bloody bus would break down or go into a ditch and then they could help push it out of the ditch and liberate a dozen or so chickens. But today the bus passed, and there were many curses.
Peter Marlowe walked alongside Duncan, who kept on chattering about his teeth and showing them in the broadness of his smile. But the smile was all wrong. It looked grotesque.
Behind them a Korean guard, slouching lethargically, shouted at a man who fell out of the line to the side of the road, but the man merely dropped his pants and quickly relieved himself and called out 'Sakit marah' — dysentery — so the guard shrugged and took out a cigarette and lit it while he waited, and quickly the man was back in line once more.
'Peter,' said Duncan quietly, 'cover for me.'
Peter Marlowe looked ahead. About twenty yards from the road, on a little path beside the storm ditch, were Duncan's wife and child. Ming Duncan was Singapore Chinese. Since she was Oriental, she was not put into a camp along with the wives and children of the other prisoners, but lived freely in the outskirts of the city. The child, a girl, was beautiful like her mother, and tall for her age, and she had a face that would never wear a sigh upon it. Once a week they 'happened' to pass by so that Duncan could see them. He always said that as long as he could see them Changi was not so bad.
Peter Marlowe moved between Duncan and the guard, shielding him, and let Duncan fall back to the side of his men.
As the column passed by, the mother and child made no sign. When Duncan passed, their eyes met his, briefly, and they saw him drop the little piece of paper to the side of the road, but they kept on walking, and then Duncan had passed and was lost in the mass of men. But he knew they had seen the paper, and knew that they would keep on walking until all the men and all the guards were gone; then they would return and find the paper and they would read it and that thought made Duncan happy. I love you and miss you and you are both my life, he had written. The message was always the same, but it was always new, both to him and to them, for the words were written afresh, and the words were worth saying, over and over and over. Forever.
'Don't you think she's looking well?' Duncan said as he rejoined Peter Marlowe.
'Wonderful, you're very lucky. And Mordeen's growing up to be a beauty.'
'Ay, a real beauty that one. She'll be six this September.'
The happiness faded, and Duncan fell silent. 'How I wish this war was over,' he said.
'Won't be long now.'
'When you get married, Peter, marry a Chinese girl. They make the best wives in the world.' Duncan had said the same thing many times. 'I know that it's hard to be ostracized, and hard on the children — but I'll die content if I die in her arms.' He sighed. 'But you won't listen. You'll marry some English girl and you'll think you're living. What a waste! I know. I've tried both.'
'I'll have to wait and see, won't I, Duncan?' Peter Marlowe laughed. Then he quickened his pace to get into position ahead of his men. 'I'll see you later.'
'Thanks, Peter,' Duncan called after him.
They were almost up to the airfield now. Ahead was a group of guards waiting to take their parties to their work areas. Beside the guards were mattocks and spades and shovels. Already many of the men were streaming under guard across the airfield.
Peter Marlowe looked west. There was one party heading for the trees already. Bloody hell!
He stopped his men and saluted the guards, noticing that one of them was Torusumi.
Torusumi recognized Peter Marlowe, and smiled. 'Tabe!'
'Tabe,' replied Peter Marlowe, embarrassed by Torusumi's obvious friendliness.
'I will take thee and thy men,' said Torusumi and nodded to the implements.
'I thank thee,' said Peter Marlowe and nodded at the sergeant. 'We're to go with him.'
'That bleeder works the east end,' said the sergeant irritably. 'Just our bloody luck.'
'I know that,' said Peter Marlowe just as irritably, and as the men moved forward to get the tools he said to Torusumi, 'I hope today thou wilt be taking us to the west end. It is cooler there.'
'We are to go to the east. I know it is cooler on the west side, and I always get the east.'
Peter Marlowe decided to gamble. 'Perhaps thou shouldst ask for better treatment.' It was dangerous to make a suggestion to a Korean or a Japanese. Torusumi observed him coldly, then turned abruptly and went over to Azumi, a Japanese corporal, who stood grimly to one side. Azumi was known for his bad temper.
Apprehensively, Peter Marlowe watched Torusumi bow and start to speak rapidly and harshly in Japanese. And he felt Azumi's stare on him.
Beside Peter Marlowe the sergeant was also watching the exchange anxiously. 'What'd you say, sir?'
'I said it'd be a good idea if we went to the west end for a change.'
The sergeant winced. If the officer got a slap the sergeant got one automatically. 'You're taking a chance —' He stopped abruptly as Azumi began walking towards them, followed by Torusumi, deferentially two paces behind.
Azumi, a small bowlegged man, halted five paces from Peter Marlowe, then stared up into his face for perhaps ten seconds. Peter Marlowe readied himself for the slap that was to come. But it didn't. Instead Azumi suddenly smiled and showed his gold teeth and sucked in air and took out a pack of cigarettes. He offered Peter Marlowe one and said something in Japanese which Peter Marlowe didn't understand, but he caught 'Shoko-san' and was even more astonished, since he hadn't been called Shoko-san before. 'Shoko' is 'officer' and 'san' means 'mister,' and to be called Mr. Officer by a fiendish little bastard like Azumi was praise indeed.
'Arigato,' Peter Marlowe said, accepting the light. 'Thank you' was the only Japanese he knew, apart from 'Stand easy' and 'Attention' and
'Quick march' and 'Salute' and 'Come here, you white bastard.' He ordered the sergeant, who was
