waves, sucked into the sea’s mouth, spat out on the surface. They etched stories where no one would see them and read their traces. The body was no longer. Once, Bob had struggled against it. He’d thought, This body’s going to starve and then stop and I’ll go along with it, so I better take care of it, ’cause what’s the point in going on without a body? And as he heard the monkeys screaming in the canopy of the jungle growth he thought that if he let his body quit that’s all he’d be, a monkey’s scream. After that, when he heard the monkeys call to one another, he thought that it was Sean, or Paul, or his brother Mark reminding him that they were freed from their corpses but still trapped along the railroad.
Hard to piece it all together, that time. Three years spent that somehow wound themselves into one long second. How long had Mark managed to survive? It was hard to tell. They had been captured together in Indonesia, some distant place where the enemy was still a Japanese soldier and not starvation, where one shouldered a rifle and not a shovel. They made the journey in the hull of the boat, surrounded by pounding waves and dying of thirst. Stopover in Burma. Destination Thailand. Mark had been strong then. He was down from his usual 190 pounds, but wasstill large and imposing. Bob had always been wiry and, as Mark was whittled away until he weighed only 126, Bob seemed little changed in comparison.
How can you understand the greater purpose of your labor when all you can see is one tiny portion? Bob thought of the Egyptian slaves dragging blocks of stone. Did they even know what a pyramid was or why they were building it? He didn’t know. Railroad tracks in the middle of nowhere going to the end of the earth, ties laid in the jungle—men falling dead of exhaustion and lack of food. Sometimes Bob would imagine, as he shoveled, that beneath the tons of mud there’d be a door. The door would lead to his mother’s kitchen—no people, just the kitchen—and a steak would be frying heartily on the stove.
The Japanese saw that Bob’s brother was an ox during the first week of construction. Four Americans or seven Dutch to one Aussie worker, they said, and Mark was equal to two of his countrymen. Even with dysentery and the first signs of beriberi Mark labored on the railroad, that magical artery, which they had learned would link Bangkok to Burma and eventually India. The railroad meant victory for the Japanese; the POWs were an expendable resource, a lucky find to achieve this end. Side by side, Bob and his brother shoveled the endless mud toward an Allied defeat. Often they were waist deep in fetid water, careful not to go in any deeper, if it was possible. That was what the Dutch doctor said. His English wasn’t good enough to explain why at first, but he would learn the word “cholera.”
The mind slipped as the body labored. Bob’s thoughts twisted and soared, escaping the pain of his overtaxed muscles. Once, while his mind had been flying around, he had fallen to the ground beneath a blow delivered by a guard. Bob wasn’t sure what his body had done to inspire this, and he really didn’t care. He thought he’d stay lying there. Maybe he’d just die like that, and that would be better. Maybe death would offer a moment’s peace, but something rebelled, something he could not understand,and he’d forced himself up and back to work. Some strange spirit inhabiting Bob’s body wanted to live.
Or maybe it was just Mark whispering as he shoveled, “You’ll be right,” that raised Bob to his feet. Bob thought about the sheep-shearing competitions back home, which Mark always won. The other shearers said it wasn’t fair. Smiling, they said that Mark hypnotized the sheep. He would pull one from the pen, flip it on its back, and whisper to it, “You’ll be right.” The sheep would lie still then, beneath the clippers. In a few seconds, expertly shorn with barely a nick, they’d leave his
Hard to piece it all together, that time. Three years spent that somehow wound themselves into one long second. How long had Mark managed to survive? It was hard to tell. They had been captured together in Indonesia, some distant place where the enemy was still a Japanese soldier and not starvation, where one shouldered a rifle and not a shovel. They made the journey in the hull of the boat, surrounded by pounding waves and dying of thirst. Stopover in Burma. Destination Thailand. Mark had been strong then. He was down from his usual 190 pounds, but wasstill large and imposing. Bob had always been wiry and, as Mark was whittled away until he weighed only 126, Bob seemed little changed in comparison.
How can you understand the greater purpose of your labor when all you can see is one tiny portion? Bob thought of the Egyptian slaves dragging blocks of stone. Did they even know what a pyramid was or why they were building it? He didn’t know. Railroad tracks in the middle of nowhere going to the end of the earth, ties laid in the jungle—men falling dead of exhaustion and lack of food. Sometimes Bob would imagine, as he shoveled, that beneath the tons of mud there’d be a door. The door would lead to his mother’s kitchen—no people, just the kitchen—and a steak would be frying heartily on the stove.
The Japanese saw that Bob’s brother was an ox during the first week of construction. Four Americans or seven Dutch to one Aussie worker, they said, and Mark was equal to two of his countrymen. Even with dysentery and the first signs of beriberi Mark labored on the railroad, that magical artery, which they had learned would link Bangkok to Burma and eventually India. The railroad meant victory for the Japanese; the POWs were an expendable resource, a lucky find to achieve this end. Side by side, Bob and his brother shoveled the endless mud toward an Allied defeat. Often they were waist deep in fetid water, careful not to go in any deeper, if it was possible. That was what the Dutch doctor said. His English wasn’t good enough to explain why at first, but he would learn the word “cholera.”
The mind slipped as the body labored. Bob’s thoughts twisted and soared, escaping the pain of his overtaxed muscles. Once, while his mind had been flying around, he had fallen to the ground beneath a blow delivered by a guard. Bob wasn’t sure what his body had done to inspire this, and he really didn’t care. He thought he’d stay lying there. Maybe he’d just die like that, and that would be better. Maybe death would offer a moment’s peace, but something rebelled, something he could not understand,and he’d forced himself up and back to work. Some strange spirit inhabiting Bob’s body wanted to live.
Or maybe it was just Mark whispering as he shoveled, “You’ll be right,” that raised Bob to his feet. Bob thought about the sheep-shearing competitions back home, which Mark always won. The other shearers said it wasn’t fair. Smiling, they said that Mark hypnotized the sheep. He would pull one from the pen, flip it on its back, and whisper to it, “You’ll be right.” The sheep would lie still then, beneath the clippers. In a few seconds, expertly shorn with barely a nick, they’d leave his
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