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King Of The Jungle
By C.G.Allan
He had waited until all were asleep. Until his cell-mate had been dragged away and burnt alive, giving him the chance to live. Until the time was just right. And then from the darkness and madness of his existence in that place, he made his move. He couldn't wait until the end of the war to be rescued, so he escaped...
He sat in Ward 3. of a British military hospital, hidden deep within the Burmese jungle. He watched a bird as it flew onto the open window sill. It looked in once and then seemed to reconsider and flew off, consumed by the jungle in an instant.
The man was, to everyone around him, insane. But inside his mind there was order and regiment. He knew who he was and what had happened to him - yet he never talked of it. He rarely talked at all in fact: his speech was limited to murmurs every so often for food or water. He did make sound at night... but who didn't in that place? The screams were expected by the nurses whose nerves were tested to breaking point each night.
Since he wouldn't speak a word upon arrival - not even to give his serial number or regiment, the doctors gave him the affectionate name 'George' - in honour of the king. He didn't mind though - at least it wasn't Joe Bloggs or something demeaning, but perhaps he wouldn't have minded something demeaning anyway.
Other than his inarticulate manner, George was labelled "doolalee" by his fellow inmates because of his strange habits - one of which was knitting every hour that the day sent light.
"Maybe it's what got him through his time with the Japs" guessed the patient opposite George, who had been scarred by shrapnel at Cou Pang. "It might remind him of home and his mother" reminisced a plump nurse. "Let him keep on knitting if it keeps him happy". It certainly kept the ward Sister and her colleagues happy - they had got five cardigans out of George since he arrived.
At present, George was knitting a ball shape, and despite being teased by his compatriots, he diligently kept on at it for a full week. They thought it was a football or another pin cushion for the nurses, but George was knitting this one for himself. By Friday morning, he had finished it and pushed it in-between the railings underneath his bed. This one the nurses couldn't have - this one George would keep for himself
He used the remainder of his wool to knit a pair of yellowy-pink booties, which he wore constantly from that time onwards. The nurses wondered whether his mother wore similar coloured slippers when he was a child, and the other former P.O.W.s in the ward commented on how, after spending months bare-footed in a labour-camp, even they would consider wearing comfortable booties - but perhaps some other colour than yellowy-pink.
After that he stopped knitting for a while. He wanted brown wool and shocked Sister by asking for it. "He spoke!" She cried. "Yes, but when can I get my brown wool?" pursued George. He didn't speak to the Sister again after that. He patiently waited for his brown wool to arrive. Patience and time were all he had - he was extremely patient. His time with the Japanese had taught him patience.
Besides he had other things to occupy his time: he would repeatedly polish his service boots regimentally each morning and night; he had doctor's tests every other day to look forward to; and there were the visits of the Chaplain each Monday afternoon.
"How are you today then George?" Asked Fr. Beakes as he took off his overcoat and revealed his black suit and blinding white collar. George smiled his reply and the priest nodded contently. George seemed fascinated with this man each time he visited. He would sit to attention and seemed to listen to what he had to say.
The nurses, observing George's bursts of interests each Monday afternoon, said he must be remembering the church-going days of his childhood with his mother, while the other patients said that faith was all that was left for a man who had been shut up in a swamp cell for twenty four hours of the day.
There was never any dialogue between the priest and the 'mad man' of course. Fr. Beakes would give reports on the progress of the war and passed encouraging comments about how well George looked. All were simply answered by George's continual smiles and uniquely regular 'clicks' from the back of his throat.
This irritated his fellow countrymen in the ward who were trying to sleep or just had no nerves left to test. But the nurses guessed it was probably something his mother did when he was a child to console him, while Fr. Beakes thought it may have been a way of counting time that George had adopted while he was a P.O.W.
As occurred each Monday afternoon at about half way into the visit of the priest, just after he had finished his prayers and given George Communion, George's clicking noises got louder as Fr. Beakes pulled out his pocket watch to see how long he had before he had to move onto the next catholic patient in the next ward.
"You do like this watch don't you George" observed the priest placing it back into his waist coat pocket and bringing a brown paper parcel out from his overcoat pocket. George's eyes were still fixed upon the watch chain, which dangled tantalizingly from the priest's waistcoat pocket.
Unwrapping the brown paper package, Fr. Beakes revealed a slightly worn and obviously cheaper pocket watch - but a watch all the same. "This is for you George. Every good catholic should have one", joked the priest. He leaned closer to George saying a little quieter, "you'll be able to time Sister on her rounds now and see if she's the stickler for being on time that I've heard about".
George nodded with a smile, as if to carry on the joke.
The priest placed the gift into the waiting hands of George. The clicking sounds stopped, George was wound up with excitement, his eyes welled with tears, but he didn't allow them to drip down into the deep, unnatural canal of his left cheek - his gift from the Japanese.
George was forced to immediately check his reaction by the interruption of the ward Sister, who brought lemon tea and custard creams for Fr. Beakes. George stared at the rotation of the second hand of his watch, while the priest thanked the Sister and turned back to George.
He took two custard creams from his plate and gave them to George. "There you go George, there's two more for your collection". George reached under his bed for the tin he'd been given for his wool. He opened it to reveal about two dozen other custard creams, to which he added the new ones, and replaced the lid.
Fr. Beakes had rolled his eyes and smiled back at this quaint obsession that George had. Sister guessed that George's mother must have kept a ready supply of the biscuits when he was a child, and although George clearly didn't like custard creams, hoarding them was a way of not letting go of his childhood days.
Fr. Beakes supped his tea and crunched his biscuits, watching George as he replaced the tin under the bed. "Aren't you ever going to eat one, George?" He asked. George shook his head.
"Well you don't know what you're missing" concluded the priest as he took another biscuit from his plate. He secretly thought that although George clearly didn't like custard creams, hoarding food must have been a way of life for a P.O.W., who was fed on bread and water once every three days.
George was engrossed with his watch again.
"When I was at St. Dymphna's back in Somerset, there was this one particular family..." the priest was at the point of his visit where he'd ran out of news and pleasantries and was left with about fifteen minutes to fill - so he began to reminisce and George switched off again - the clicking had stopped.
"Yes, this particular family, the Partridges I think they were called" droned on the Priest. "They were never on time for Mass, you see..." George and his watch were in another time and place - and certainly not back at St. Dymphna's with the Partridges. Nevertheless, once Fr. Beakes' visit came to an end and the Priest put on his overcoat George made sure he said "goodbye... and thank you". That was the first and last time George spoke to Fr. Beakes.
It had been a long day, and a day for receiving of gifts. Earlier the Sister had brought George his brown wool - he was content. Since he hadn't given anything to deserve these gifts, George decided that he would do just that.
That night when all in the ward were asleep and in-between Sister's proficient hourly patrols, George crept over to Stan Maguire's bedside and popped the bravery medal he had received after escaping from 'Lau Mai' camp into his glass. Moving onto Jack Crawford's space, he put the pair of woollen gloves he had been working on over the weekend onto the bedside table (they wouldn't take long to replace). And to Wally Spedmore, the last man in Ward 3., George gave his false teeth. They were more trouble than they were worth, but Wally always complained that he wanted to look his best for when he saw his wife again, so George knew he'd put them to good use. He put them in Wally's slippers, where he would find them once he believed he could walk again.
George smiled, he felt a little like Father Christmas, but there was no chimney in the ward, and definitely no snow outside. He gave a tongue click before using the ward toilet and closing its window, which he had routinely opened earlier that evening. He just made it back into bed before Sister came back into the ward for her 3am watch. George looked at his wheel-chair, relieved he hadn't let her see him up and about.
George slept like a log that night. Gone were the cries for this night at least. He slept in the comfort of the hospital ward, surrounded by all his remaining possessions: his tin of custard creams; the carefully polished service boots; his yellowy-pink booties; the worn and battered, but perfectly working pocket watch from Fr. Beakes which ticked away into the darkness; his knitting needles; the strange knitted ball; his brown wool and finally his new dress uniform which had just arrived the day before to replace the charred and tattered remains of the original which had endured the life of a P.O.W. along with George. They were all the possessions he had. Not too many - just a good, manageable amount.
George's original uniform had been his pride and joy. He could still remember the passing out parade in his hometown of Trowbridge - how proud he felt in that uniform. It all seemed like so long ago now, but that uniform George could still picture so clearly in his mind. When he was informed on entering the hospital that it had been incinerated he had felt as if he had lost an old, dear friend.
The next morning came and George awoke with a start - rising upright in his bed like a corpse that excels a last gasp of air and rises eerily. The rest of the occupants of the ward looked at George through the net-curtains, which surrounded his bed with little surprise. His fellow patients pondered on whether it was a habit he had acquired whilst he was captive and the nurses thought he must have been dreaming of his childhood and was looking for his mother.
George had slept so contently the previous night and yet now, he was in a panic. He looked around aimlessly, trying to focus on some marker that would tell him what he needed to know.
"Good morning George", intervened the dull voice of Dr. Peterson. "What glorious sunshine there is for your walk in the gardens this morning". George immediately came down from his high and landed safely back on earth. He was so relieved in fact that he almost let himself give a reply to the grey haired doctor.
"That's some improvement at least, Sister" the doctor said at what he saw as George's open mouthed attempt at speech. The doctor was happy and George was just relieved that he hadn't made a sound.
"Well, everything seems fine, but I'm afraid until he begins speaking and walking again, George will be remaining with us until this damnable war comes to an end", concluded the heavy eyed doctor to the hovering ward Sister.
"If it ever does" interrupted Florence Brown, as she entered the room to begin her shift on Ward 3. The doctor and Sister moved onto Wally Spedmore and began examining his 'lame' legs. Florence came over to George almost, it seemed to George, as if to single him out.
"Well?" She asked. "Are you ready for your walk Georgie?" George's face beamed with excitement, but he didn't want Florence to know just how happy he was that she had arrived - and how over-joyed he was that he hadn't slept through her visit - that just wouldn't be the done thing.
George loved to listen to Florence's gossip as they progressed around the hospital grounds. Gossip of the various alterations going on throughout the hospital and the tales of the extensions being made to the hospital garden. Her voice was the calm needed in the sea of storms that George had constantly experienced since he first awoke to find himself in the hospital, so many months before.
"So you nearly talked today Georgie?" Came the soft familiar voice as Florence pushed George slowly along the pathway. "D'you fancy talking now? Maybe just to comment on the weather?" The climate certainly was perfect. It had been the rainy season for as long as George could recall, and now it was just right. No more sudden down-pours, just beautiful sun-drenched days - almost like the days back in Trowbridge, where George would play cricket as a boy.
But he couldn't recount those days to Florence, or even discuss the wonderful weather. Besides it would ruin the rapport that had developed between them.
The odd couple turned the corner at the petunias and began the penultimate leg of their 'walk' round the hospital grounds. George continued to contently listen to Florence as she walked, but sat up slightly more attently now.
"So you won't talk, eh Georgie?" Concluded the nurse of their prior conversation. Of course Georgie wouldn't talk, and he wasn't about to just get up and walk either. Without an answer to her question, Florence changed the subject, "look up there Georgie, you can see Dr. Peterson and Sister connodiling in his office". She was joking of course. "And there's the ward window".
George slowly raised his greasy brown-haired head up towards the window on the first floor. Up past the slow growing conifers, up through the ivy which had out-grown its wooden lattice support, up past the estimated three meters and two feet space of bricks to rest his eyes upon the ward toilet window which was blindingly bright in the midday sun.
"Soon have you back up there again" came Florence's now more irritating voice, and Georgie's head dropped back down to ground level. "Yes well..." began the nurse, but her speech was cut off in mid-stream by George's sudden ascension out of his chair and about-turn. He ran back to look around the corner and down the path they had just came from.
His stare was fixed quite firmly upon something, but Florence could not fathom what it was. She rubbed her spectacles and, putting them on, squinted into the distance. "Lost something?" She asked.
George's trance was broken and he turned back to the nurse, breaking through the sour expression his face held to reveal a wide grin. "No, nothing at all" uttered George unreservedly. He then returned to his chair and sank back into it. "Home James", he said. That was the only time George spoke to nurse Florence.
For the rest of the afternoon, George contented himself with finishing his knitting with brown wool. By 9pm he had stopped and had ended up with a brown square kind of a shape, like the handkerchiefs that George's father would wear on his head when watching his son play cricket during the blistering English summers back in Trowbridge.
Sister shook her head in dismay, as she drew the security-blanket-net-curtains around George's bed. "You don't need to use the ward toilet again George, do you? You used it an hour ago, so I shouldn't think so". George clicked his pocket watch shut. "I'll take that as a no then," said the Sister. "Honestly George, Fr. Beakes was only joking about timing me. I'm never late you know".
George knew.
Sister left the ward, turning out the lights and leaving the quiet darkness to be broken only by the clicks and scrapes of knitting needles from behind closed net-curtains.
The following morning was precisely as was expected, and hoped for: not too wet, not to dry, but perfect. Nurse Florence entered Ward 3. early, along with Sister and Dr. Peterson. "I didn't report it yesterday because I thought I'd give him time to speak and walk on his own again. But last night", continued Florence as she drew back the net-curtained walls of George's bed. "Last night I started to ask myself why he chose to talk and walk at that particular time".
"Well, things do seem to be coming to a head, perhaps we should ask him that question", quipped Dr. Peterson, gesturing with another patient's chart to the back of George's head. He was lying, it would seem, contently asleep, oblivious to the three figures behind him.
"Go ahead" invited nurse Florence.
Sister stepped forward and gently rubbed George's shoulder. Just as she began to whisper loudly to him to wake up, his head seemed to jerk slightly and then... it fell off, rolling across the floor to the feet of nurse Florence, who smiled content with having her suspicions confirmed.
"What the hell is that?!" Gasped the grey-blue doctor.
"It's a knitted ball with brown wool attached to it", replied Sister automatically, almost in paraplegic shock. The doctor, now back to his normal grey tinge, pulled back the bed sheets revealing a slightly tarnished looking pocket watch and a square tin, which he opened to reveal some crumbs, a fountain pen and two knitting needles with a note attached which simply read
"My gifts to you Florence - a little piece of home, James
P.S. Thank Sister for the loan of her pen."
Nurse Florence smiled. Dr. Peterson laughed. "So his real name was James" he said. Sister looked down blankly at her empty breast pocket where her pen should have been. She looked back up just as blankly and walked into the ward toilet. She looked out of the window, which George had opened early the previous evening.
Later, the three hospital staff, along with Fr. Beakes, walked in the hospital gardens. Dr. Peterson and Sister were rambling on about how such a thing was unheard of and about who should take the blame. Florence and Fr. Beakes stopped at the slow growing conifers and looked up at the open toilet window of Ward 3. which George had clambered out of during the night at about 2.20am wearing his new dress uniform - just in-between Sister's highly punctual patrols.
Fr. Beakes smirked as he felt in his pocket for the old and tarnished pocket watch, which George had used to exact his escape. He had jumped the 3 meters and 2 feet or so space of bricks down to the ivy covered lattice work, using the extra pair of gloves he had knitted to get through the thorns and branches, before jumping to the ground in his polished boots were covered by yellowy-pink booties which, as George had planned, muffled the sound of his footsteps as he ran down the pathway to freedom.
The Priest and nurse left the doctor and Sister complaining about the crushed conifers and trampled petunias, and walked around the corner. Nurse Florence stared into the distance. Her gaze was now fixed upon what George had seen the previous day, but which she hadn't been able to see - she didn't need her spectacles now.
The hospital gates stood unguarded. Well who would want to escape from a hospital in the middle of the jungle anyway?
"I suppose we'll be taking some of the blame for this" said the priest now looking down at the old watch, which he had removed from his waistcoat pocket. "I mean we both aided his escape in a roundabout way."
Florence kept smiling and staring passed the gates into the jungle. Fr. Beakes saw how unconcerned the nurse was at the thought of disciplinary action being taken against her and so stared into the jungle as well.
"We were all too concerned with the madness inherent in his everyday existence." he pondered. "We never took the time to look for the sanity of his actions."
"This place was too much like Lau Mai to him, Father" said the nurse finally. "I doubt whether George could stay in any one place for any long period of time after what he experienced at Lau Mai."
Deep within the Burmese jungle, George or James or whatever he wanted to be called sat contently smiling, watching the breeze sway the trees gently backwards and forwards. He was free again, he knew he wanted to get home, but he wasn't sure how to get there or how long it would take him. What he was certain of was where he was not and where he did not want to be, and as he sat munching them amongst the grass, he was also certain that he definitely did like custard creams.
Fr. Beakes snapped shut the old tarnished watch as Dr. Peterson called to him and nurse Florence to come back to his office to discuss what action now had to be taken.
"It's ironic, you know" he said to Florence as they walked passed the crushed slow-growing conifers
"But I came today to tell George that I'd heard the Japanese fleet have been crushed at Midway in the Pacific and they're considering a peace agreement with the Americans. It would mean that our war may soon be over".
"Perhaps he already knew that" replied the nurse as they entered the hospital building and closed the doors behind them.
