Peter?'
'Wait till we've smoked them a bitty,' Mac said sourly, 'before we hear the bad news. He's probably sold our beds or something.'
Peter Marlowe told them about the King and about Grey. They listened with growing astonishment. He told them about the tobacco-curing process and they listened silently until he mentioned the percentages.
'Sixty-forty!' exploded Mac delightedly. 'Sixty-forty, oh my God!'
'Yes,' said Peter Marlowe, misreading Mac. 'Imagine that! Anyway, I just showed him how to do it. He seemed surprised when I wouldn't take anything in return.'
'You gave the process away?' Mac was appalled.
