“Hey,” said the King, grinning. “That’s the real McCoy.”
“Don’t know about that, mate! But it’s Yardley’s ruddy violets. A cobber o’ mine swiped it on a work party. Right from under the nose of a bloody Nip. Cost me thirty dollars,” he said with a wink, doubling the price. “I’ll keep it just for you, special, if you likes.”
“Tell you what. I’ll make it five bucks a time, instead of three, as long as it lasts,” the King said.
Tinker calculated quickly. The cake of soap would last perhaps eight shaves, maybe ten. “Strike a light, mate. I ’ardly makes me money back.”
The King grunted. “You got taken, Tink. I can buy that by the pound for fifteen a cake.”
“My bloody oath,” Tinker burst out, feigning anger. “A cobber taking me for a sucker! Now that ain’t right!” Furiously he mixed hot water and the sweet-smelling soap into a lather. Then he laughed. “You’re the King all right, mate.”
“Yeah,” the King said contentedly. He and Tinker were old friends.
“Ready, mate?” Tinker asked as he held up the lathered brush.
“Sure.” Then the King saw Tex walking down the path. “Wait a minute. Hey, Tex!” he called out.
Tex looked across at the hut and saw the King and ambled over to him. “Yeah?” He was a gangling youth with big ears and a bent nose and contented eyes, and he was tall, very tall.
Without being asked, Tinker moved out of earshot as the King beckoned Tex closer. “Do something for me?” he asked quietly.
“Sure.”
The King took out his wallet and peeled off a ten-dollar note. “Go find Colonel Brant. The little guy with the beard rolled under his chin. Give him this.”
“You know where he’d be?”
“Down by the corner of the jail. It’s his day for keeping an eye on Grey.”
Tex grinned. “Hear you had a set-to.”
“The son of a bitch searched me again.”
“Tough,” said Tex dryly, scratching his blond crewcut.
“Yes.” The King laughed. “And tell Brant not to be so goddam late next time. But you should have been there, Tex. Man, that Brant’s a great actor. He even made Grey apologize.” He grinned, then added another five. “Tell him this is for the apology.”
“Okay. That all?”
“No.” He gave him the password and told him where to find Major Barry, then Tex went his way and the King settled back. Altogether, today had been very profitable.
Grey hurried across the dirt path and up the steps to Hut Sixteen. It was almost lunchtime and he was painfully hungry.
Men were already forming an impatient line for food. Quickly Grey went to his bed and got his two mess cans and mug and spoon and fork and joined the line.
“Why isn’t it here already?” he wearily asked the man ahead of him.
“How the hell do I know?” Dave Daven said curtly. His accent was public school — Eton, Harrow or Charterhouse — and he was tall like bamboo.
“I was just asking,” Grey said irritably, despising Daven for his accent and his birthright.
After they had waited an hour, the food arrived. A man carried two containers to the head of the line and set them down. The containers had formerly held five gallons of high-octane gasoline. Now one was half full of rice — dry, pellucid. The other was full of soup.
Today it was shark soup — at least, one shark had been divided ounce by ounce into soup for ten thousand men. It was warm and tasted slightly of the fish, and in it there were pieces of eggplant and cabbage, a hundred pounds for ten thousand. The bulk of the soup was made from leaves, red and green, bitter and yet nutritious, grown with so much care in the gardens of the camp. Salt and curry powder and chili pepper spiced it.
Silently each man moved forward in turn, watching the serving of the man in front and the man behind, measuring their portions against the one he was given. But now, after three years, the measures were all the same.
A cup per man of soup.
The rice was steaming as it was served. Today it was Java rice, each grain separate, the best in the world. A cupful per man.
A mug of tea.
Each man took his food away and ate silently, quickly, with exquisite agony. The weevils in the rice were added nourishment, and the worm or insect in the soup was removed without anger if it was seen. But most men did not look at the soup after the first quick glance to find out if there was a piece of fish in it.
Today there was a little left over from the servings and the list was checked and the three men who headed it got the extra and thanked today. Then the food was gone and lunch was over and dinner was at sundown.
But though there was only soup and rice, here and there throughout the camp a man might have a piece of coconut or half a banana or piece of sardine or thread of bully or even an egg to mix with his rice. One whole egg was rare. Once a week, if the camp hens laid according to plan, an egg was given to each man. That was a great day. A few men were given one egg every day, but no man wanted to be one of the special few.
“Hey listen, you chaps!” Captain Spence stood in the center of the hut, but his voice could be heard outside. He was officer of the week, the hut adjutant, a small dark man with twisted features. He waited till they had all moved inside. “We’ve got to supply ten more bods for the wood detail tomorrow.” He checked his list and called out the names, and then looked up. “Marlowe?” There was no reply. “Anyone know where Marlowe is?”
“I think he’s down with his unit,” Ewart called out.
“Tell him he’s on the airfield work party tomorrow, will you?”
“All right.”
Spence started coughing. His asthma was bad today, and when the spasm had passed he continued: “The Camp Commandant had another interview with the Jap General this morning. He asked for increased rations and medical supplies.” He cleared his throat in the momentary hush. Then he went on and his voice was flat. “He got the usual turn-down. The rice ration stays at four ounces of grain per man per day.” Spence looked out of the doors and checked that both lookouts were in position. Then he dropped his voice and all the men listened expectantly.
“The Allies are about sixty miles from Mandalay, still going strong. They’ve got the Japs on the run. The Allies are still going in Belgium but the weather’s very bad. Snowstorms. On the Eastern front, the same thing, but the Russians are going like bats out of hell and expect to take Krakov in the next few days. The Yanks are going well in Manila. They’re near”—he hesitated, trying to remember the name — “I think it’s the Agno River, in Luzon. That’s all. But it’s good.”
Spence was glad that this part was over. He learned the news by heart daily at the hut adjutants’ meeting, and every time he stood up to repeat it publicly, his sweat chilled and his stomach felt empty. One day an informer might point a finger at him and tell the enemy that he was one of the men who delivered the news, and Spence knew that he was not strong enough to stay silent. Or one day a Japanese might hear him tell the others, and then, then …
“That’s all, chaps.” Spence went over to his bunk, filled with nausea. He took off his pants and walked out of the hut with a towel over his arm.
The sun beat down. Two hours yet until the rain. Spence crossed the asphalt street and stood in line for a shower. He always had to have a shower after he gave the news, for the sweat-stench was acrid on him.
“All right, mate?” Tinker asked.