reassuring hold.
The art of hypnotizing sheep. This was serious business, as far as Bob was concerned, but Paul and Sean, who were city boys from Perth, didn’t understand. They had a joke about it. “Mark’s hypnotized that Korean guard,” they said. “Mark’s got him eating out of his hand.” The guard did like Mark, although he was careful that the Japanese officers didn’t notice. His respect for the great Australian expressed itself in extra helpings of rice and the occasional egg that made it into Mark’s dinner. “He treats you like the prize ram,” Bob whispered to his brother. “Be careful. You know what prize rams are used for.” And Mark had nodded, laughing at his brother’s concern. “Breeding stock,” Mark said.
The Korean guard shot himself one evening, wasted one of the emperor’s bullets into his skull. The guard had visited Bob, who was down with wet beriberi, right before he did it. Bob’s body was distended and bulging with fluid; his testicles were as large as grapefruit. He was surprised when the Korean guard came into the hut that served as an infirmary. The guard’s hair stood straight up, but Bob could not remember if it always did that, or if his shock of black hair just looked frightening now that the man seemed so disturbed. Bob saw an unnatural sweat on his brow and noted the way he moved—crazed and afraid—like a sheep with magnesium deficiency. The Korean touched Bob’s shoulder, which was a strange and disquieting gesture. “Same, same, prison-uh,” he said, motioning in a way that made it clearthat as far as he was concerned, Koreans and Australians were in a similar position. Then he left. Shortly after that, Paul came in. “Are you in for that ulcer?” Bob had asked. Paul shook his head and glanced at the pussing hole on his leg. He produced a cigarette, which was a minor miracle, and a stick with a glowing ember to light it with. Bob took the cigarette. Paul had been sent out on the same work detail as Mark, and Bob knew immediately. Paul said, “I fell down. Mark was helping me up and someone saw. That Korean guard . . .” The guard had been ordered to smash in Mark’s head with the flat back of a shovel. Then they heard the gunshot ring out and the monkeys screamed.
Bob survived the beriberi. The Dutch doctor had scrounged some rice husks from an abandoned village and made biscuits with them, which were a source of vitamin B. He decided the reason he’d survived was to carry back Mark’s spirit and that was enough. In his mind he heard Mark’s mantra often: “You’ll be right. You’ll be right.” Then he’d look to the jungle ceiling, not sure of what he’d see, conscious of Mark’s spirit trapped like a mosquito in the net of vines. Bob was convinced that Mark was still watching over him, as he’d always done. Sometimes, he’d hear his brother’s voice. “Christ, Bob, take care of yourself. Those ulcers’ll kill you.” And Bob would whistle up at the leafy sky the first bar of “The Drover’s Dream,” and Mark would finish off the line.
Bob left his battle against beriberi, and starvation once more became his number-one adversary. He remembered Mark sitting high on his horse, his face set in grim determination. Life had not been easy on the station those prewar years.
“The whole fucking country’s gone broke,” Mark had said, shaking his head.
Bob mounted his horse and trotted up beside him. “Which ones do we shoot?” he asked.
Mark held the rifle in his lap, looking down on it in a pained way. “We shoot the ones that aren’t gonna make it.” The slaughterwas to ensure that some had food, but killing one’s own flock was not easy; the sheep were their life blood—Australia rides on the sheep’s back, people said—and this was poor gratitude.
Sean turned to Bob, who was still on the station shooting sheep, and said, “Do you know the Yanks gamble their rice?”
“What?”
“The Yanks, they gamble their
The art of hypnotizing sheep. This was serious business, as far as Bob was concerned, but Paul and Sean, who were city boys from Perth, didn’t understand. They had a joke about it. “Mark’s hypnotized that Korean guard,” they said. “Mark’s got him eating out of his hand.” The guard did like Mark, although he was careful that the Japanese officers didn’t notice. His respect for the great Australian expressed itself in extra helpings of rice and the occasional egg that made it into Mark’s dinner. “He treats you like the prize ram,” Bob whispered to his brother. “Be careful. You know what prize rams are used for.” And Mark had nodded, laughing at his brother’s concern. “Breeding stock,” Mark said.
The Korean guard shot himself one evening, wasted one of the emperor’s bullets into his skull. The guard had visited Bob, who was down with wet beriberi, right before he did it. Bob’s body was distended and bulging with fluid; his testicles were as large as grapefruit. He was surprised when the Korean guard came into the hut that served as an infirmary. The guard’s hair stood straight up, but Bob could not remember if it always did that, or if his shock of black hair just looked frightening now that the man seemed so disturbed. Bob saw an unnatural sweat on his brow and noted the way he moved—crazed and afraid—like a sheep with magnesium deficiency. The Korean touched Bob’s shoulder, which was a strange and disquieting gesture. “Same, same, prison-uh,” he said, motioning in a way that made it clearthat as far as he was concerned, Koreans and Australians were in a similar position. Then he left. Shortly after that, Paul came in. “Are you in for that ulcer?” Bob had asked. Paul shook his head and glanced at the pussing hole on his leg. He produced a cigarette, which was a minor miracle, and a stick with a glowing ember to light it with. Bob took the cigarette. Paul had been sent out on the same work detail as Mark, and Bob knew immediately. Paul said, “I fell down. Mark was helping me up and someone saw. That Korean guard . . .” The guard had been ordered to smash in Mark’s head with the flat back of a shovel. Then they heard the gunshot ring out and the monkeys screamed.
Bob survived the beriberi. The Dutch doctor had scrounged some rice husks from an abandoned village and made biscuits with them, which were a source of vitamin B. He decided the reason he’d survived was to carry back Mark’s spirit and that was enough. In his mind he heard Mark’s mantra often: “You’ll be right. You’ll be right.” Then he’d look to the jungle ceiling, not sure of what he’d see, conscious of Mark’s spirit trapped like a mosquito in the net of vines. Bob was convinced that Mark was still watching over him, as he’d always done. Sometimes, he’d hear his brother’s voice. “Christ, Bob, take care of yourself. Those ulcers’ll kill you.” And Bob would whistle up at the leafy sky the first bar of “The Drover’s Dream,” and Mark would finish off the line.
Bob left his battle against beriberi, and starvation once more became his number-one adversary. He remembered Mark sitting high on his horse, his face set in grim determination. Life had not been easy on the station those prewar years.
“The whole fucking country’s gone broke,” Mark had said, shaking his head.
Bob mounted his horse and trotted up beside him. “Which ones do we shoot?” he asked.
Mark held the rifle in his lap, looking down on it in a pained way. “We shoot the ones that aren’t gonna make it.” The slaughterwas to ensure that some had food, but killing one’s own flock was not easy; the sheep were their life blood—Australia rides on the sheep’s back, people said—and this was poor gratitude.
Sean turned to Bob, who was still on the station shooting sheep, and said, “Do you know the Yanks gamble their rice?”
“What?”
“The Yanks, they gamble their
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