Maisie had never returned to her first graveyard. Never. She just got up, that night, and turned her back and never looked over her shoulder. And, thinking of the destruction of her home, the malevolent unnecessary obliteration of such beauty, she screamed her hate at the Hun, the rotten Boche, the rotten, rotten man, devil’s spawn who started the war and destroyed Chadlott’s. And she cursed them with her whole being for killing Chadlott and letting her live — for not letting her die with her beloved, her home.
“Curse you, curse you, curse you!”
Not for my father or my uncle or my son, or my son-in-law or his son, or my husband, or for me — humans are expendable and it is right that men should defend these shores and women should suffer — but a ten million thousand curses for Chadlott’s, for nothing, ever, ever, can rebuild that which took four hundred years to make. Nothing. Not even God. Not even God can make it, just the same.
Maisie was dying fast now.
“Kitty, kitty, kitty, here, kitty.”
I don’t mind dying, but I hate dying alone. I wish you were here, all of you, all my children and most my John.
“Here, kitty … here — ”
She died in the rubble, there, under the freezing rain and whipping wind, deep in the rubble. It was good that she could not move or feel the soft furred creature nestling protectively into the cradle of her arm, cold now, as cold and still even as she.
Now they were all steeped in unluck.
He waited impatiently for Yoshima to get to work on the beam, hating the cat-and-mouse agony. He could hear the undercurrent of despair from the men outside. There was nothing he could do but wait.
Finally Yoshima tired of the game too. The stench of the hut bothered him. He walked to the bunk and made a perfunctory search. Then he studied the eight by eight. But his eyes could not find the cuts. Scowling, he examined it closer, his long sensitive fingers plying the wood. Still he could not find it.
His first reaction was that he had been misinformed. But this he could not believe, for the informer had not yet been paid.
He grunted a command and a Korean guard unsnapped his bayonet and gave it to him, haft first.
Yoshima tapped the beam, listening for the hollow sound. Ah, now he had it! Again he tapped. Again the hollow sound. But he could not find the cracks. Angrily he jabbed the bayonet into the wood.
The lid came free.
“So.”
Yoshima was proud that he had found the radio. The General would be pleased. Pleased enough, perhaps, to assign him a combat unit, for his Bushido revolted at paying informers and dealing with these animals.
Smedly-Taylor moved forward, awed by the ingenuity of the hiding place and the patience of the man who made it. I must recommend Daven, he thought. This is duty above and beyond the call of duty. But recommend him for what?
“Who belongs to this bunk?” Yoshima asked.
Smedly-Taylor shrugged and went through the same pretense of finding out.
Yoshima was sorry, truly sorry that Daven had only one leg.
“Would you like a cigarette?” he said, offering the pack of Kooas.
“Thank you.” Daven took the cigarette and accepted a light but did not taste the smoke.
“What is your name?” Yoshima asked courteously.
“Captain Daven, Infantry.”
“How did you lose your leg, Captain Daven?”
“I–I was blown up by a mine. In Johore — just north of the causeway.”
“Did you make the radio?”
“Yes.”
Smedly-Taylor thrust away his own fear-sweat. “I ordered Captain Daven to make it. It’s my responsibility. He was following my orders.”
Yoshima glanced at Daven. “Is this true?”
“No.”
“Who else knows about the radio?”
“No one. It was my idea and I made it. Alone.”
“Please sit down, Captain Daven.” Then Yoshima nodded contemptuously towards Cox, who sat sobbing with terror. “What’s his name?”
“Captain Cox,” Daven said.
“Look at him. Disgusting.”
Daven drew on the cigarette. “I’m just as afraid as he is.”
“You are in control. You have courage.”
“I’m more afraid than he is.” Daven hobbled awkwardly over to Cox, laboriously sat beside him. “It’s all right, Cox, old boy,” he said compassionately, putting his hand on Cox’s shoulder. “It’s all right.” Then he looked up at Yoshima. “Cox earned the Military Cross at Dunkirk before he was twenty. He’s another man now. Constructed by you bastards over three years.”
Yoshima quelled an urge to strike Daven. Before a man, even an enemy, there was a code. He turned to Smedly-Taylor and ordered him to get the six men from the bunks nearest to Daven’s, and told him to keep the rest on parade, under guard, until further orders.
The six men stood in front of Yoshima. Only Spence knew of the radio, but he, like all of them, denied the knowledge.
“Pick up the bunk and follow me,” Yoshima ordered.
When Daven groped for his crutch, Yoshima helped him to his feet.
“Thank you,” Daven said.
“Would you like another cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
Yoshima hesitated. “I would be honored if you would accept the packet.”
Daven shrugged and took it, then hobbled to his corner and reached down for his iron leg.
Yoshima snapped out a command and one of the Korean guards picked up the leg and helped Daven sit down.
His fingers were steady as he attached the leg, then he stood, picked up his crutches, and stared at them a moment. Then he threw them into the corner of the hut.
He clomped to the bunk and looked at the radio. “I’m very proud of that,” he said. He saluted Smedly-Taylor, then moved out of the hut.
The tiny procession wove through the silence of Changi. Yoshima led and timed the speed of the march to Daven’s progress. Beside him was Smedly-Taylor. Then came Cox, tear-streamed and oblivious of the tears. The other two guards waited with the men of Hut Sixteen.
They waited eleven hours.
Smedly-Taylor returned, and the six men returned. Daven and Cox did not return. They remained in the guardhouse and tomorrow they were going to Utram Road Jail.
The men were dismissed.
Peter Marlowe had a blinding headache from the sun. He stumbled back to the bungalow, and after a shower, Larkin and Mac massaged his head and fed him. When he had finished Larkin went out and sat beside the asphalt road. Peter Marlowe squatted in the doorless doorway, his back to the room.
Night was gathering beyond the horizon. There was an immense solitude in Changi and the men who walked up and down seemed more than ever lost.
Mac yawned. “Think I’ll turn in now, laddie. Get an early night.”
“All right, Mac.”
Mac settled the mosquito net around his bed and tucked it under the mattress. He wrapped a sweat-rag around his forehead, then slipped Peter Marlowe’s water bottle from its felt case and unclipped the false base plate. He took the covers and bases off his own water bottle and Larkin’s, then carefully put them on top of one another. Within each of the bottles was a maze of wire, condenser and tube.
From the top bottle he carefully pulled out a six-pronged male-joint with its complex of wires and fitted it deftly into the female in the middle water bottle. Then he took a four-pronged male-joint from the middle one and fitted it into its appointed socket in the last.