“Forget the sir, will you?” Peter Marlowe said.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Peter Marlowe watched him go. “Funny,” he said quietly to the King. “I’ve never seen so many smiles in one hut before.”
“There’s no point in not smiling, is there? Things could be a lot worse. You get shot down flying the hump?”
“You mean the Calcutta-Chungking route? Over the Himalayas?”
“Yeah.” The King nodded at the tobacco. “Fill your box.”
“Thanks. I will if you don’t mind.”
“Anytime you’re short, come and help yourself.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that. You’re very kind.” Peter Marlowe wanted another cigarette but he knew that he was smoking too much. If he smoked another now, then the hunger would hurt more. Better go easy. He glanced at the sun-shadow and promised that he would not smoke again until the shadow had moved two inches. “I wasn’t shot down at all. My kite — my plane got hit in an air raid in Java. I couldn’t get it up. Rather a bore,” he added, and tried to hide the bitterness.
“That’s not so bad,” said the King. “You might’ve been in it. You’re alive and that’s what counts. What were you flying?”
“Hurricane. Single-seat fighter. But my regular plane’s a Spit — Spitfire.”
“I’ve heard about them — never seen one. You guys sure as hell made the Germans look sick.”
“Yes,” said Peter Marlowe softly. “We did, rather.”
The King was surprised. “You weren’t in the Battle of Britain, were you?”
“Yes. I got my wings in 1940—just in time.”
“How old were you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Huh, I’d’ve thought, looking at your face, you’d be at least thirty-eight, not twenty-four!”
“Up yours, brother!” Peter Marlowe laughed. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five. Son of a bitch,” the King said. “Best years of my life and I’m locked up in a stinking jail.”
“You’re hardly locked up. And it seems to me you’re doing very well.”
“We’re still locked up, whichever way you figure it. How long you think it’s going to last?”
“We’ve got the Germans on the run. That show should be over soon.”
“You believe that?”
Peter Marlowe shrugged. Careful, he told himself, you can never be too careful. “Yes, I think so. You can never tell about rumors.”
“And our war. What about ours?”
Because the question had been asked by a friend, Peter Marlowe talked freely. “I think ours will last forever. Oh, we’ll beat the Japs. I know that now. But for us, here? I don’t think we’ll get out.”
“Why?”
“Well, I don’t think the Japs’ll ever give in. That means we’ll have to land on the mainland. And when that happens, I think they’ll eliminate us here, all of us. If disease and sickness haven’t got us already.”
“Why the hell should they do that?”
“Oh, to save time, I suppose. I think as the net tightens on Japan, they’ll start pulling in their tentacles. Why waste time over a few thousand prisoners? Japs think of life quite differently than we do. And the idea of our troops on their soil will drive them around the bend.” His voice was quite flat and calm. “I think we’ve had it. Of course I hope I’m wrong. But that’s what I think.”
“You’re a hopeful son of a bitch,” the King said sourly, and when Peter Marlowe laughed he said, “What the hell are you laughing about? You always seem to laugh in the wrong places.”
“Sorry, bad habit.”
“Let’s sit outside. The flies’re getting bad. Hey Max,” the King called out. “You want to clean up?”
Max arrived and began tidying up and the King and Peter Marlowe slipped easily through the window. Just outside the King’s window there was another small table and a bench under a canvas overhang. The King sat on the bench. Peter Marlowe squatted on his heels, native style.
“Never could do that,” said the King.
“It’s very comfortable. I learned it in Java.”
“How come you speak Malay so well?”
“I lived in a village for a time.”
“When?”
“In ’42. After the cease-fire.”
The King waited patiently for him to continue but nothing more came out. He waited some more, then asked, “How come you lived in Java in a village after the cease-fire in 1942 when everyone was in a POW camp by then?”
Peter Marlowe’s laugh was rich. “Sorry. Nothing much to tell. I didn’t like the idea of being in a camp. Actually, when the war ended, I got lost in the jungle and eventually found this village. They took pity on me. I stayed for six months or so.”
“What was it like?”
“Wonderful. They were very kind. I was just like one of them. Dressed like a Javanese, dyed my skin dark — you know, nonsense really, for my height and eyes would give me away — worked in the paddy fields.”
“You on your own?”
After a pause Peter Marlowe said, “I was the only European there, if that’s what you mean.” He looked out at the camp, seeing the sun beat the dust and the wind pick up the dust and swirl it. The swirl reminded him of her.
He looked away towards the east, into a nervous sky. But she was part of the sky.
The wind gathered slightly and bent the heads of the coconut palms. But she was part of the wind and the palms and the clouds beyond.
Peter Marlowe tore his mind away and watched the Korean guard plodding along beyond the fence, sweating under the lowering heat. The guard’s uniform was shabby and ill-kempt and his cap as crumpled as his face, his rifle askew on his shoulders. As graceless as she was graceful.
Once more Peter Marlowe looked up into the sky, seeking distance. Only then could he feel that he was not within a box — a box filled with men, and men’s smells and men’s dirt and men’s noises. Without women, Peter Marlowe thought helplessly, men are only a cruel joke. And he bled in the starch of the sun.
“Hey, Peter!” The King was looking up the slope, his mouth agape.
Peter Marlowe followed the King’s gaze and his stomach turned over as he saw Sean approaching. “Christ!” He wanted to slip through the window out of sight, but he knew that that would make him more conspicuous. So he waited grimly, hardly breathing. He thought he had a good chance of not being seen, for Sean was deep in conversation with Squadron Leader Rodrick and Lieutenant Frank Parrish. Their heads were close together and their voices intense.
Then Sean glanced past Frank Parrish and saw Peter Marlowe and stopped.
Rodrick and Frank stopped also, surprised. When they saw Peter Marlowe they thought, Oh my God. But they concealed their anxiety.
“Hello, Peter,” Rodrick called out. He was a tall neat man with a chiseled face, as tall and neat as Frank Parrish was tall and careless.
“Hello, Rod!” Peter Marlowe called back.
“I won’t be a moment,” Sean said quietly to Rodrick and walked towards Peter Marlowe and the King. Now that the first shock had worn off, Sean smiled a welcome.
Peter Marlowe felt the hackles on his neck begin to rise and he got up and waited. He could feel the King’s eyes boring into him.
“Hello, Peter,” Sean said.
“Hello, Sean.”
“You’re so thin, Peter.”
“Oh I don’t know. No more than anyone. I’m very fit, thanks.”
“I haven’t seen you for such a long time — why don’t you come up to the theater sometime? There’s always a little extra around somewhere — and you know me, I never did eat much.” Sean smiled hopefully.