'Come on, hurry up,' Peter Marlowe said to the yawning men lined up bleakly outside the hut. It was just after dawn and breakfast was already memory and the deficiency of it served only to increase the men's irritability. And, too, the long sun-hot day at the airfield was ahead of them.
Unless they had the luck.
It was rumored that today one detail was going to the far west side of the airfield where the coconut trees grew. It was rumored that three trees were going to be cut down. And the heart of a coconut tree was not only edible but very nutritious and a great delicacy. It was called 'millionaire's cabbage,' for a whole coconut tree had to die to provide it. Along with the millionaire's cabbage there would be coconuts as well. More than enough for a thirty-man detail. So officers and enlisted men alike were tense.
The sergeant in charge of the hut came up to Peter Marlowe and saluted.
'That's the lot, sir. Twenty men including me.'
'We're supposed to have thirty.'
'Well, twenty's all we have. The rest're sick or on wood detail. Nothin' I can do about it.'
'All right. Let's get up to the gate.'
The sergeant got the men under way and they began streaming loosely along the jail wall to join the rest of the airfield detail near the barricade-gate west. Peter Marlowe beckoned to the sergeant and got the men herded together in the best position-near the end of the line, where they were likelier to be chosen for the tree detail. When the men noticed that their officer had maneuvered them just right they began to pay attention and sorted themselves out quickly.
They all had their rag shirts tucked into grub-bags. Grub-bags were an institution, and took many forms. Sometimes they were regulation haversacks, sometimes suitcases, sometimes rattan baskets, sometimes bags, sometimes a cloth and a stick, sometimes a piece of material. But all the men carried some container for the plunder to be. On a work party there was always plunder, and if it wasn't millionaire's cabbage or coconut, it could be driftwood, firewood, coconut husks, bananas, oil palm nuts, edible roots, leaves of many types, or even sometimes papaya.
Most of the men wore clogs of wood or tire rubber. Some wore shoes with the toes cut out. And some had boots. Peter Marlowe was wearing Mac's boots. They were tight, but for a three-mile march and a work party they were better than clogs.
The snake of men began marching through the gate west, an officer in charge of each company. At the head was a group of Koreans and at the tail was a single Korean guard.
Peter Marlowe's group waited near the rear for space to join the march.
He was looking forward to the trek and the prospect of the trees. He shifted his shirt more comfortably in the rucksack strap and adjusted his water bottle — not the bottle, for to take that would have been dangerous on a work party. You could never tell when a guard or someone else might want to take a drink.
Finally it was time to move, and and he and his men began to walk towards the gate. As they passed the guardhouse they saluted, and the squat little Japanese sergeant stood on the veranda and returned their salute stiffly. Peter Marlowe gave the number of his men to the other guard, who checked them against the total already tallied.
Then they were outside the camp and walking the tarmac road. It curled easily, with gentle hills and dales, then sped through a rubber plantation.
The rubber trees were unkempt and untapped. Now that's strange, thought Peter Marlowe, for rubber was at a premium and a vital food for war.
'Hello, Duncan,' he said as Captain Duncan and his group began to pass.
He fell into step beside Duncan, keeping his eyes on his own group, the next ahead.
'Isn't it great to have the news again?' Duncan said.
'Yes,' he replied automatically, 'if it's true.'
'Must say it sounds too good to be true.'
Peter Marlowe liked Duncan. He was a little Scot, red-haired and middle-aged. Nothing seemed to faze him. He always had a smile and a good word. Peter Marlowe had the feeling that something was different about him today. Now what was it?
Duncan noted his curiosity and grimaced to show his new false teeth.
'Oh, that's it,' said Peter Marlowe. 'I was wondering what was different.'
'How do they look?'
'Oh, better than none at all.'
'Now that's a fine remark. I thought they looked pretty good.'
'I can't get used to aluminum teeth. They look all wrong.'
'Went through bloody hell to have mine taken out. Bloody hell!'
'Thank God my teeth are all right. Had to have them filled last year.
Rotten business. You're probably wise to have had all yours taken out.
How many did —'
'Eighteen,' said Duncan angrily. 'Makes you want to spit blood. But they were completely rotten. Doc said something about the water and lack of chewable material and rice diet and lack of calcium. But my God, these false ones feel great.' He chomped once or twice reflectively, then continued, 'The dental chaps are very clever the way they make them. Lot of ingenuity. Of course, I have to admit it's a bit of a shock — not having white teeth. But for comfort, why, lad, I haven't felt so good in years, white or aluminum makes no difference. Always had trouble with my teeth. To hell with teeth anyway.'
Up ahead, the column of men moved into the side of the road as a bus began to pass. It was ancient and puffing and steaming and had seats for twenty-five passengers. But inside were nearly sixty men, women and children, and outside another ten were hanging on with fingers and toes.
The top of the bus was piled with cages of chickens and baggage and mat-rolls. As the asthmatic bus passed, the natives looked curiously at the men and the men eyed the crates of half-dead chickens and hoped the
