Two nights later, when the entire camp was packed up, ready to march out the following morning, and the men had bedded down, Bolt removed the Colt .45 revolver from the false bottom of his backpack. He sat loading the gun, facing up to what he believed he had to do. This was a different kind of murder. His drowning of the Japanese sailor who tried to kill him in the water was a spontaneous act of self-preservation. This was preservation too, yet it was also premeditated, if he succeeded. He, and all in his group, knew it was only a matter of time before Little Hitler and his thugs struck again.
They had been even more intimidatory since the corporal had not been charged with anything after Wallis’s demise. In the four days since the shooting there had been more random bashings of Bolt’s group and other POWs.
‘It has to stop,’ Bolt whispered to a sleeping Red Lead. He patted her, placed one bullet in the gun and crept out into the night.
At about 10 p.m. Little Hitler went to the square in search of prostitutes, but all doors, huts and stalls were closed to him and his cohorts. They fired their rifles into the air, but the locals remained shut away. Little Hitler and his men broke into the cottage he had visited earlier in the week. It was deserted. They broke glasses and artefacts, and smashed a mirror. There was not much to loot.
They returned to their truck and passed around beer, which they’d bought from a small Japanese brewery that had been set up a few miles away. It wasn’t the best and it had not been chilled but the corporal and his small team of cronies didn’t care. If they couldn’t have sex, they’d have alcohol and get drunk.
After two hours, they drove back to the camp. An inebriated Little Hitler called for a halt near the latrines. He wanted to take a piss. The corporal jumped unsteadily from the vehicle before it was stopped. He twisted his ankle and was angry. He limped around to the driver’s window and pointed a gun at the driver, who cowered back in the seat. Little Hitler tried to fire the gun, but it jammed. The driver, at the urgings of the others in the truck, backed up with a screech and sped off, leaving the corporal standing alone, fuming. He attempted to fire his weapon again. This time it went off. He had trouble putting it back into his belt holster.
Swearing to himself, he began to fumble his penis out.
Bolt had watched this violent charade, illuminated by the truck’s lights, from behind a tree 30 yards away. Just as the corporal had finished, Bolt crept up behind him and hooked his arm around the man’s throat, pushing a knee into his back. Little Hitler, his big frame slack from too much alcohol consumption, was in no state to fight back. Bolt gave one powerful jerk and twist. There was an audible crack as two vertebrae in the corporal’s neck were broken. Bolt did not let go for another minute, throttling Little Hitler. When the Japanese soldier was on his back and unconscious, Bolt struck him on the throat karate-style, killing him.
Bolt caught his breath then dragged the heavy, limp body to the latrine. With a grunt and several shoves, he pushed it into the ‘shit pit’. Only then did he become aware of the awful stench from it, and wafts of the ammonia from urine. He picked up a piece of bamboo, held his breath and probed down with the stick. The body had gone to the bottom in the heavy, foul slop.
Bolt moved away 20 yards, fell to one knee and dry-retched for a minute. He straightened up, walked slowly back to the hot water point and washed thoroughly. At the hut, Red Lead was sitting near the entrance. She meowed and observed him with what he viewed as curiosity. She waited until he was under his blanket and mosquito net and followed him in. He removed his gun from his jacket and placed it in the pack.
Red Lead sniffed around his head and curled close. Bolt lay on his back and could not sleep. He gave a prayer of thanks as his brain went over and over the murder.
During the night, he thought about what would happen next. There would be a search for Little Hitler, probably before midday when the POWs would have been marched out. At least, that was what he assumed. Then he dwelt on the gun in his pack. It worried him until dawn, when he got up and buried it near a clump of bamboo trees.
To everyone’s surprise, the march out was delayed. After breakfast, the POWs were ordered to wait in their huts until further notice. Bolt became worried. He could see about 100 Japanese guards scouring the camp area.
‘What’s that about?’ Farrow asked.
‘A lost guard, perhaps,’ Bolt said, placing a wooden saucer of water in front of Red Lead.
‘Really?’
‘Why not? They’ve had a few go AWOL, never to return.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Two disappeared at the cholera camp, and I don’t mean they died.’
‘I believe they’ve had a few vamoose at every camp,’ Bolt said, pulling a face. ‘I mean, they’re not prisoners, but anyone could go stark-raving nuts out here.’
There were nods of understanding all round.
‘The Koreans are the most unhappy working under such conditions,’ Farrow said. ‘They are almost slaves like us. Just above us on the food chain. The Japanese officers bash their guards, and they bash the bloody Koreans.’
‘And everyone bashes us,’ Grout proffered.
‘Dan,’ Bright said, ‘you were out for quite a long time last night, weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘I was taking a very big shit.’
After an hour, the hut was visited by the three guards who usually accompanied Little Hitler. They ordered everyone out of the hut at gunpoint. Bolt popped Red Lead into the pack and carried her out. The guards searched everywhere, then stalked off to the next hut.
‘They were Little Hitler’s thugs that had a crack at us the other night,’ Farrow said, touching a bandage. ‘They don’t seem so cocky without him.’
‘Where’s he, then?’ Grout asked.
‘Maybe he’s gone missing,’ Farrow said hopefully.
‘I doubt it,’ Bolt said, ‘I’m sure he’s undeterred.’
Farrow glanced at him.
‘What do you mean by “undeterred”, sir?’ Noel asked.
‘Perhaps it has a double meaning.’