and some of them were savage. The officers of the Sikhs knew no peace. For it was only the Sikhs en masse, and a few from other Indian regiments. The Gurkhas were loyal to a man, under torture and indignity.
So Colonel Brant wept for his men, the men he would have died for, the men he still died for.
Grey watched him go, then saw the King smoking by the path. 'I'm glad I said that now it's you or me,' he whispered to himself.
He sat back on the bench as a shaft of pain swept through his bowels, reminding him that dysentery had not passed him by this week. 'To hell with it,' he said weakly, cursing Colonel Brant and the apology.
Masters came back with the full water bottle and gave it to him. He took a sip and thanked him and then began to plan how he would get the King.
But the hunger for lunch was on him and he let his mind drift.
A faint moan cut the air. Grey glanced abruptly at Masters, who sat unconscious that he had made a sound, watching the constant movement of the house lizards in the rafters as they darted after insects or fornicated.
'You have dysentery, Masters?'
Masters bleakly waved away the flies that mosaiced his face. 'No sir. At least I haven't for nearly five weeks.'
'Enteric?'
'No, thank God. My bloody word. Just amebic. An' I haven't had malaria for near three months. I'm very lucky, an' very fit, considering.'
'Yes,' Grey said. Then as an afterthought, 'You look fit.' But he knew he would have to get a replacement soon. He looked back at the King, watching him smoke, nauseated with cigarette hunger.
Masters moaned again.
'What the hell's the matter with you?' Grey said irately.
'Nothing, sir. Nothing. I must have…'
But the effort to speak was too much and Masters let his words slip off and blend with the drone of flies. Flies dominated the day, mosquitoes the night. No silence. Ever. What is it like to live without flies and mosquitoes and people? Masters tried to remember, but the effort was too great. So he just sat still, quiet, hardly breathing, a shell of a man. And his soul twisted uneasily.
'All right, Masters, you can go now,' Grey said. 'I'll wait for your relief.
Who is he?'
Masters forced his brain to work and after a moment said, 'Bluey - Bluey White.'
'For God's sake, get hold of yourself,' Grey snapped. 'Corporal White died three weeks ago.'
'Oh, sorry, sir,' Masters said weakly. 'Sorry, I must have… It's… er, I think it's Peterson. The Pommy, I mean, Englishman. Infantryman, I think.'
'All right. You can go and get your dinner now. But don't dawdle coming back.'
'Yes, sir.'
Masters put on his rattan coolie hat and saluted and shambled out of the doorless door, hitching the rags of his pants around his hips. God, Grey thought, you can smell him from fifty paces. They've just got to issue more soap.
But he knew that it wasn't just Masters. It was all of them. If you didn't bathe six times a day, the sweat hung like a shroud about you. And thinking of shrouds, he thought again about Masters and the mark that he had on him. Perhaps Masters knew it too, so what was the point of washing?
Grey had seen many men die. The bitterness began to well as he thought about the regiment and the war. Damn your eyes, he almost shouted, twenty-four and still a lieutenant! And the war going on all around - all over the world. Promotions every day of the year. Opportunities. And here I am in this stinking POW camp and still a lieutenant. Oh Christ! If only we hadn't been transshipped to Singapore in '42. If only we'd gone where we were supposed to go - to the Caucasus. If only…
'Stop it,' he said aloud. 'You're as bad as Masters, you bloody fool!'
It was normal in the camp to talk aloud to yourself sometimes. Better to speak out, the doctors had always said, than to keep it all choked inside -
that way led to insanity. Most days were not so bad. You could stop thinking about your other life, about the guts of it - food, women, home, food, food, women, food. But the nights were the danger time. At night you dreamed. Dreamed about food and women. Your woman. And soon you would enjoy the dreaming more than the waking, and if you were careless you would dream while awake, and the days would run into nights and the night into day. Then there was only death. Smooth. Gentle. It was easy to die. Agony to live. Except for the King. He had no agony.
Grey was still watching him, trying to hear what he was saying to the man beside him, but he was too far away. Grey tried to place the other man but he could not. He could see from the man's armband that he was a major.
By Japanese order all officers had to wear armbands with rank insignia on their left arms. At all times. Even naked.
The black rain clouds were building fast now. Sheet lightning flecked the east, but still the sun thrust down. A fetid breeze broomed the dust momentarily, then left it settle.
Automatically Grey used the bamboo fly-swat. A deft, half unconscious twist of the wrist and another fly fell to the ground, maimed. To kill a fly was careless. Cripple it, then the bastard would suffer and repay in tiny measure your own suffering. Cripple it and it would soundless scream until ants and other flies came to fight over its living flesh.
But Grey did not take the usual pleasure in watching the torment of the tormentor. He was too intent on the King.
