PRISONER AT KULA
Stan was led away from the parked cars by a dozen of the little yellow
men. His Siamese guards chattered and laughed and looked admiringly at
the big white man they had captured. They had been much impressed by
his terrible strength and by the way his fists shot out, inflicting
black eyes and swollen jaws.
The guards led Stan into a great building which he guessed once had
been a temple. They moved through a maze of columns. The place was
fitfully lighted by lamps of colored glass containing rags dipped in
grease. Everything was mingled and obscured by the gloom. Stan saw men
moving in the shadows. They were naked, wild-eyed, wild-haired men
with gaunt bodies. A foul odor of dampness and decay and filth filled
the place. Leering idols looked out of dark crannies, their glass eyes
gleaming in the flickering light.
Mentally Stan tried to check his course so that he might be able to
escape if he should get loose. The yellow men followed a twisting
course and the light was very dim. After a time they came out into a
garden and Stan could see stars overhead. He was led across the garden
and pushed into a room. A grease lamp burned on a stone table. Its
light revealed one barred window, a wooden bench and a stool.
The yellow men chattered excitedly as they untied Stan’s hands. Stan
braced himself for another fight with the little men. He drew back his
fists to punch the man in front of him as the first move for a bid for
freedom. The man ducked and drove his shiny head into Stan’s stomach.
Stan went back and fell over another man who apparently was crouched
behind him.
By the time Stan had leaped to his feet, the door had slammed and a
bolt had shot into place. Stan could hear the little men laughing
uproariously outside. He stood looking at the door. It was smooth
teakwood and Stan knew it was as strong as steel. He moved to the
window and tried the bars. They were a full inch in thickness and
embedded in rock.
Stan seated himself on the stool. He stared at the grease lamp. Slowly
a grin spread over his face. The little yellow men had pulled an old
school trick on him, one he had not seen used since he was a youngster.
He wondered what O’Malley and Allison would do when he did not show
up. They might get a clue from Munson’s black eye. He rubbed his sore
knuckles thoughtfully.
Stan put out the light. The lamp gave little illumination and its smell
was very bad. There was no guard at his door and he could see no one in
the garden. He stretched out on the hard bench and closed his eyes. He
slept fitfully but he did get a little rest.
Daylight found Stan sitting by the window. He had given up trying to
sleep on the hard bench. He watched the garden come to life. There
were palms, cinnamon trees and mulberry, and flowering shrubs growing
in clumps and beds. The air was heavy with the scent of gardenia and
crimson hibiscus blossoms. From behind a green shrub came the plaintive
notes of a native flute.
Men and women began moving about in the garden. They were dressed in
white cotton or flaming colors. They did not seem aware that the corner
room held a prisoner who was condemned to die. If they knew Stan was
there, they showed little curiosity.
The people seemed in no hurry at all. They moved languidly toward the
arches of stone which formed openings in the high garden wall, or they
came in and wandered about, then went out again. A young woman dressed
in a flowered kimono crossed the garden. She was carrying a tray with
a white cloth over it. Behind her walked four little men, naked except
for yellow silk loin cloths. The girl walked to Stan’s door and tapped.
“Come in,” Stan called.
The door did not open but a panel slid back making an opening some
six inches square. Stan was startled. He had not suspected there was
a panel in the door. The girl’s face appeared and she gave Stan a
red-lipped smile as she shoved the tray toward the opening. He took the
tray in through the hole.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You are welcome,” the girl answered.
Stan blinked. “You speak English very well,” he said.
“Quite well, thank you,” the girl said.
“Where did you learn it?” Stan asked.
“Hollywood, California.” The girl then laughed and added, “I was in
pictures. I played the part of a Siamese dancing girl.”
“Thailand to me,” Stan said.
“I went to America because I had work to do there,” the girl went on
explaining, “I learned many things of interest.”
“How did you happen to go to America?”
“I am an educated girl. I am one of the new order. I was given a job
by--” she hesitated, “the Japanese government.”
Stan’s smile faded. Another example of Jap thoroughness. The girl was
in the intelligence service of the Japanese forces. He smiled at her
again. It might be possible to outwit her, if he could make friends.
“If you could come in or I could go out, we could talk better--about
Hollywood,” he said.
“You can come out if you promise not to run away,” the girl said
demurely. “I will put you on your honor.”
“You think Americans have honor?” Stan asked.
“Surely, much honor. More than is good for them,” she answered. Then
she gave him a wide smile. “Though I do not think you would run far.
There are machine guns outside the garden archways.”
“Then why don’t you let me out?” Stan asked.
The girl slid back the bolt and opened the door. Stan stepped outside.
The four yellow men had vanished. A peacock screamed shrilly on the far
side of the wall. The girl seated herself on the door stone and looked
up at Stan.
Stan sat down and put the tray on his knees. He lifted the white cloth
and saw a bowl of rice and chopped chicken, a bowl of fruit, and a pot
of tea with a shell-thin cup tipped over a little image on the lid. He
dipped into the fruit bowl.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I am called Niva,” she answered.
“You spoke about machine guns. Are there soldiers, Japanese soldiers?”
Stan asked.
“Yes, many of them,” Niva answered. “Here, hidden in the jungle is a
big base of shells and planes and war materials.” She looked up at him
wide-eyed.
“And Te Nuwa is in command of the Japanese forces?” Stan asked.
“Te Nuwa is in command until the general comes. When the general is
here, Te Nuwa is just the fat one.” She spread her hands and smiled.
“Is the general a little man with a scar over his right eye?” Stan
asked.
“Oh, you know our general?” Niva asked, surprised.
“I have met him,” Stan replied and grinned as he remembered how the
little general had ordered Allison and himself shot the day they had
flown the Martin on a false alarm flight. “I owe a great deal to the
general,” he said as he dipped into the bowl of chicken.
Niva looked at Stan questioningly. It was clear the talk was not going
the way it was supposed to go. The big American had asked all the
questions so far. Not that giving him information mattered, for he
would never be able to take it to the enemy, but she was supposed to
learn something from him.
“Tell me about yourself and your friends. You have many friends who fly
with you?” Niva spoke eagerly.
“I wouldn’t lie to a nice girl like you, so I won’t tell you anything
about our forces,” Stan evaded. “But I’ll tell you the truth about what
is going on in America.”
“That would be nice,” she said with interest.
“The President of the United States has ordered the plane factories to
produce sixty thousand planes this coming year. All will be over here
or over Tokio. There will be bombers and fighter planes as thick as the
flock of birds over the jungle. You can tell your boss that. It’s the
truth.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Niva said but she did not smile.
“When I get out of here I’ll fly back. I’ll pick you up and carry you
away, if you want to go back to Hollywood,” Stan smiled at her.
Niva sighed. There was a frightened look in her eyes as she said, “You
won’t leave here.” Then she added softly, “People were very good to me
in America.”
“They liked you, Niva.” Stan was sure he had roused a spark of sympathy
in the girl. If she dared, she might help him. He set the tray on the
steps.
Niva got to her feet suddenly. She bent to pick up the tray and as she
leaned forward her lips were close to Stan’s ear. She whispered one
word:
“Dacoit!”
Lifting the tray, she laughed down at him, turned and hurried away.
There was no guard to send him back to his cell so Stan walked out
into the garden. He was thinking about the word Niva had spoken. It
was clearly meant as a warning. Te Nuwa had planned his finish in the
manner he liked. He would have his stranglers do the job.
Stan did not know much about those underworld characters of India
and Burma, the dacoits. He had read a few stories about them and how
they worked, but he could not remember much of their method of attack,
except that they were sinister and sneaking, that they struck without
warning.
He sauntered toward one of the arches. The wall was five feet thick
and the archway was wide enough to allow the passage of a loaded cart.
Outside the archway a Japanese soldier squatted in the sun. He was
sitting on a little stool behind a machine gun. The gun effectively
covered the entrance to the garden. The Jap looked up and grinned at
Stan. He seemed to be inviting Stan to step out.
Stan wandered on around the wall. Each opening was guarded by a machine
gun. Te Nuwa might handle his killings after the fashion of the East,
but the general in command believed in more modern methods. Stan kept
on until he halted before the pillared hallway leading into the temple.
This was the way he had entered. Two machine guns stood inside the
temple, manned by two leering Japanese.
Stan studied the wall. It was about fifteen feet in height, he judged.
No vines or creepers grew on its smooth sides. It could not be climbed,
Stan was sure of that. The women and children and the men passing
through the garden paid no attention to him. Stan guessed that they
were used to seeing doomed men wandering about inside this prison.
Stan decided that no attempt would be made on his life until dark,
but he stayed away from the wall and from under the big trees. In the
stories he had read, the dacoits always worked at night from hidden
spots of vantage. Warned, he might be able to fool them.
As he watched the scene in the garden, a small boy entered driving a
peacock. The youngster halted and looked at Stan, then waved a leafy
branch at the fowl, shooing it across the garden. As Stan stood idly
watching the boy, an idea suddenly occurred to him whereby he might be
able to outsmart his captors. Lying down on the grass in the shade of a
mulberry tree, Stan rested his head on a green hummock and closed his
eyes. He opened them and looked up into the mulberry tree. He could
see every limb and branch. He was sure no one was hiding there. The
grass was soft, and after the hard bench it felt like a feather bed.
Stan closed his eyes and went to sleep.
He was wakened by the howling of a monkey somewhere inside the temple.
With a heave, he sat upright. The sun still was shining, but a glance
at his watch told Stan that he had slept a long time.
As he sat there, Stan had a strange feeling. He was sure someone was
watching him. He scanned the wall and the temple roof with its many
spires and small roofs. He was careful because he did not want the
watcher to know he was suspicious. He yawned and lay back. But look as
he would, he saw no one who was the least bit interested in him. At
last, he got up and strolled about.
Nothing happened to prove he had actually been watched as he lay on the
grass. He wandered about for another two hours. Just before sundown
Niva brought him a tray of chicken and rice and a pot of coffee. She
set them down on the step and stood looking at Stan.
“Thanks--for the chicken,” Stan said and grinned.
Niva flushed. “You are welcome.”
“Won’t you sit down?” Stan invited.
“No, I will stand. I cannot talk much this time,” she said.
Stan nodded. He guessed that her leader had been disappointed or
angered because she had learned nothing from him. He ate the chicken
and the rice and drank the coffee. Niva was as silent as any of the
other women passing through the grounds, but she watched him as he ate
and when he had finished, she picked up the tray and smiled at him.
“Good luck,” she said under her breath. “Tonight I will be hoping for
you.” She turned and moved quickly away.
Stan considered her words a moment. She seemed to have been hinting
that tonight was the night. He wandered about wondering why he had not
asked her a lot of questions. After he had thought it over, he knew
why. He had not wished to place her in any danger.
The west wall began to cast long shadows. Dusk fell slowly and still
no guards came to put him into his cell. Lights appeared inside the
temple and Stan saw lank men moving about lighting grease wicks. He
watched the gunner at the nearest gate meet his relief gunner. For
night guard two men with machine guns were placed at the entrance and a
lantern was hung in the archway.
Stan studied the chances of rushing the guards. He would have a full
twenty feet to charge straight into the muzzles of two rapid-fire guns.
If he had had a hand grenade, escape would have been easy. He went back
to thinking about the plan he had gone to sleep upon.
The stars came out and a full moon rose above the wall. Stan stayed out
in the open, walking about very slowly, listening to every sound. A
wind sprang up and Stan noticed that the lantern hanging in one of the
archways had gone out, probably blown out by the sudden gust of wind.
Eagerly he slid toward the opening, crouching low as he moved into the
shadows along the wall.