The interrogation, such as it was, continued off and on for two hours. As if to prove that it was all some sort of sick game, the whole thing paused long enough for one of the sentries to go out and come back in with a little bowl of rice and some water for Deke. While he ate, the commandant busied himself reading through papers on his desk. The other officer and the sergeant went out on the porch and smoked cigarettes; Deke could smell the tobacco smoke drifting in. They spoke in low voices and laughed, apparently sharing a joke.

Then the sergeant came back in, picked up his cane, and the whole business started all over again.

Considering the amount of energy expended, Deke wasn’t sure that the enemy had learned a whole lot that was useful, but he had a personal moment of enlightenment. Looking at the bored-looking commandant behind his desk and then at the Japanese sergeant wielding the cane, Deke decided, I’m gonna kill these sons of bitches the first chance I get.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When the sun started to go down, the Japanese apparently decided that they’d done enough hard work for one day by interrogating their newest prisoner. Taken from the headquarters building, Deke found himself half-dragged and half-carried — he needed it this time.

Instead of being returned to the shed, he was taken to the main prison barracks and tossed within. That much of the plan was working out. If he’d been locked inside the shed again, only to be interrogated yet more the next day, valuable time would have been lost. Also, Deke had to admit that he wasn’t sure how much more beating he could take. Mentally he was fine, but he knew that his body had limits.

The barracks were full, the day’s work party apparently having returned from their endless task of carrying buckets of rocks through the jungle.

Shakily, Deke got to his feet. He realized that even his teeth felt loose from all the rattling they’d taken.

“Easy, easy,” said an airman in a tattered flight suit, approaching him. “I know from personal experience that those bastards throw quite a welcome party.”

“I reckon you wouldn’t be wrong about that.”

“How did you like the hot box?”

“Do you mean that little shed without the windows? For a minute there I had it confused with a fancy hotel.”

“That’s the one. Lovely place, right?”

The airman offered Deke a drink of water, and he nodded his appreciation.

“Drink up. We have plenty of water. All you can drink. That stands to reason — we dug the well, after all. It’s just food that we don’t have enough of.”

“The Japanese seem to have plenty to eat.”

“I guess they just decided not to share.”

More men gathered around. “Where the hell did he come from?” someone asked.

“It’s the invasion,” another stick-thin soldier said. “Our boys have got to be close. Sometimes we can hear the artillery in the distance.”

“Give him some air, fellas,” said the soldier in the flight suit, whose voice rang with some authority. The ring around Deke loosened up.

The soldier who had spoken extended a hand toward Deke. “I’m Rex Faraday. Technically I’m Lieutenant Faraday, but the Japanese lump us all together, enlisted with the officers. We did have a captain when I first got here, but he caught a fever. He, uh, you know, didn’t make it through. I’m currently the highest-ranking officer here, which puts me in charge of this menagerie.”

The speech had served to give Deke the lay of the land, which he appreciated.

Deke shook the proffered hand. There was something about a handshake that was a refreshingly American gesture, even in the heart of a Japanese POW camp. The Japanese preferred to bow, which seemed fussy to Deke compared to an honest handshake.

“Deacon Cole,” he said. “I usually go by Deke.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

Faraday was in his midtwenties, with sandy-blond hair that needed to be cut and several days’ worth of light-colored stubble across his square jaw. It wasn’t easy keeping to military grooming standards in these prison camp conditions, even for an officer. Faraday had the sort of straightforward good looks that Deke somehow associated with other men that he’d met from the Midwest. If you looked up “American” in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of somebody like Faraday.

The prisoners displayed a hodgepodge of clothing because they typically still wore whatever they’d been wearing when captured. It made it easy to tell which branch of the service each man had hailed from. Unlike the clean clothing issued to their own POWs, the Japanese didn’t make that effort.

Faraday still wore his flight suit, though the top part had been left undone and tied around his waist in deference to the heat. He wore a muscle-type T-shirt that was starting to turn a dingy shade of grayish brown. Faraday was still showing some of the muscle that he would have developed in training, indicating that he had not been captive for very long.

“Let’s get that shirt off and take a look at the damage.”

“Do we have to?”