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"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.
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"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
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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.
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