"Well, next time I want to know. That's a bloody order!"

"Yes, sir!" Peter Marlowe chuckled.

They delivered the container to the hospital cookhouse. To the special tiny cookhouse that fed the desperately sick.

When they got back to the bungalow Mac was waiting. His skin was gray-yellow and his eyes were bloodshot and his hands shaking, but he was over the fever. He could smile again.

"Good to have you back, cobber," Larkin said, sitting down.

"Ay."

Peter Marlowe absently took out the little piece of rag. "Oh, by the way," he said with studied negligence, "this might come in handy sometime."

Mac unwrapped the rag without interest.

"Oh my bloody word!" Larkin said.

"Dammit, Peter," Mac said, his fingers shaking, "are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Peter Marlowe kept his voice as flat as his face, enjoying his excitement hugely. "No point in getting all upset about nothing." Then he could contain his smile no longer. He beamed.

"You and your blasted Pommy underplay." Larkin tried to be sour, but he was beaming too. "Where'd you get it, cobber?"

Peter Marlowe shrugged.

"Stupid question. Sorry, Peter," Larkin said apologetically.

Peter Marlowe knew he would be never asked again. It was far better they did not know about the village.

Now it was dusk.

Larkin was guarding. Peter Marlowe was guarding. Under cover of his mosquito net, Mac joined the condenser. Then, unable to wait any longer, with a prayer he fiddled the connecting wire into the electric source. Sweating, he listened into the single earphone.

An agony of waiting. It was suffocating under the net, and the concrete walls and concrete floor held the heat of the vanishing sun. A mosquito droned angrily. Mac cursed but did not try to find it and kill it, for suddenly there was static in the earphone.

His tense fingers, wet with the sweat that ran down his arms, slipped on the screwdriver. He dried them. Delicately he found the screw that turned the turner and began to twist, gently, oh so gently. Static. Only static. Then suddenly he heard the music. It was a Glenn Miller recording.

The music stopped, and an announcer said, "This is Calcutta. We continue the Glenn Miller recital with his recording 'Moonlight Serenade.""

Through the doorway Mac could see Larkin squatting in the shadows, and beyond him men walking the corridor between the rows of cement bungalows. He wanted to rush out and shout, "You laddies want to hear the news in a little while? I've got Calcutta tuned in!"

Mac listened for another minute, then disconnected the radio and carefully put the water bottles back into their sheaths of green-gray felt and left them carelessly on the beds. There would be a news broadcast from Calcutta at ten, so to save time Mac hid the wire and the earphone under the mattress instead of putting them into the third bottle.

He had been hunched under the net for so long that he had a crick in his back, and he groaned when he stood up.

Larkin looked back from his station outside. "What's the matter, cobber? Can't you sleep?"

"Nay, laddie," said Mac, coming out to squat beside him.

"You should take it easy, first day out of hospital." Larkin did not need to be told that it worked. Mac's eyes were lit with excitement. Larkin punched him playfully. "You're all right, you old bastard."

"Where's Peter?" Mac asked, knowing that he was guarding by the showers.

"Over there. Stupid bugger's just sitting. Look at him."

"Hey, mahlu sana!" Mac called out.

Peter Marlowe already knew that Mac had finished, but he got up and walked back and said, "Mahlu sendiris," which means "Mahlu yourself." He, too, did not need to be told.

"How about a game of bridge?" Mac asked.

"Who's the fourth?"

"Hey, Gavin," Larkin called out. "You want to make a fourth?"

Major Gavin Ross dragged his legs out of the camp chair. Leaning on a crutch, he wormed himself from the next bungalow. He was glad for the offer of a game. Nights were always bad. So unnecessary, the paralysis. Once upon a time a man, and now a nothing. Useless legs. Wheelchaired for life.

He had been hit in the head by a tiny sliver of shrapnel just before Singapore surrendered. "Nothing to worry about," the doctors had told him. "We can get it out soon as we can get you into a proper hospital with the proper equipment. We've plenty of time." But there was never a proper hospital with the proper equipment and time had run out.

"Gad," he said painfully as he settled himself on the cement floor. Mac found a cushion and tossed it over. "Ta, old chap!" It took him a moment to settle while Peter Marlowe got the cards and Larkin arranged the space between them. Gavin lifted his left leg and bent it out of the way, disconnecting the wire spring that attached the toe of his shoe to the band around his leg, just under his knee. Then he moved the other leg, equally paralyzed, out of the way and leaned back on the cushion against the wall. "That's better," he said, stroking his Kaiser Wilhelm mustache with a quick nervous movement.

"How're the headaches?" Larkin asked automatically.

"Not too bad, old boy," Gavin replied as automatically. "You my partner?"

"No. You can play with Peter."

"Oh Gad, the boy always trumps my ace."

"That was only once," Peter Marlowe said.

"Once an evening," laughed Mac as he began to deal.

"Mahlu."

"Two spades." Larkin opened with a flourish.

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."

"What the hell can I do?" Grey was tired and mad and had dysentery. "You know I can't do anything. I'll have to report it. But you'd better get rid of that dog."

"What do you mean?"

"Holy Christ," Grey stormed at him, "I mean get rid of it. Kill it. And if you won't, get someone else to do it. But, by God, see that it's not in the camp by nightfall."

"It's my dog. You can't order -"

'The hell I can't!" Grey tried to control his stomach muscles. He liked Hawkins, always had, but that didn't mean anything now. "You know the rules. You've been warned to keep it leashed and keep it out of this area. Rover killed and ate the hen. There are witnesses who saw him do it."

Colonel Foster picked himself off the ground, his eyes black and beady. "I'm going to kill it," he hissed. "The dog's mine to kill. An eye for an eye."

Grey stepped in front of Foster, who hunched ready for another attack. "Colonel Foster. This matter will be reported. Captain Hawkins has been ordered to destroy the dog -"

Foster didn't seem to hear Grey. "I want that beast. I'm going to kill it. Just like it killed my hen. It's mine. I'm going to kill it." He began creeping forward, salivating. "Just like it killed my child."

Grey held his hand out. "No! Hawkins will destroy it."

"Colonel Foster," Hawkins said abjectly, "I beg you, please, please, accept my apologies. Let me keep the dog, it won't happen again."

"No it won't." Colonel Foster laughed insanely. "It's dead and it's mine." He lunged forward, but Hawkins backed off and Grey caught the colonel's arm.