"That must be his new batman," Daven said. Even in the camp the age-old tradition was kept.
"What happened to the other one?"
"Lyles? My man told me he was up in hospital. Ward Six."
Peter Marlowe got to his feet. "Drinkwater can do what he likes with Army types, but he's not getting one of mine."
He walked the four bunk lengths. "Blodger!"
"What do you want, Marlowe?" Drinkwater said.
Peter Marlowe ignored him. "What're you doing here, Blodger?"
"I was just seeing the chaplain, sir. I'm sorry, sir," he said moving closer,
"I don't see you too well."
"Flight Lieutenant Marlowe."
"Oh. How're you, sir? I'm the chaplain's new batman, sir."
"You get out of here, and before you take a job as a batman, you come and ask me first!"
"But sir —"
"Who do you think you are, Marlowe?" Drinkwater snapped. "You've no jurisdiction over him."
"He's not going to be your batman."
"Why?"
"Because I say so. You're dismissed, Blodger."
"But sir, I'll look after the chaplain fine, I really will. I'll work hard —"
"Where'd you get that cigarette?"
"Now look here, Marlowe —" Drinkwater began.
Peter Marlowe whirled on him. "Shut up!" Others in the hut stopped what they were doing and began to collect.
"Where did you get that cigarette, Blodger?"
"The chaplain gave it to me," whimpered Blodger, backing away, frightened by the edge to Peter Marlowe's voice. "I gave him my egg. He promised me tobacco in exchange for my daily egg. I want the tobacco and he can have the egg."
"There's no harm in that," Drinkwater blustered, "no harm in giving the boy some tobacco. He asked me for it. In exchange for an egg."
"You been up to Ward Six recently?" Peter Marlowe asked. "Did you help them admit Lyles? Your last batman? He's got no eyes now."
"That's not my fault. I didn't do anything about him."
"How many of his eggs did you have?"
"None. I had none."
Peter Marlowe snatched a Bible and thrust it into Drinkwater's hands.
"Swear it, then I'll believe you. Swear it or by God I'll do you!"
"I swear it!" Drinkwater moaned.
"You lying bastard," Daven shouted, "I've seen you take Lyles' eggs. We all have."
Peter Marlowe grabbed Drinkwater's mess can and found the egg. Then he smashed it against Drinkwater's face, cramming the egg shell into his mouth. Drinkwater fainted.
Peter Marlowe dashed a bowl of water in his face, and he came to.
"Bless you, Marlowe," he had whispered. "Bless you for showing me the error of my ways." He had knelt beside the bunk. "Oh God, forgive this unworthy sinner. Forgive me my sins…"
Now, on this sun-kissed Sunday, Peter Marlowe listened as Drinkwater finished the sermon. Blodger had long since gone to Ward Six, but whether Drinkwater had helped him there, Peter Marlowe could never prove. Drinkwater still got many eggs from somewhere.
Peter Marlowe's stomach told him it was time for lunch.
When he got back to his hut, the men were already waiting, mess cans in hands, impatient. The extra was not going to arrive today. Or tomorrow according to rumor. Ewart had already checked the cookhouse. Just the usual. That was all right too, but why the hell don't they hurry up?
Grey was sitting on the end of his bed.
"Well, Marlowe," he said, "you eating with us these days? Such a pleasant surprise."
"Yes, Grey, I'm still eating here. Why don't you just run along and play cops and robbers? You know, pick on someone who can't hit back!"
"Not a chance, old man. Got my eye on bigger game."
"Jolly good luck." Peter Marlowe got his mess cans ready. Across the way from him Brough, kibitzing a game of bridge, winked.
"Cops!" he whispered. "They're all the same."
"That's right."
He joined Peter Marlowe. "Hear you've a new buddy."
"That's right." Peter Marlowe was on his guard.
"It's a free country. But sometimes a guy's got to get out on a limb and make a point."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Fast company can sometimes get out of hand."
"That's true in any country."
"Maybe," Brough grinned, "maybe you'd like to have a cuppa Joe sometime and chew the fat."
"I'd like that. How about tomorrow? After chow —" Involuntarily he used the King's word. But he didn't correct himself. He smiled and Brough smiled back.
"Hey, grub's up!" Ewart called out.
"Thank God for that," Phil groaned. "How about a deal, Peter? Your rice for my stew?"
"You've got a hope!"
"No harm in trying."
Peter Marlowe went outside and joined the mess line. Raylins was serving out the rice. Good, he thought, no need to worry today.
Raylins was middle-aged and bald. He had been a junior manager in the Bank of Singapore and, like Ewart, one of the Malayan Regiment. In peacetime it was a great organization to belong to. Lots of parties, cricket, polo. A man had to be in the Regiment to be anyone. Raylins also looked after the mess fund, and banqueting was his specialty. When they gave him a gun and told him he was in the war and ordered him to take his platoon across the causeway and fight the Japanese, he had looked at the colonel and laughed. His job was accounts. But it hadn't helped him, and he had had to take twenty men, as untrained as himself, and march up the road. He had marched, then suddenly his twenty men were three. Thirteen had been killed instantly in the ambush. Four were only wounded. They were lying in the middle of the road screaming. One had his hand blown off and he was staring at the stump stupidly, catching his blood in his only hand, trying to pour it back into his arm. Another was laughing, laughing as he crammed his entrails back into the gaping hole.
Raylins had stared stupidly as the Japanese tank came down the road, guns blazing. Then the tank was past and the four were merely stains on the asphalt. He had looked at his remaining three men — Ewart was one of them. They had looked back at him. Then they were running, running terror-stricken into the jungle. Then they were lost. Then he was alone, alone in a horror night of leeches and noises, and the only thing that saved him from insanity was a Malay child who had found him babbling and had guided him to a village. He had sneaked into the building where remnants of an army were collected. The next day the Japanese shot two of every ten. He and a few others were kept in the building. Later they were put into a truck and sent to a camp and he was among his own people. But he could never forget his friend Charles, the one with his intestines hanging out.
Raylins spent most of his time in a fog. For the life of him he could not understand why he wasn't in his bank counting his figures, clean neat figures, and why he was in a camp where he excelled at one thing. He could deal out an unknown amount of rice into exactly the right number of parts. Almost to the grain.