Bolt and the six others in Hut 68 were delighted two days later to see about 300 Perth survivors trucked into the camp. The new arrivals had cramped conditions in multi-level Hut 8, compared to the smaller but less populated Hut 68. On a vote, none in Hut 68 wanted to move in with their crew, thrilled as they were to know so many of their shipmates had made it.
‘First in, best housed,’ Grout observed.
Yet the little group had to join up with the others from Perth for work details at the docks cleaning up the debris from air attacks, first by the Japanese, then the Allies. The sailors were also ordered to unload Japanese ships. Few complained. It was not back-breaking work and there was little supervision, with the Japanese leaving that to Australian officers.
Through cryptic, never prolonged exchanges, Bolt’s little group learned from the others from Perth who had made it and who hadn’t. With their numbers being more than 300, hundreds of sailors were still unaccounted for.
The sailors took the opportunity to do some bartering, using their few guilders to buy pumpkin, coconuts and bananas. Cigarettes were harder to come by. Wallis and Nadler, who had gone into his shell even more than before, decided on a method to steal them. Wallis would chat to an Indonesian store owner while Nadler would slip a pack under his shirt. This thieving method was then extended to everything from chewing gum to nuts. Eventually the Japanese commandant was informed. The warning went out that anyone caught taking things illegally would have their hands cut off, which was the method of punishment under Islamic law.
‘You blokes had better not do anything with local women,’ Grout warned Wallis and Nadler. ‘You know what they cut off for that!’
After a week, 495 Americans who had given up once the Dutch surrendered were also brought to the camp. They were flush with funds. A group of sailors from Perth, who were not so endowed, set about erecting a line of tents outside their barracks with goods of a wide variety to relieve their American ‘cousins’ of as many dollars as possible.
Bolt, with help from Tait, who was dragged away from his radio to add mathematical wizardry, set up a roulette school. Bolt was the bank, and with a conflict of interest in play, gambled on the table as well. They had purloined an old, nicely carved wooden French roulette set from a lane of Indonesian stalls near the docks. Boxes of local beer were put on sale next door.
With Farrow as a stooge ‘winner’, the bank kept losing until about twenty curious Americans, most of whom had never played before, were attracted to chance their arms. They won on a few spins and it looked easy. Then for some odd reason, the bank began to win. After two hours, Bolt, Tait and Farrow had taken about 300 dollars.
The weeks drifted by, and the now several thousand prisoners of war made the most of this lull period in which they could live reasonable lives. They occupied their restricted existences with entertainment, including plays and singing. Sport predominated with trilateral competitions with the Dutch, the Australians and the Americans competing in boxing, soccer, volleyball and swimming.
Burroughs, almost true to his word, visited Hut 68 several times a week and found Red Lead, who appeared as happy as any domesticated cat he had seen. She slept ten to twelve hours a day and was not called upon for ratting, mainly because the former Dutch barracks had been kept scrupulously clean. At least ten cats prowled all over the big compound, and Red Lead settled in well in the new surrounds.
Perhaps too well. She joined her feline friends and enemies prowling at night. The wailing was so intense one night that Bolt, Grout and Tait were compelled to search for her.
‘I thought she had been spayed,’ Tait said, loath to leave his radio set, which he promised would soon bring news.
‘Spayed or not, tomcats and their girls just like to have fun,’ Grout said.
They found her on their roof. She sat and looked down on them, with a what’s-all-the-fuss-about look on her innocent face. Further up the roof, two silhouettes of other cats were slinking about.
‘You’re grounded,’ Bolt said, trying to coax her down with food.
But, true to form, she kept her freedom and individuality. Grumbling, the humans went back to bed. A short time later, the wailing resumed.
‘Little minx is at it again,’ Bolt said.
‘How dare she enjoy herself within earshot,’ Farrow said, ‘after all we’ve done for her.’
‘Least she’s getting a bit,’ Grout said, bringing laughs from every bunk.
The next morning, Burroughs knocked on Hut 68’s door.
‘We’ve got a big swimming meet tonight,’ he told Bolt, ‘I reckon you could do well.’
‘No, I’ve lost my fitness,’ Bolt said.
‘You wouldn’t win it. We’ve got an Olympic champ, a Houston artillery man, a Texan, who is unbeatable. He’s done under 4 minutes 55 seconds for the 440 yards.’
‘What are the race lengths?’
‘It’s a 50-yard pool, maybe 55 ’cause the Dutch are metric. There is a sprint, a 100-metre race, a 200 and a 400.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Can’t wait. Got to have nominations by this morning.’
‘Okay, I’ll go in the 400.’
‘Great! What’s your best time?’
‘Just on 4 minutes 45 seconds.’
‘You’re kidding! No one has cracked 4.50 yet.’
‘That’s in America, mate. A few of us have broken it in Australia. Remember most of us live on beaches. We know how to swim.’ Bolt was bluffing. He was referring to breaking 4.50 for 400 yards, not metres.
‘Yeah, okay, so we’ll see you at 7 p.m. Your race is at 7.30 p.m.’
Red Lead was at the door after her hot night on the roof. She slunk in meowing for food.
‘Oh, hair of the dog for you, is it?’ Bolt said in mock indignation. He wagged his finger at her. She responded with her sensual calf brush.
Bolt took a shower. He laughed when Red Lead wandered in under the water. She stayed there, licking herself.
‘Guess you have to clean up after last night, eh?’
Later, over a frugal breakfast of one fried egg, Wallis said, ‘I heard you tell Edgar you’d broken 4.45 for the 440. Is that true?’
‘No. I meant 400 yards.’
‘Then why say that?’
‘Boasting!’ Nadler said.
‘Not that.’
‘Then why?’ Grout also wanted to know.
‘Old competition trick, especially in swimming, that my old man taught me. Swimmers are always asking your time for this and that distance. I told him 4.45 so he’ll tell this big Texas hero, and he’ll sweat over me. The 400 is a middle-distance race and you have plenty of time to play mental games with your opponent.’
‘I’ve heard about this Texan,’ Wallis said, winking at the others. ‘He’s an artillery man, strong as an ox, they say.’
‘The bigger they are, the deeper they sink,’ Bolt said. ‘Besides, in swimming it’s the heart and lung capacity that count. If he hasn’t got real ticker, I’ll beat him.’
‘Wallis is bullshitting,’ Grout said. ‘I’ve seen the Texan. He’s sinewy and tall. Not a powerhouse.’
‘Okay, I love racing against a drink of water,’ Bolt said, smiling.
‘A drink of water,’ Tait said, fiddling with his radio set while talking, ‘what’s that?’
‘A tall bloke with weak shoulders and small torso. It means he won’t have a big heart or lungs.’
‘Spoken like a true short-arse, Dan,’ Grout said.
‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’