“You’re dismissed,” Forsyth repeated, then added viciously, “Get out of my sight!”
The King saluted and walked away, blood filming his eyes.
“Hello,” Peter Marlowe said, intercepting the King. “My God, I wish I had your guts.”
The King’s eyes cleared and he croaked, “Hi. Sir.” He saluted and began to pass.
“My God, Rajah, what the hell’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just don’t — feel like talking.”
“Why? If I’ve done something to hurt you, or get you fed up with me, tell me. Please.”
“Nothing to do with you.” The King forced a smile, but inside he was screaming, Jesus, what’ve I done that’s so wrong? I fed the bastards and helped them, and now they look at me as though I’m not here any more.
He looked back at Forsyth and saw him walk between two huts and disappear. And him, he thought in agony, he thinks I’m a goddam informer.
“What did he say?” Peter Marlowe asked.
“Nothing. He — I’ve got to — do something for him.”
“I’m your friend. Let me help. Isn’t it enough that I’m here?”
But the King only wanted to hide. Forsyth and the others had taken away his face. He knew that he was lost. And faceless, he was terrified.
“See you around,” he muttered and saluted and hurried away. Jesus God, he wept inside, give me back my face. Please give me back my face.
The next day a plane buzzed the camp. Out of its belly poured a supply drop. Some of the supplies fell into the camp. Those that fell outside the camp were not sought. No one left the safety of Changi. It still could be a trick. Flies swarmed, a few men died.
Another day. Then planes began to circle the airstrip. A full colonel strode into the camp. With him were doctors and orderlies. They brought medical supplies. Other planes circled and landed.
Suddenly there were jeeps screaming through the camp and huge men with cigars and four doctors. They were all Americans. They rushed into the camp and stabbed the Americans with needles and gave them gallons of fresh orange juice and food and cigarettes and embraced them — their boys, their hero boys. They helped them into the jeeps and drove them to Changi Gate, where a truck was waiting.
Peter Marlowe watched, astonished. They’re not heroes, he thought, bewildered. Neither are we. We lost. We lost the war, our war. Didn’t we? We’re not heroes. We’re not!
He saw the King through the fog of his mind. His friend. He had been waiting the days to talk with him, but each time he had found him the King had put him off. “Later,” the King had always said, “I’m busy now.” When the new Americans had arrived there still had been no time.
So Peter Marlowe stood at the gate, with many men, watching the departure of the Americans, waiting to say a last good-by to his friend, waiting patiently to thank him for his arm and for the laughter they had had together.
Among the watchers was Grey.
Forsyth was standing tiredly beside the lorry. He handed over the list. “You keep the original, sir,” he said to the senior American officer. “Your men are all listed by rank, service and serial number.”
“Thanks,” said the major, a squat, heavy-jowled paratrooper. He signed the paper and handed back the other five copies. “When’re the rest of your folks arriving?”
“A couple of days.”
The major looked around and shuddered. “Looks like you could use a hand.”
“Have you any excess drugs, by any chance?”
“Sure. We got a bird stacked with the stuff. Tell you what. Once I’ve got our boys on their way, I’ll bring it all back in our jeeps. I’ll let you have a doc and two orderlies until yours get here.”
“Thanks.” Forsyth tried to rub the fatigue out of his face. “We could use them. I’ll sign for the drugs. SEAC will honor my signature.”
“No goddam paper. You want the drugs, you got ’em. That’s what they’re there for.”
He turned away. “All right, Sergeant, get ’em in the truck.” He walked over to the jeep and watched as the stretcher was lashed securely. “What you think, Doc?”
“He’ll make it State-side.” The doctor glanced up from the unconscious figure neatly trussed in the straitjacket, “but that’s about it. His mind’s gone for good.”
“Son of a bitch,” the major said wearily, and he made a check mark against Max’s name on the list. “Seems kinda unfair.” He dropped his voice. “What about the rest of them?”
“Not good. Withdrawal symptoms generally. Anxiety about the future. There’s only one that’s in halfway decent shape physically.”
“I’ll be goddamned if I know how any of ’em made it. You been in the jail?”
“Sure. Just a quick runaround. That was enough.”
Peter Marlowe was watching morosely. He knew his unhappiness was not due solely to the departure of his friend. It was more than that. He was sad because the Americans were leaving. Somehow he felt he belonged there with them, which was wrong, because they were foreigners. Yet he knew he did not feel like a foreigner when he was with them. Is it envy? he asked himself. Or jealousy? No, I don’t think so. I don’t know why, but I feel they’re going home and I’m being left behind.
He moved a little closer to the truck as the orders began to sound and the men began to climb aboard. Brough and Tex and Dino and Byron Jones III and all the others resplendent in their new starched uniforms, looked unreal. They were talking and shouting and laughing. But not the King. He stood slightly to one side. Alone.
Peter Marlowe was glad that his friend was back once more with his own people, and he prayed that once the King was on his way all would be well with him.
“Get in the truck, you guys.”
“C’mon, get in the goddam truck.”
“Next stop State-side!”
Grey was unaware that he was standing beside Peter Marlowe. “They say,” he said looking at the truck, “that they’ve a plane to fly them all the way back to America. A special plane. Is that possible? Just a handful of men and some junior officers?”
Peter Marlowe had also been unaware of Grey. He studied him, despising him. “You’re such a goddam snob, Grey, when it comes down to it.”
Grey’s head whipped around. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes.” Peter Marlowe nodded at the truck. “They think that one man’s as good as another. So they get a plane, all to themselves. It’s a great idea when you think of it.”
“Don’t tell me the upper classes have at last realized — ”
“Oh shut up!” Peter Marlowe moved away, his bile rising.
Beside the truck was a sergeant, a vast man with many stripes on his sleeve and an unlit cigar in his mouth. “C’mon. Get in the truck,” he repeated patiently.
The King was the last on the ground.
“For Chrissake, get in the truck!” the sergeant growled. The King didn’t move. Then, impatiently, the sergeant threw the cigar away, and stabbing the air with his finger shouted, “You! Corporal! Get your goddam ass in the truck!”
The King came out of his trance. “Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant!”
Meekly he got into the back of the truck and stood while everyone else sat, and around him there were excited men talking one to another, but not to him. No one seemed to notice him. He held to the side of the truck as it roared into life and swept the Changi dust into the air.
Peter Marlowe frantically ran forward and held up his hand to wave at his friend. But the King did not look back. He never looked back.
Suddenly, Peter Marlowe felt very lonely, there by Changi Gate.