THE STINK OF sweat and excrement and rotting teeth struck Gendron like a fist even before the guards pushed him inside and locked the rusty iron door. After the floodlit glare of the compound, he was completely blind for one or two minutes; and for some reason the stink of the barracks was always worse when there was no light.
Dirty feet, unwashed bodies scratched and crusted with sores, stale dead watery sperm. In the darkness the stink was like some foul soup; it could be tasted as well as smelled. He grinned sourly at the sound of someone masturbating, making no attempt to cloak his activities with loud snoring as some of the new prisoners did.
Gendron could see shapes now, in the thin shafts of light that bounced through the narrow barred windows from the compound. A few men snored and grunted in their sleep, but Gendron knew the others were awake, lying silently in their dirty bunks. A voice called out; it belonged to Boulanger, the Jolly Rapist.
Gendron called out his name and a match scraped against the side of a bunk. Boulanger had the match and he cupped it in his hands before he touched it to a stub of candle in a small tin can with the side cut away.
Boulanger raised the guttering candle and squinted in the dim light. “By God, that’s who it is—the American back from the dead!”
Now it was all right for Gendron to make for his bunk. When he found it, there was a man he didn’t know sleeping in it. The snoring stopped when he pinched the inside of the sleeper’s thigh. The man opened his eyes with a curse, his bare feet thrashing wildly. He yelled something about dirty, night-crawling queers.
“Out!” Gendron told him quietly. “My bunk—you find your own rathole.”
The man was big enough to be ready to fight about it. Gendron didn’t want to fight, didn’t know that he could win a fight after a month in the pit. But he had to put on a tough front, or they’d think the pit had broken him. That was how it was when a man was taken away for special punishment: the others waited to test him when he came back.
He didn’t have to fight. “That’s Gendron you’re talking back to,” Boulanger said, laughing about it. “You heard what he did to Radisson and his queers.”
The man rolled off the bunk, doing it slowly so it wouldn’t look like he was scared. Maybe he wasn’t scared, or was less scared when he got a good look at Gendron. “I’m no Belgian and no queer,” he said. “You don’t look so tough to me.”
Boulanger, the Jolly Rapist, laughed so hard that his belly shook. For a man who lived on slop, it was a big belly. “Watch him, American,” he said. “Our friend here isn’t big, but he uses everything he has. The son of a bitch bites too.”
“Fuck you, child raper!”
Boulanger had a soft round jovial voice. “Honest to Jesus, boys, I never slipped it into a child in my life. But you want fucking, my friend, come on over here.”
“Do you stay or go?” Gendron asked.
The man hesitated before he said, “Your bed stinks.” Then he went to the end of the long room and sat with his back against the wall.
Boulanger brought the light over to Gendron’s side of the room. Some of the other prisoners followed, telling Gendron that he didn’t look so bad. “You look terrible,” Boulanger said.
Flat on the bed, Gendron said, “You look the same.”
“Nothing around here is the same, American.
“You think it was bad in the pits. Not much better here. What in hell was going on out there?”
Gendron told him, keeping it short. “What’s all this shit about the men taking sides?”
“You don’t understand because you’re not a Frenchman.”
“That’s right, I’m not.”
“It makes no difference, American. You’re here, you’ll have to make a choice. Easy, my friend, no threat—just a fact.”
Gendron shielded his eyes against the light so that he could see Boulanger’s face. It wasn’t smiling. “Why does it matter? What the hell can you—anybody—do?”
“I don’t know, American. At home the people are divided, the same is happening here. Some of us would like to kill Germans.”
Gendron was tired; the French, all of them, were so full of shit. Shit that came out the wrong hole. “Anything is better than being here. But you’re here and here you stay.”
Boulanger lowered his voice and motioned the three convicts who were with him to move in close. “Maybe not,” he said. “The way things are going, they will kill some of us if we stay here. The Colonel is a Nazi and Ducharme is his trained dog. The men are divided, even the faggots. You’d better listen, American, because they will kill you, too. Ducharme and Radisson will finish what they started tonight.”
Gendron knew that was true. He had no interest in their Goddamned flag waving—the Germans could drown Paris in shit for all he cared—but Ducharme would kill him just the same. The awful moment of helpless terror in the pit came back to him. “All right, I’m listening,” he said. “You’ve worked out some kind of plan. What is it?”
Boulanger’s smile was self-deprecating, and he shrugged like the jolly fat man he pretended to be. “I have worked out a number of plans, as who has not. None of them much good. I was waiting for you, American. Now I know I was right. A man who can survive the pit can get us out of here. You wouldn’t like my plan.”
“Not if it’s like all the others,” Gendron said. “But you’re right about making a break. You sure you’re not working for Ducharme, funny man?”
For once the Jolly Rapist didn’t think it was funny. “This is your first time on the island, American. I have been here twice before. You want to see the scars on my back? Put there by the Frog.”
Boulanger jerked his thumb at one of the three prisoners, the mean little man with one eye. “Giroux was here when it happened. During the rainy season. The Frog was drunk and fell in the mud. I thought it was funny. So did Giroux. When was that, Giroux?”
The one-eyed man gave the exact date, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “The Frog jumped on me and thumbed out my eye; That wasn’t enough. He had done enough harm to me, so he flogged Boulanger. Did it himself.”
“All right,” Gendron said. “You hate the Frog—who doesn’t on the island? How many more men can you count on? Wanting to break out isn’t enough. I mean men who know how to take orders when the time comes. If it comes. You’re the man who claims to know everything. Here’s something you don’t know. Germans—that’s right—are coming to the island.”
Boulanger swore a loud oath and his three friends tightened up their faces.
“It came out when Boudreau and the Frog were arguing about killing me. The Frog said it, then shut up. That’s all I know.”
Shaking his head, Boulanger said, “The drunken pig is lying. Germans here! I can’t believe it.”
“You’d better. Boudreau looked like a man with something on his mind when he went into the Colonel’s office. It wasn’t me. That’s why whatever we do will have to be done quickly.”
“Then you have a plan?” Boulanger asked.
“Not yet. I had plenty of time to think in the pit. But a man in the pit doesn’t think straight. I’ve got to think about it some more. Now, for Christ’s sake, let me get some sleep. Sound out some extra men. Be careful.”
Gendron fell asleep as soon as he stopped talking. Toward morning he woke up dripping with sweat, slapping at his body to chase the spiders back into the drain. It took a while for him to realize that he wasn’t in the pit. He was like a man waking up from a week-long drunk; the horror crowded in on him. So long as he was in the pit he could stand it; the thought that they might send him back there made his hands tremble. Fear turned into mindless anger. They would never get him back to the pit. Crazed with momentary terror, his mind numb from never-ending nightmares, he thought he heard them coming to take him back. He knew they weren’t coming, not then, but the terror was strong.
“Easy does it, pal,” he said quietly in English, repeating it several times before he believed it. Bunching up a corner of the blanket, he wiped the sweat off his chest. He felt cold, but when he stretched out his hands, fingers apart, palms upward, his hands had stopped shaking.
The bugler blew the island awake and Gendron knew he was over the worst of it, because he cursed the Goddamned bugler without thinking about it. He was even able to manage a sour grin. Home sweet home. But not for long. If he didn’t leave it soon, he would never leave it.
The heavy iron door crashed open and the guard came in shrilling on his whistle. Standing at the foot of his bunk, waiting for the order to march out, Gendron promised himself that he’d make them kill him if they ordered him back to the pit. He looked at the short Lebel rifle slung across the guard’s back, and wondered how many of the Jolly Rapist’s pals knew how to handle a gun. A few good riflemen could ...
But first they’d have to get the rifles. The corners of Gendron’s mouth pulled down in a bitter grin. Though he spoke nothing but French on the island, he still thought in English. Grin, you shit-head, he told himself. You won’t have much to grin about when the machine guns open up. But he knew he would be grinning when the shooting started. Like they said in the cowboy movies at the Biddeford Loew’s, it was all the waiting that got a man down. After months of making one plan after another, then doing nothing about any of them, it felt good to be making one last final plan.
Instead of marching them to the tin-roofed shed where the cook slopped the beans, the guards lined them up in the compound. Gendron expected to hear another speech by the Colonel, but this time it was Boudreau. The Frog was there, too. A guard named Lavalley had been promoted to Sergeant, to take the Frog’s place.
Captain Boudreau looked tired; nervous too. After the new Sergeant finished yelling, Boudreau stepped forward and spoke. Watching, Gendron could see that Boudreau was trying to work himself into a rage. The whole island was a disgrace to the Guiana penal system. They had been warned before; now he was warning them again. The Colonel didn’t like the way things were going, and neither did he. They could forget all about working on the lighthouse, the other jobs, Boudreau roared. The island was a prison, but, by God, they were going to make it as neat and clean as an army camp.
Sure, Gendron thought—the Germans. The son of a bitch wanted to make it pretty for the fucking Germans.
“You will begin immediately,” Boudreau told them. “No breakfast until I see some improvement. Whatever paint is available will be used. The barracks—everything—will be scrubbed inside and out. The gravel in the compound...”
Gendron stopped listening to the Captain. Thirty guards, thirty rifles. Rifles not in use were chained to a rack in the day-room. How much ammunition? That didn’t matter much. It would have to be quick or not at all.
Without moving his head, he squinted up at the wooden machine gun tower. One machine gunner in the tower, one Hotchkiss gun. Pistols? That didn’t matter either. If they didn’t knock out or take over the machine guns, they wouldn’t have to worry about pistols.
Boudreau finished and gave command of the proceedings to Ducharme. Gendron expected a long, threatening spiel from Ducharme, but maybe the Frog wasn’t up to it this morning. The Frog, with sweat stains widening out from his armpits, looked as if he’d been drinking right up until the bugler cut loose. From twenty feet away Gendron could see the red streaks in Ducharme’s muddy eyes.
“I’ll be watching you,” was all Ducharme said. Twin creases of pain contracted between his eyes as he raised his voice to a shout. Even without the shout, his words carried more menace than all the Captain’s yelling.
They were breaking ranks when Gendron saw Ducharme saying something to the new Sergeant. Lavalley was the Frog’s man all right. They both looked at Gendron and Sergeant Lavalley nodded. He smiled like a man who understood completely what was expected of him. Lavalley stepped back and saluted the Frog though the guards were policemen, not soldiers, and saluting wasn’t required.
Two guards were handing out prison-made brooms, primitive things, thin supple twigs bound to a short handle with dried razor grass, then daubed with tar to keep the grass from unraveling. He knew he could expect trouble from the new Sergeant; it came immediately.
“You there!” Lavalley’s voice called out. Gendron, in the line of prisoners waiting for brooms, didn’t turn his head. “You, American,” Lavalley said.
It was still cool, but Gendron felt the slide of sweat along his ribs. He meant what he said about making them kill him if ... He would grab the Sergeant’s automatic and kill him with it if ... Then he’d try for the Frog. Two shots—enough to start the machine gun.
He turned and waited. Lavalley came up close trying to make it look good for Ducharme, who was still there. Lavalley clicked his fingers. “No broom for you, American. You’ll clean the latrines.” Lavalley looked around pretending to be thinking. “Who else likes to eat shit?”
Boulanger and his pals were only a few feet from Gendron. “You’ll do,” Lavalley said, pointing. “You pigs follow me in front.” The new Sergeant laughed at his joke.
“Very funny, sir,” the Jolly Rapist said.
“Silence, you fat pig. You, you one-eyed weasel, what are you glaring at? Move I said.”
Corporal Provencher, the Captain’s orderly, came out of Boudreau’s office and yelled at Gendron, “You, American, get over here on the double.” Lavalley looked around at Ducharme to see what he wanted to do. Ducharme nodded and walked away.
“Report to the shit pile as soon as you’re finished,” Sergeant Lavalley said, irritated at having his fun delayed. Gendron could see that the new Sergeant was using the Frog as a model. He didn’t mind the shit pile at all; a minute before he’d been getting ready to die. But it would be a pleasure to kill the new Sergeant.
“Move, pig,” the Captain’s orderly roared.