Yoshima saluted smartly, and his bow was the perfection of humility. He left the General's quarters, thankful that he had been let off so lightly.
Damn these pestilential prisoners!
In the barracks he lined up his staff and raged at them, and slapped their faces until his hand hurt. In their turn, the sergeants slapped the corporals and they the privates and the privates the Koreans. The orders were clear.
'Get that radio or else.'
For five days nothing happened. Then the jailers fell on the camp and almost pulled it apart. But they found nothing. The traitor within the camp did not yet know the whereabouts of the radio. Nothing happened, except the promised return to standard rations was canceled. The camp settled back to wait out the long days, made longer by the lack of food. But they knew that at least there would be news. Not rumors, but news. And the news was very good. The war in Europe was almost over.
Even so, there was a pall on the men. Few had reserve stocks of food.
And the good news had a catch to it. If the war ended in Europe, more troops would be sent to the Pacific. Eventually there would be an attack on the home islands of Japan. And such an attack would drive the jailers berserk. Reprisals! They all knew there was only one end to Changi.
Peter Marlowe was walking towards the chicken area, his water bottle swinging at his hip. Mac and Larkin and he had agreed that perhaps it would be safer to carry the water bottles as much as possible. Just in case there was a sudden search.
He was in a good mood. Though the money he had earned was long since gone, the King had advanced food and tobacco against future earnings. God, what a man, he thought. But for him, Mac, Larkin and I would be as hungry as the rest of Changi.
The day was cooler. Rain the day before had settled the dust. It was almost time for lunch. As he neared the chicken coops his pace quickened.
Maybe there'll be some eggs today. Then he stopped, perplexed.
Near the run that belonged to Peter Marlowe's unit was a small crowd, an angry, violent crowd. He saw to his surprise that Grey was there. In front of Grey was Colonel Foster, naked but for his filthy loincloth, jumping up and down like a maniac, incoherently screaming abuse at Johnny Hawkins, who was clasping his dog protectively to his chest.
'Hi, Max,' said Peter Marlowe as he came abreast of the King's chicken run. 'What's up?'
'Hi, Pete,' said Max easily, shifting the rake in his hands. He noticed Peter Marlowe's instinctive reaction to the 'Pete.' Officers! You try to treat an officer like a regular guy and call him by his name and then he gets mad. The hell with them. 'Yeah, Pete.' He repeated it just for good measure. 'All hell broke loose an hour ago. Seems like Hawkins' dog got into the Geek's run and killed one of his hens.'
'Oh no!'
'They'll hand him his head, that's for sure.'
Foster was screaming, 'I want another hen and I want damages. The beast killed one of my children, I want a charge of murder sworn out'
'But Colonel,' Grey said, at the end of his patience, 'it was a hen, not a child. You can't swear a —'
'My hens are my children, idiot! Hen, child, what's the difference?
Hawkins is a dirty murderer. A murderer, you hear?'
'Look, Colonel,' Grey said angrily. 'Hawkins can't give you another hen.
He's said he's sorry. The dog got off its leash —'
'I want a court-martial. Hawkins the murderer and his beast, a murderer.'
Colonel Foster's mouth was flecked with foam. 'That bloody beast killed my hen and ate it. He ate it and there's only feathers to show for one of my children.' Snarling, he suddenly darted at Hawkins, his hands outstretched, nails like talons, tearing at the dog in Hawkins' arms, screaming, 'I'll kill you and your bloody beast.'
Hawkins avoided Foster and shoved him away. The colonel fell to the ground and Rover whimpered with fear.
'I've said I'm sorry,' Hawkins choked out. 'If I had the money I'd gladly give you two, ten hens, but I can't! Grey —' Hawkins desperately turned to him - 'for the love of God do something.'
'What the hell can I do?' Grey was tired and mad and had dysentery.
'You know I can't do anything. I'll have to report it. But you'd better get rid of that dog.'
'What do you mean?'
'Holy Christ,' Grey stormed at him, 'I mean get rid of it. Kill it. And if you won't, get someone else to do it. But, by God, see that it's not in the camp by nightfall.'
'It's my dog. You can't order —'
'The hell I can't!' Grey tried to control his stomach muscles. He liked Hawkins, always had, but that didn't mean anything now. 'You know the rules. You've been warned to keep it leashed and keep it out of this area.
Rover killed and ate the hen. There are witnesses who saw him do it.'
Colonel Foster picked himself off the ground, his eyes black and beady.
'I'm going to kill it,' he hissed. 'The dog's mine to kill. An eye for an eye.'
Grey stepped in front of Foster, who hunched ready for another attack.
'Colonel Foster. This matter will be reported. Captain Hawkins has been ordered to destroy the dog —'
Foster didn't seem to hear Grey. 'I want that beast. I'm going to kill it. Just like it killed my hen. It's mine. I'm going to kill it.' He began creeping forward, salivating. 'Just like it killed my child.'
Grey held his hand out. 'No! Hawkins will destroy it.'
'Colonel Foster,' Hawkins said abjectly, 'I beg you, please, please, accept my apologies. Let me keep the dog, it won't happen again.'
