The bidding continued furiously and vehemently.
Later that night Larkin knocked on the door of one of the bungalows.
"Yes?" Smedly-Taylor asked, peering into the night.
"Sorry to trouble you, sir,"
"Oh hello, Larkin. Trouble?" It was always trouble. He wondered what the Aussies had been up to this time as he got off his bed, aching.
"No sir." Larkin made sure there was no one in earshot. His words were quiet and deliberate. "The Russians are forty miles from Berlin. Manila is liberated. The Yanks have landed on Corregidor and Iwo Jima."
"Are you sure, man?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who —" Smedly-Taylor stopped. "No. I don't want to know anything. Sit down, Colonel," he said quietly. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"Yes, sir."
"I can only say, Colonel," the older man said tonelessly and solemnly,
"that I can do nothing to help anyone who is caught with — who is caught." He did not even want to say the word wireless. "I don't wish to know anything about it." A shadow of a smile crossed the granite face and softened it. "I only beg you guard it with your life and tell me immediately you hear anything."
"Yes sir. We propose —"
"I don't want to hear anything. Only the news." Sadly Smedly-Taylor touched his shoulder. "Sorry."
"It's safer, sir." Larkin was glad that the colonel did not want to know their plan. They had decided that they would tell only two persons each. Larkin would tell Smedly-Taylor and Gavin Ross; Mac would tell Major Tooley and Lieutenant Bosley — both personal friends; and Peter would tell the King and Father Donovan, the Catholic chaplain. They were to pass the news on to two other persons they could trust, and so on. It was a good plan, Larkin thought. Correctly, Peter had not volunteered where the condenser came from. Good boy, that Peter.
Later that night, when Peter Marlowe returned to his hut from seeing the King, Ewart was wide awake. He poked his head out of the net and whispered excitedly, "Peter. You heard the news?"
"What news?"
"The Russians are forty miles from Berlin. The Yanks have landed on Iwo Jima and Corregidor."
Peter Marlowe felt the inner terror. Oh my God, so soon? "Bloody rumors, Ewart. Bloody nonsense."
"No it isn't, Peter. There's a new wireless in the camp. It's the real stuff.
No rumor. Isn't that great? Oh Christ, I forgot the best. The Yanks have liberated Manila. Won't be long now, eh?"
"I'll believe it when I see it."
Maybe we should have just told Smedly-Taylor and no one else, Peter Marlowe thought as he lay down. If Ewart knows, there's no telling.
Nervously, he listened to the camp. You could almost feel the growing excitement of Changi. The camp knew that it was back in contact.
Yoshima was slimed with fear as he stood to attention in front of the raging General.
"You stupid, incompetent fool," the General was saying.
Yoshima braced himself for the blow that was coming and it came, openhanded across the face.
"You find that radio or you'll be reduced to the ranks. Your transfer is canceled. Dismiss!"
Yoshima saluted smartly, and his bow was the perfection of humility. He left the General's quarters, thankful that he had been let off so lightly.
Damn these pestilential prisoners!
In the barracks he lined up his staff and raged at them, and slapped their faces until his hand hurt. In their turn, the sergeants slapped the corporals and they the privates and the privates the Koreans. The orders were clear.
"Get that radio or else."
For five days nothing happened. Then the jailers fell on the camp and almost pulled it apart. But they found nothing. The traitor within the camp did not yet know the whereabouts of the radio. Nothing happened, except the promised return to standard rations was canceled. The camp settled back to wait out the long days, made longer by the lack of food. But they knew that at least there would be news. Not rumors, but news. And the news was very good. The war in Europe was almost over.
Even so, there was a pall on the men. Few had reserve stocks of food.
And the good news had a catch to it. If the war ended in Europe, more troops would be sent to the Pacific. Eventually there would be an attack on the home islands of Japan. And such an attack would drive the jailers berserk. Reprisals! They all knew there was only one end to Changi.
Peter Marlowe was walking towards the chicken area, his water bottle swinging at his hip. Mac and Larkin and he had agreed that perhaps it would be safer to carry the water bottles as much as possible. Just in case there was a sudden search.
He was in a good mood. Though the money he had earned was long since gone, the King had advanced food and tobacco against future earnings. God, what a man, he thought. But for him, Mac, Larkin and I would be as hungry as the rest of Changi.
The day was cooler. Rain the day before had settled the dust. It was almost time for lunch. As he neared the chicken coops his pace quickened.
Maybe there'll be some eggs today. Then he stopped, perplexed.
Near the run that belonged to Peter Marlowe's unit was a small crowd, an angry, violent crowd. He saw to his surprise that Grey was there. In front of Grey was Colonel Foster, naked but for his filthy loincloth, jumping up and down like a maniac, incoherently screaming abuse at Johnny Hawkins, who was clasping his dog protectively to his chest.
"Hi, Max," said Peter Marlowe as he came abreast of the King's chicken run. "What's up?"
"Hi, Pete," said Max easily, shifting the rake in his hands. He noticed Peter Marlowe's instinctive reaction to the "Pete." Officers! You try to treat an officer like a regular guy and call him by his name and then he gets mad. The hell with them. "Yeah, Pete." He repeated it just for good measure. "All hell broke loose an hour ago. Seems like Hawkins' dog got into the Geek's run and killed one of his hens."
"Oh no!"
"They'll hand him his head, that's for sure."
Foster was screaming, "I want another hen and I want damages. The beast killed one of my children, I want a charge of murder sworn out"
"But Colonel," Grey said, at the end of his patience, "it was a hen, not a child. You can't swear a —"
"My hens are my children, idiot! Hen, child, what's the difference?
Hawkins is a dirty murderer. A murderer, you hear?"
"Look, Colonel," Grey said angrily. "Hawkins can't give you another hen.
He's said he's sorry. The dog got off its leash —"
"I want a court-martial. Hawkins the murderer and his beast, a murderer."
Colonel Foster's mouth was flecked with foam. "That bloody beast killed my hen and ate it. He ate it and there's only feathers to show for one of my children." Snarling, he suddenly darted at Hawkins, his hands outstretched, nails like talons, tearing at the dog in Hawkins' arms, screaming, "I'll kill you and your bloody beast."
Hawkins avoided Foster and shoved him away. The colonel fell to the ground and Rover whimpered with fear.
"I've said I'm sorry," Hawkins choked out. "If I had the money I'd gladly give you two, ten hens, but I can't! Grey —" Hawkins desperately turned to him - "for the love of God do something."