The young lieutenant died a few days later, and Bolt felt a deep sense of failure, even remorse. Yet he had helped save the lives of twenty-five men on Cholera Hill. Most importantly, the killer disease had been halted from taking over the entire camps around Nieke, Upper Konkoita and Songkurai, all at the upper end of the railway inside Thailand. Funeral pyres at the Australian camps were testimony to the battle with the worst problem, next to the slower, more insidious malaria, for all the slaves on the railway project.
Bolt was walking around Nieke for the last time with Cahill and an Australian captain from 7th Division. They passed a big pyre where about 30 bodies had been deposited in the final hours of the day as the camp packed up and prepared for a march further up the line.
‘Never seen anything more macabre at night,’ the captain said, waving a dismissive hand at the roaring flames being stoked by POWs. They could feel the heat from 20 yards, which was not unpleasant as the cold night set in.
‘My God!’ Cahill exclaimed and pointed at a body sitting up. One of its arms, then a leg appeared to salute them. ‘He is waving to us!’
‘Contraction of the tendons,’ Bolt said, ‘I’ve had to destroy horses and dispose of the carcasses by fire. Had them kick hard at me as if I’d done the wrong thing.’
The captain shuddered.
‘I’m going to have nightmares forever!’ he said.
‘We all will,’ Cahill said with a sad look. ‘I’m already having them.’
‘Have you ever thought why some of the POWs don’t pick up the cholera when we’ve all been so exposed to it?’
‘I have,’ Cahill replied. ‘There must be something in our genetic make-up, bearing in mind we might be struck down any moment. But that aside, history has shown during plagues, for instance, that some survive, some don’t. It’s a mystery that medical science will solve, one day.’
The ‘Last Post’ was played by a lone bugler 50 yards away. They were hearing it several times a day. The three men bowed their heads until the croaky, off-key rendition was over.
‘That sounded a bit different,’ the captain said. ‘Not so melodic.’
‘No,’ Cahill agreed, ‘the regular chap died this morning.’
The slave caravan marched on for two days to the last camp on the railway inside Thailand, just short of the town of Three Pagodas Pass. It sat at the foot of mountains which surrounded the town on the border with Burma.
Their camp was a few hundred yards from the Song Kalia River. Bolt wanted to take Red Lead for a swim, but seeing the black, brown and stinking cesspool of 4-feet-deep slit-trench toilets between the camp and the river, he decided instead on a run before dark.
The area was tranquil and pleasant with fine views along the river, which was more like a series of lakes. After undoing their packs and settling in a cleared area, Bolt and Grout shared some tea while admiring the view.
‘There must be a hundred shades of green in the flora,’ Bolt observed, indicating the riverbanks. ‘Quite beautiful.’
‘Good place for a holiday resort,’ Grout responded, deadpan.
‘At least it gives us a timeless antidote to the hell in the camps.’
The POWs had a fraction more freedom and were able to buy or purloin a few vegetables from stalls in the local village. They chopped up the much-sought-after food and added it to their rice. The men took their time eating around a campfire, relieved to be 40 miles from the cholera camp and about 70 miles from the thick jungle of tiger country and intense snake infestation.
‘The pass has historic importance,’ Noel told the group, who rolled their eyes at yet another tutorial. ‘The Burmese have used it for invasions of the Lana Kingdom.’
‘The what?’ asked Farrow, who was making a slow recovery from malaria.
‘Lana Kingdom. That was what the area was called.’
‘Who gives a shit?’ Wallis said, admiring himself in a cracked mirror and slicking his hair back with water. He gave his dirty white boots a flick with a rag, and pulled up his football socks.
‘Burmese have been invading Thailand since 1548,’ Noel added, unfazed by the interruption.
‘Geez, way back then,’ Grout said. ‘I think St Kilda won the flag that year.’
Wallis stood and straightened his tatty shirt. He made a play of tearing off his arm plaster. He flexed his forearm.
‘Don’t need this anymore,’ he said.
‘Where you goin’?’ Tait asked.
‘Mind your own business,’ Wallis said. ‘I spotted a sexy little number in them food stalls near those pathetic pagodas. I reckon she fancies me.’
‘Be a little cautious, mate,’ Bolt warned. ‘If there are prostitutes there, the Japs are sure to know about them. Especially that close friend of yours, Little Hitler.’
‘I’ll deal with that turd if he gets in my way again,’ Wallis said as he walked away.
‘Turdus Maximus,’ Grout called.
Wallis stopped, turned and asked menacingly, ‘What did you call me?’
‘Not you, Little Hitler.’
Wallis scrutinised Grout for a moment and muttered, ‘You’ll keep,’ before disappearing into the night.
Wallis arrived at the grass square at 9 p.m., well after prisoner curfew. He stood nervously near the uninspiring three small cement-plaster pagodas, from which the town took its name. Wallis could see the red dot on a truck, lights on, heading along the track from the camp. There was a sudden monsoonal downpour. He moved to shelter near one of the closing stalls and noticed the young girl with jet-black long hair, with whom he thought he’d made a date. She was closing the stall of local artefacts.
Wallis took an American ten-dollar note and pushed it into her hand.
‘Quick,’ he said, ‘Japs come!’
She protested. Wallis, twice her size, dragged her through a door into a small bamboo storeroom at the back of the stall. He put a hand over her mouth. They could see through the slats. Four Japanese, led by the arrogant Little Hitler, alighted from the truck.
The girl let go a stifled scream. Wallis belted her across the mouth. The Japanese didn’t hear. They hustled to a hut on the other side of the square.
Wallis wanted his money’s worth, but the girl was not receptive. She threw the money on the floor and wiped away a trickle of blood from her mouth.
‘I tell Japanese!’ she yelled at him, ‘I tell Japanese!’
He pulled her to him, but she kicked and scratched. He pushed her away and there was a stand-off as she hurled abuse in Thai at him. She spat.
‘Wild cat, eh? Like to play rough.’
He pushed her to the ground and fell on top of her. She wriggled free and grabbed a loose bamboo pole. She aimed it like a spear. He laughed gruffly and glanced through the bamboo slats again. She took the moment to dash to the stall and into the square, screaming all the way to the house where the Japanese were. Little Hitler came into the square doing up his trousers. He hurried, rifle in hand, to the stall where the girl was pointing.
Wallis made a run for the road. The four Japanese jumped in the truck and gave chase. They put their lights on high-beam and spotted him close to the water’s edge. Three of them jumped from the truck and cornered Wallis, who put up his hands.
‘Okay. Don’t shoot,’ Wallis said. ‘Just having a little fun like you blokes were.’
‘You!’ Little Hitler said, walking a few yards from Wallis who was right on the water’s edge. ‘You get me into big trouble!’
He took a step closer, with the spotlight right on the cowering Wallis. Little Hitler pulled out his revolver and shot Wallis in the side of head. He stumbled and fell flat. Little Hitler stepped up close and fired into the back of Wallis’s head. The four Japanese pushed the big body into the river, making sure it was submerged.