The Typical Foreign Response to a Conquered People

by Maurice Downes

Whether or not he enjoyed the job he couldn't say, or in his words: that's not the point. What he meant by this was, it was a job that needed doing, so he did it. It was open to someone of his skill set and disposition. Before, he worked in an administrative capacity at the Parliament in London, a job that had elicited much the same response except back then he said: well, it's a job. People assumed this meant that he disliked the position or at least was very bored with it, which he wasn't. It pleased him that he could do something that he was so skilled in, numbers and names; occasionally he felt as if he'd helped someone, and of course he had.

Eventually, after some years, about five, of his good work things like "warmer climes" and "change of pace" became frequent in talks with people around his office. MacDougal would ask what needed doing over there, and they would instantly respond about needing to keep the natives accounted and managing his majesty's holdings on the islands. The question caused them to get downright patriotic at a moment's notice. He only applied on a dare to himself, he had no quarrel with the black and white rainy days on his way to work, he made frequent use of the south London theater, and there were the cricket matches on Saturdays.

That is to say, he didn't HAVE to leave. But surprisingly he was chosen along with a fellow by the name of Mattingley to be the most dependent of the bookkeepers in that office and sent on his way.

-------

Getting back to the South Pacific, he still hadn't completely settled in, it turns out, four months into his contract of many... not quite a year, more than a half. Some things definitely held true about what they said at home: there was hardly a rainy day here, there were palm trees as far as the eye could see, and indeed there was much work to do. The weather, actually, seemed to be the most boring part of his short stay thus far. Always sunny, always around 85 Fahrenheit, 70 at night. Mr. MacDougal actually managed to wear precisely the same thing every day to work for a week straight and no one noticed, principally because everyone else did the same. A certain slovenly attitude takes place when you realize that you can get away with the same kind of dress on a daily basis. At the very least that's what he observed, but then he had made it a point not to ever comment on too high-minded a subject as he just felt it wasn't his place. Sure, he worked in government, but he chose to keep his statements limited to noticing how the dress code relaxed out in the wilderness. Mattingley once whispered to him something along the lines of, "as the weather calms, the situation crumbles" noting the slight administrative mess that the Crown was in with the colonies. It certainly wasn't his place, MacDougal thought.

The administrative mess that Mattingley spoke of still hadn't turned MacDougal into a man with a vaunted political opinion.

MacDougal was the same man as when he left London on that cold day for the port. He still loved the British Crown, as he was told to in school, and he would probably take to arms if that same Crown asked him to. But he also got a bit annoyed at all of the "redcoats" in the office that who spouted about The King this and The King that at the drop of a hat. He thought it was a bit unnecessary, a bit put-upon. He didn't particularly hate the French, he didn't want the Yankee traitors burned at the stake. He wanted to come into the office and organize numbers now and then, which was patriotic in its own way.

They always managed to have a hot pot of uninspiring tea waiting at the colonial office every morning, and it made those same mornings just a little more comfortable. Days had become more standard than they were back at home, but because of the disorganization. The lieutenant-chief of the South Pacific, a self-involved, self-motivated man named Barron, would greet him every morning, "King and Country says good morning, Mr. MacDougal". It took a good month until MacDougal realized the military man was completely serious in his greeting... Then there'd be a slight update on the work needed to be done, say an inventory of muskets and shells, uprisings in the outposts, medical info and the like. MacDougal says thanks, shakes the man's hand, and goes on his way. Back in London, you never had any idea what task would be sent down from Parliament, he thought. He'd become used to entropy.

On this day, MacDougal chose to take his tea over a copy of the Times, about a month delay. Trouble in the states still brewing after that conflict some years back... It seems that some of the rebels had been making a damn big mess of the conversion back to a whole country. MacDougal put this together in administrative terms, imagining that there was someone like him across the Atlantic, or the Pacific, he couldn't decide since America was almost completely unknown to him. He met an American once, and was astonished to find out how much the man sounded like good South coast fisher folk, and still put about airs as to the aristocracy of the confederate people. He felt sorry for the man, though, since the whole description of the sullied SOUTH nearly evoked tears.

That whole "New World" knockabout took place when MacDougal was a child, and his memories were appropriately foggy. Most vivid in his mind were images of his uncle, an old sea captain, shaking his head and talking about the traitors. MacDougal's father would listen just enough to get the old man out of the brandy chest, his mother made no attempt to hide her lack of concern. "Serves 'em right if the darkies are getting out of line," his uncle said, or something much to that effect. This man had gotten it into his head that the former slaves were rising up and revolting, for some reason, but them, uncle never seemed well and truly senile until he was talking in military terms. "When the Crown (the crown, again) was in control they knew their place, just as the colonies knew theirs. It's their damned problem now." That's when mother would step in. She could take loud talk and revisionist history, but cussing would never do.

Finding himself again after getting lost in nostalgia, MacDougal went about finishing his tea and the stale cookies that probably couldn't have arrived from overseas any other way. He took the cup and saucer up and made for the drop-off near the kitchen. Mattingley was hovering around having a smoke and making a general nuisance of himself, starting random conversations with passerby. The man that he had stopped at this time was Barron, who looked noticeably annoyed with having to stop and talk to a mere 'accountant', let alone anyone not of higher rank than himself. Or was Mattingley putting about that ridiculous opinion of his again?

"The sun may never set on the British Empire, my dear sir, but you have to admit that it's getting a little dark in places, eh?" Mattingley remarked.

Barron dealt in plain words, mainly because that's what his capacity allowed. Commanders and Admirals were only lyrical in old stories. Barron didn't appreciate the time that he needed to decipher the statement that Mattingley had put before him, a statement that would have him court-martialed were he a serviceman and were he not so desperately needed.

"Is this an argument?" MacDougal asked, distractedly.

They both thought that MacDougal was being a bit of a wise one, but he honestly wanted to know what the trouble was. Mattingley enjoyed people like that, since he was one.

"It's a political discussion on the direction of the Crown's Destiny."

"No, it's not" Barron had enough of being belittled by the likes of... accountants. "I offer that you may not have the... proper information to engage in such an argument."

Mattingley feigned a hurt-look, one that MacDougal was too familiar with, one that had occasionally gotten Mattingley in good trouble. Barron wasn't quite intelligent enough to pick up on it, and prematurely claimed victory. It was a practice that kept him at middle management in the service.

"That would be information you have, though?" Mattingley asked.

"Precisely," Baron agreed forcefully.

"Well, then, it won't take too long for me to form a proper opinion. I thank you for correcting me, sir."

Barron went from winning to losing in one sentence. He walked away unsure if he'd done either. "Well... yes, I... do excuse me, gents. Duty of an officer, you know."

"I do wish you'd leave that man alone, friend," said MacDougal still expressing a slight fear for military hierarchy.

"We're more valuable than soldiers out here, friend. We know how to add." Mattingley didn't flaunt his expertise so much as he used it as a leveling device.

"We also know our place, most of us."

"Hmm, perhaps... why, hello."

Mattingley was interrupted by the kitchen attendant, a female that he made known, very known, that he had some passing interest in. She nodded a quick nod, smiled at the both of them and then carried onto the kitchen, carrying the bin that contained MacDougal's morning tea.

"Is that your lady love?" MacDougal asked.

"Ha! Maybe, yes, maybe why not? She has yet to come around."

He was quite an ass at times, Mattingley. The lady love comment was meant to be nothing more than an off-handed attack, and in his acidic way it could only received as an almost compliment. Mattingley couldn't even do one the pleasure of being hurt by a suggestion of the ridiculous. There was no time, no real time for relations or anything like that. That kind of thing was best reserved for the end of one's term on the islands. Several of the consulate workers took advantage of this to visit family, loved ones... lovers... "female dockworkers" as they were sometimes known. Not enough for that man. He had to have his stupid little adventure here at work, MacDougal thought.

"I am no soldier, though. She looks like she goes for the soldier type, young girl like that."

It was more a guess than anything.

-------

The consulate, which some of the soldiers and workers nicknamed Englishtown, was very close to the beach almost getting washed away once or twice when heavy rains came. It tried its hardest to look like a miniature parliament, the idea being that it would instill a sense of British pride into those so far from home. It was woefully built, but somewhat impressive the first few weeks that you worked there. After that, the poor ventilation and dripping roofs seemed to many a grim reminder of time spent at the academy; they ended up doing what came naturally: waiting for the end of service.

MacDougal often had several days in a row where he could be doing not much of anything, and rather than hang around that drab, palatial building all day, he would occasionally get a bit of curiosity in him and asked a soldier to take him out to the local barracks so he could see what was going on... training exercises and all that.

He befriended an affable young man named Percey this way. It got so that Percey would ask weekly around the same time, Thursday Afternoons, if MacDougal wanted to accompany him over into the barracks located buffer-like between the native villages and the consulate. Percey was friendly, but pragmatic and didn't even bother to ask MacDougal to come along when he knew danger was imminent. He talked a lot and was always available to answer questions; earnest to the end and genuinely concerned about the Empire. Thankfully not forcefully so.

"I've seen the way these people lived before we got here," started Percey, cleaning a shoulder-mounted rifle... staring out the carriage back. "They're resistant, but they come to love the flag soon enough." He had some of the philosopher in him, and MacDougal was always comforted by his presence. Started thinking of him like a son at times, when his guard was down.

MacDougal lost himself for a few moments as the carriage moved past processing tents and ammunition dumps. He paid some passing, polite attention to a story that Percey was telling him, something about an uprising, but in general he was miles away. It wasn't sadness, and it wasn't deep thought, but it was a strange silence anyway. Like a comatose reaction. MacDougal was usually quite animated and inquisitive on his trips to the barracks, but this time his mind up and decided to rest itself.

"...I said, what's on your mind, sir?"

Finally, his tour guide picked up on his odd distance.

"You know, I... I don't know."

"You may have been here too long, MacDougal."

He thought for a second, risking another unfortunate departure. "Have I?"

MacDougal, you may remember, never really put things like work into terms of "too long" and "strenuous". It needed doing and he did it. He didn't want to have to start thinking about where and when his employment had him.

"This life is not for everyone, sir. Certain men deal poorly... well, I won't say poorly for you... differently with being so many miles away from home. These are military lads I'm talking about, though. One, he went by the name of Stevenson, hardly even got through training straight. I think they let him in for the mere fact that they really needed some relievers out here, desperation and such. Anyway, he makes it through training, gets out here to the islands and starts putting on this very brave face, all of a sudden. Teddie the Tory, we all started calling him. It was his way of dealing with things I think."

"Well, that's good, right?"

"Don't know. He somewhere out there in the bush, now. Broke rank at the first sign of trouble."

They walked from the carriage and watched the shooting range. Most of the soldiers were quite poor shots. Percey offered no explanation, instead choosing to lie back in the midday sun.

"Are you... do you think that that'll happen to me?" MacDougal started wondering how he'd make out in the wilds of the South Pacific.

Percey laughed a little. "Oh, nothing like that, sir. It was only a story, don't pay me too much mind. You'll snap out of it, as they say."

MacDougal felt better, but still confused. He felt he may have been letting one little incident get into his mind far too much and moved to change the subject.

"So... what's been going on at this end?" 'At this end' was part of their effortless, friendly language that wasn't the usual between a soldier and a civilian.

"...a lot, I think." Percey was careful not to go into the boring detail that MacDougal probably knew so much about. "We've made a lot of progress up near the mountain range. It was looking damn hairy for a few weeks. They're the real holdouts, those mountain people. Damn good soldiers... as good as these people can be."

"Hmm. I don't know, boy. I feel as if I..."

"Not just that, but they're the true adherents of whatever damn silly faith these people profess, I tell you. The ones around Englishtown, they attack and they die with some type of honor I suppose. But these people... my Lord," He does a quick cross, looking off, and catches himself, "They are all got up in mud as face paint, like the Scots used to do. They jump down from trees and actually smile as they lay dying. Tragically heroic, these..."

Percey chokes up at the thought, and cocks his rifle.

MacDougal was preparing to talk about something of incredible weight and consequence in his life, but it in no way compared to Percey's thoughts. That being the case, he put it away for a more appropriate time and became distant but listening for the rest of his time at the range. Percey talked about some other random happenings at the barracks, ammunition shortages and such, then patted MacDougal on the shoulder and excused himself to join the "lads at the range". Percey inspired all of those around him, and they gave him shows of affection and admiration as he approached. He himself was a useless shot.

-------

MacDougal would keep secret his moment of drifting to himself for some weeks. He would continue working, but in a fashion that appeared distracted if you knew him personally. There were occasional lazy mistakes that he wasn't known for; human things that other people could, and did, do in the office on a constant basis. He wasn't humorless, he said hello and wanted to know how you felt and how your day was, and he didn't consider himself a perfectionist since he didn't have the energy for that kind of thing. MacDougal had the freedom of merely being very good at a type of job and being employed in that capacity. Now, his mind felt somewhere else so whatever pieces added up to his ability were missing.

At first he was convinced that it was nothing, his moment of distraction, and of course that was wrong. It would dictate his work and eating patterns for some days, so it was certainly wasn't nothing. Then he figured that it must be some kind of sleep deprivation, though he didn't remember sleeping poorly. A full eight or nine hours every night since he was twelve years old and that included the ship to the South Pacific and his first night there. He had become taken with the idea that this was just not enough, that the change in climate had suddenly caught up to him and the average eight to nine was insufficient. The trick now was to squeeze in more hours during the day and stave off this silly infliction through rest. After work he was accustomed to a walk along the campus weather permitting, a steak and rice dinner at the cafeteria over one of Mattingley's stories, once or twice a week a cigar and some terrible brandy over one of Barron's proclamations, and then sleep. One after another, over the space of a week as he failed to feel any better, he crossed off the list of daily and weekly after-work activities that did not involve sleep. Often forced sleep. MacDougal would lie in bed, eyes shut hard, and wearily repeating a phrase along the lines of "I must be very tired, or else..."

"I wouldn't say that you seem sick, boy," replied Mattingley when he was asked whether he knew something. "I would say that you're a little bit distracted."

"Distracted!" MacDougal exclaimed at another's discovery. "Dammit all, yes, I feel quite distracted lately. But, I don't know why, friend."

"Well, we are near military actions. That'll do it."

"I... I don't think that's it." said MacDougal halfheartedly.

"No? You worked at parliament for years where the most fearful possible occurrence was that leak in the roof that they... you remember the one?"

"Over Stanley's desk?"

"Right, the most scary thing about that place was that stupid leak that the richest kingdom on the globe could never quite find the funds to fix. Now there are shots and ordnance every day, and... I mean, who knows? We could come under a deluge of poison savage darts here one fine day, and that would be the end of that, now wouldn't it?"

MacDougal couldn't figure out if this was more of Mattingley's jackassery (it's a word he invented specifically for him) or if it was actually serious. Mattingley went through life with a poker face, and the worst thing you could ask from him next to money, which he never had, was sincerity, which was rare at best. Surely he did love his friends, but it was just that he couldn't help making light of them.

"Do you really think that a group of savages could inundate the...?"

"Wait, there she is again," Mattingley stopped him as the cleaning woman came by to clear the plates. They were at lunch, and MacDougal was trying his absolute best to become enthused by the meal, but of course nothing could get through to him in his state.

She made a quick grin at both, the general average of their seating arrangements, and cleared away the plates.

"I think she's upset with me," Mattingley sheepishly smiled at MacDougal.

"Is she?" continued MacDougal, half-attentively.

"I wonder if she knows I'm a bit sweet on her? Do you think? I asked to walk her to her quarters one night."

"How did that go?"

"I believe she's scared of my... sincerity."

MacDougal didn't appreciate setting up another of Mattingley's one-liners and took his smoke outside and dejectedly. Mattingley chose to have his smoke in the cafeteria and shoot more inappropriate glances at the washer ladies. He didn't necessarily chart the progress of just one cleaning lady, but a few. He only told MacDougal about the one, but the wispy looking girl with the jet-black hair had been catching his attention as of late, whereas a week or so ago he'd gone for an office assistant he figured to be of Irish background. Or Welsh. It depended on his mood.

Mattingley thought this one reminded him of a certain woman he romanced from time to time back home, near Whitechapel. He always made sure to tell everyone in the office about the actress he was involved with on the east side. Not because they had no romance in their lives, and they didn't, but because he saw how it made them squirm. His age, that woman, her profession, his upbringing, that part of town... they either were generally shocked or they had to act shocked, because they were, after all, government workers. After a while, Mattingley stopped having stories because they stopped having the desired effect. It would become necessary to break it off with her, then.

The woman was slight and trusting, but didn't see the use in a family or things like that. She was quite happy pursuing wherever an acting (once it was nursing) career may take her. Mattingley met her at a show on one of his more random Saturday nights and they became friends and then lovers easily. He was fun to have walks with, but he never seemed entirely serious. She talked at great lengths about what concerned her, about the theater field, actors and actresses that couldn't get their lines down, but that only provided snide comments. In general, Mattingley listened attentively, she could tell that he retained the conversation, but he always had something damned pithy to say. She often told him, during her angrier moments, that he was only funny to himself. He replied "As long as someone's laughing". Then she stopped talking to him, and then he moved on.

While MacDougal was outside, smoking, he caught the eye of the washer woman that Mattingley harassed from time to time. He glanced over her way, smiled, gave small report of her presence to his mind, and then stared off into the distant South Pacific. He imagined great British vessels swishing back and forth through unforgiving waves, epic battles with whatever the hell was really out there. The ship he came on wasn't under any duress whatsoever, possibly marking the first month long trip an Englishman had taken on a royal ship without so much as a drizzle, much less the French. These newer steam-drawn vessels certainly weren't about to be prey for Johnny Redbeard or something just as ridiculous and childlike, but all the same. If savages could really end the might of the British army under the hail of spears and arrows, then Lord only knew what could happen on the high seas. Nothing did happen to MacDougal's ship, though, which was fortunate.

It turned out in MacDougal's mental wandering, that the woman was actually inching forward to him. He knew this because he heard the slight movement of feet towards him, and knew that only she was in the vicinity. Then when he exhausted all other possibility, he looked around and saw her walking towards him. He watched her walk towards him.

A few seconds of looking directly at each other.

"Hullo," in a perky accent.

"Hello, ma'am. Nice day, what?"

A few seconds more. He looked off in distant thought for an accidental second.

"I haven't a cigarette, so I wanted to know if..."

"Oh..." MacDougal laughed to himself; he hadn't needed manners in such a long time. "How rude of me. Can I make one for you?"

"Would you?"

MacDougal smiled at her, and noted in his head how when in the mainland, when approached by a lady he always at least asked if they'd appreciate a smoke. It was what theater society did anyway, and he did have regular standing in the London theater. Country girls felt that asking a man for a cigarette, even smoking, wasn't terribly Christian. The women who moved up from the countryside were very forward in this respect, trying to catch up to their city cousins but actually passing them in new age sexual relations. MacDougal had to imagine this to be a woman of that type, a girl from the countryside who's getting herself acclimated to the mannerisms of chic London women. She brought it all the way to the South Pacific, apparently.

"Did you work at Parliament?"

After that question, the answer led to her full life, as far as MacDougal could tell. She actually hadn't worked at the Parliament, but she applied after receiving a high recommendation for her kitchen supervision at the Royal Arms Hotel, which of course was right down the street. She had moved from Southampton to find more of that type of work in London, and studied to be a headmistress at the academy down there. She'd probably pursue that more upon returning to England. She liked the South Pacific, but missed Britain's poor weather. Her name was Anne. Somehow in the midst of all this, they were to meet the next day for dinner. It was because they thoroughly enjoyed each other's company even through some small amount of conversation.

-------

The floor had a strange darkness on a much later Wednesday. MacDougal awakened to begin his usual morning routine; he brushed his teeth, put on his clothes, made his way for the campus. The mentioned darkness came in patches, here and there on the navy blue carpet that lined the hallways. It was somewhat harder to breathe and think today, and it couldn't be attributed to a certain depression or sickness. MacDougal was neither that day. He looked outside a window when he had a chance. It had been raining. He remembered large, dangerous looking clouds in the distance, and when he could bring himself to stop, he looked down at an odd pink-brown object in the distance: A mushroom, growing in the carpet.

Effects of the rainy season.

The more MacDougal continued down towards the cafeteria for the morning's breakfast, the more it seemed that nature herself was intent on proving the rainy season had well and truly begun. She did it by throwing intense spurts down every minute or so, followed by a general downpour engineered to dishearten lovers of sunny weather. MacDougal wasn't one, even as a child when he was more than apt to play a game of football in the streets as an afternoon activity before supper. To grow up active in England was to learn a certain appreciation for slate gray skies and disagreeable weather.

MacDougal entered the cafeteria to the sight of several workers bumming around a table, smoking and looking generally thuggish, uninvolved. They looked like the hoodlums who hung around alleyways at night and made women clutch their purses and their men while trying to get transit home. Vandals and bullies crawling out of a pub. But these ones here, they were merely office workers and not particularly violent as far as MacDougal knew.

"This is a sorry looking bunch," he said in a joking tone, generally well-received.

Mattingley, who spoke up first, who always spoke up first, looked at his cigarette with hurt disappointment. "It took me about two minutes to light this damn thing," he sighed, "and I'm still not too satisfied with it."

Christopher, another of the bunch, wiped the sweat from his brow. "I can't imagine working in this too much longer. It's miserable. I went by the office and all the munitions orders were smeared from humidity."

"Hmm..." was all MacDougal could add.

Was it the strangeness associated with waking from a night's sleep? He didn't know a damned thing about that morning. Yes, it was damp and unpleasant; yes, he did find himself wiping away the sweat this morning and his clothes tuck uncomfortably to him. Still, it was a good rest. Things had been a little trying office-wise, all of a sudden.

It brought him to another point. His contract was almost up, his time in the South Pacific. He was due to return to London in three weeks.

"Did the rains come all at once? Because it feels like it's hardly rained this entire time."

They all stood in silence, after he brought himself back from the thought, some smoking, still looking generally listless and uninvited. That was their subdued response to the rainy weather.

After this and some goodbyes, MacDougal went to go about the day's duties, and was stopped by Mattingley who was feeling inquisitive.

"Not long," he said.

"No," replied MacDougal, who had become accustomed to this form of communication. "Not long at all."

Mattingley paused. "I don't know what I'll tell people when I get back to Blighty. Why I look... well, they'll understand why I look like a blackfella, but other things."

"What... other things?" MacDougal asked, taking the bait. "You were here, got a little sun, balanced books, and are now going back to England."

"Well, I mean that..."

"Unless you plan on taking up a bolt-action and heading into the bush, I should think you don't have terribly much to say."

Mattingley paused at this. He attacked so much that he hadn't worked on his defense, the failing of all careless fighters. It didn't mean he was done, though.

"No, I guess I don't..." but with his pause, MacDougal knew what he wanted from him. "Not much. I did the empire's work, filed the files. I've even managed to have one or two..."

"One or two...?"

"Encounters? Liaisons? Is that what the silly French say?"

"I don't speak French, my dear boy."

Mattingley smiled the way only a teacher can at their student; good job.

"I saw your... Anne. Well, the rumor goes that she's your Anne. Is she?"

"Are we not talking about you anymore?"

"...no. No, I should say not."

Since giving Anne a cigarette during break some time ago, since having dinner with her soon after, MacDougal would grow fond of her quite a bit. They would often walk around the campus, again called Englishtown, after his shifts ended which got him to take advantage of the warm blanket nights of the South Pacific. Her work ended much earlier in the day, so she would wait. The conversation was always the same; MacDougal would listen attentively and not say much, Anne would talk about growing up on a farm and whether or not she could handle being a teacher. It was concentration that she was unsure she could muster, children are in a constant state of need and fear, she felt. "I'm sure you'd do fine," was always the response and he never bothered to qualify, but was sincere all the same, every time he said it. The back and forth went the same, eventually hand-in-hand, about thirty to forty times. They would walk in the night, be close to intimate, she would be taken home, he would go to his, and sleep soundly until the next day. Often dozing off to any unread articles in the paper.

The routine stopped suddenly. She stopped requesting his company, and he didn't ask or inquire further. It just stopped, and was somewhat telepathic and mutual. The South Pacific nights were beautiful, it was decided.

One or two weeks later it would became rainy.

MacDougal sat at his desk that morning that seemingly started the South Pacific's version of winter, and over burnt coffee did the sick bay registers. Mattingley could handle the munitions report today, he figured. Whoever did munitions always had some unfortunate explanation to give as if they were responsible for the colony starving. Sick bay registers were jotting down names and entering a status. It could be morbid, but it didn't exactly tax one's mind.

The rain showers poured hard out the window while he worked. MacDougal, in fact, liked being at work at a time like this; the quarters were made of shoddy stuff and rattled in the wind and rain. And looking out at the gray skies and the weather reminded him of England in March. With palm trees. Back in London, he lived in a third floor flat that would look onto the clouds at about the same height. There was a beggar woman on the street below the window who'd peddle stolen newspapers. She was old and sweet, and had an easy friendship with the local policemen. On mornings he would buy a paper from her if he knew he didn't have time to get one from the tobacconist's, and she'd occasionally involve him in conversation he didn't have the time for. She worried about his health; whether he ate well. That always struck him as funny.

The sick bay registers got unbearably long with the rainy season. Several of the lads had pneumonia; others had a terrible bout of the cold and sneezed through gunnery exercises. It was estimated, during a particularly bad bout of daydreaming, that only a third of the current detail could possibly be well enough to defend the base. As far as MacDougal knew, that third wasn't even really required. In all his time he hadn't seen so much as a one native body. No one that he knew had seen a native body. That wasn't fully true. Percey, his army friend, said he'd encountered some spirited resistance from the savages, but always seemed a bit unrattled for such an experience. Percey had gone back to England a week or two ago; a mixture of tour completion and malaria.

The line would read: Arlen Merriweather, P. 23 yrs. Sick, Tour Over.

Percival Arlen Stanton, or Percey, had one last meeting with MacDougal before he returned home. The usual Thursday visits to the military outpost, which had been more or less suspended while MacDougal had a temporary work relation, were started again with about the same unconscious force that his time with the woman ended. Percey had some papers to get from the registrar's office, MacDougal bumped into him, they started conversation, Percey noted that MacDougal should drop by sometime. Sometime was of course their usual Thursday after MacDougal was done in the office, but it's an unspoken rule to seem casual about these things even when there is a strict clock to watch.

The ride over to the base was filled with Percey's quiet excitement. The coming of the rainy season meant special exercises to deal with such conditions, and he was interested to know whether MacDougal knew of the innovation, the toughness of the modern British army. To be certain, MacDougal didn't know a thing about anything military short of what he could infer. Soldiers need rifles, need bullets. He heard that some ships had now begun to use steam engines which lowered the necessity for large crews for steering, but sent the very same crew towards ship maintenance. This was the height of his knowledge, which was soon to be expanded with Percey's guidance. He hoped.

Humidity was as large an enemy as the British soldier had faced in the South Pacific up to that time. Any soldier was expected to face some kind of inclement weather, no matter what the country. The Russian soldier wouldn't stop his advance in the face of the desert's blistering sands, just like the Persian wouldn't sheath his sword when the winter snows came. And yet, ever since they had a man contract a lethal case of ... something dire and fungal from the Pacific's common dampness, it became necessary, if however unsoldierly, to admit the need to respond to the importance of weather and occurrence.

The Englishman in the field, as Percey was eager to show, had made advancements to deal with this enemy. New uniforms were created lighter and more maneuverable for this kind of scenario, encampments were made of more water-resistant material, and even diet was taken into effect and put heavy importance on water retention since it was found that soldiers were actually, curiously, dehydrating during rainy season. And, lo! New purification systems for the formerly malaria-ridden rainwater, Percey was especially proud of this, going so far as to send a note to the head office congratulating military science.

MacDougal had gotten what he wanted, he felt very informed, and even somewhat part of the British military, albeit briefly (he decided then and there to not get too swept up in patriotic fervor, despite the fun he was having). The servicemen there, all generally of high spirits, even gave him a nickname in camaraderie. It was loud and confusing in the mess hall, so the nickname could've been anything, but it was something funny, appropriate.

He ate army food, which wasn't nearly as bad as rumored. He went through an exercise, he tried on the British uniform (they were quite floppy), he loaded a rifle. He got to shoot a rifle that it took him three tries to load correctly. Percey admired his deft aim, and told him so. "You could be quite a soldier, sir," Percey said. He happened to mean every word.

Near the base, but not too near, MacDougal felt the need for a cigarette, spending the three minutes necessary getting the "damn thing lit" in the oppressively damp weather. He was still in his military clothes, which were beginning to feel funny on him, but he saw no reason not to play the part just a little longer. He still had his bolt-action rifle, and it reminded him of the joke he gave to Mattingley about going off into the bush. It was unloaded. He continued to puff away with the faint sound of army marches in the background and the sounds of rain and nature.

It was in the middle of this quiet time that he noticed a small amount of movement by some brush off in the distance. He couldn't be sure of whether this was an animal, a fairly big one, or "the enemy". It caused him to clutch his now unloaded rifle close to his chest in anticipation of... whatever. Whatever comes, he told himself.

A small, brown woman emerged after hearing some kind of commotion. "How am I to get any fruit with these damned white men around?" she wondered to herself. Over a span of two years of British invasion, she had gone from being scared of them at first, the army men, to wonder, to acceptance and tolerance, and today she had managed to enter her final phase: polite annoyance. She was naked at the top, wearing a skirt of material the local people had learned kept moisture out quite well during rainy months, a secret they'd bitterly keep from the interlopers for some decades (it came from the very trees on their base). She cut MacDougal a tired expression, which he at first took as fear but then came to realize he was interrupting her day. She wasn't scared of the rifle; she had no idea what it was. Something in his look said, "I'm sorry", though.

That being the case, he put the rifle down by his side. She shot him a smile and then shooed him away. He threw his cigarette, which was useless by this point, on the ground and stamped it out, then went on his way apologetically and happily.

She was inspired by the white man's relative ease at putting out fire, however tiny; she didn't know they had the skill. In the end, there was not a damned piece of fruit to be found here anyway.

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On the day that he was to catch a steamer (!) back to the United Kingdom, MacDougal had no extreme of emotion, just a feeling of time's passing and the reaction to it. He made the requisite goodbyes, filed away the necessary paperwork, spent an extra hour making sure office loose ends had been tied up, and packed away clothes and one or two mementoes.

He made sure to have one last breakfast in the cafeteria before boarding, as part of the nostalgia he had subconsciously agreed not to get into. MacDougal conceded a silent confirmation that, yes indeed, the military generally gets better food, and washed down a piece of stale toast to drive the point home. It somehow made him smile.

Still, MacDougal felt relaxed as he stared out the window, noticing for the first time just how strikingly beautiful the landscape could be. Breaking clouds, light drizzle, darkened palm trees. Local birds flew by the window; he still didn't know the name of their species.

He read the paper. He read about the very same London he'd be returning to soon enough, and made sure not to fill himself up with questions. Most things were calm, except that someone had been murdered not too far from the very same flat that he was returning to. He would be sure to ask Mr. Creighton, the building's maintenance man, what exactly had happened upon returning. Creighton was a delightful older gentleman who had a very friendly black terrier he'd take out on spring days. Though he was given to occasional fits of embellishment, he could be trusted to keep up on the happenings of the neighborhood whenever they were requested. A game of cards now and then was the only price of the news, and he always had such brilliant scotch and cigars anyway. It wasn't unpleasant.

The Globe Theatre had a festival that MacDougal had always wanted to see. It would be over for two months when he touched down on British soil. It was at this point MacDougal's interest in the paper waned sufficient.

Wrapping up, and that was it. This was his big sendoff to the empire's southern colonies. Except that a slight tap came at his paper before he was just about to leave. It was Anne. She smiled at him, a small crooked smile. MacDougal looked at her for one or two seconds, smiling himself, and went over and gave her a strong embrace.

"Keep well. It's been raining lately," He said, on his way out. Which made her break into rapturous laughter and is a joke she repeated for years on end.

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MacDougal had been in London a month when a conversation about the ship he took back to the U.K. made him finally remember to check up on a letter he had received from Mattingley.

On the ship home, the constant unplanned breakdowns made the two-week trip take three, but he'd never seen the Azores before, or frankly knew they existed. Getting to see new foreign lands made MacDougal a bit thankful that these steam ships were so hard to operate, but it's not as if he got to explore the island for any length of time. As he told friends in the office, "...the Portuguese aren't a trusting people, not of the English anyway. It was a matter of fixing the ship and getting on our way with all speed." The man with the Portuguese wife expressed some small amount of chagrin upon hearing this.

During a lunch in the nearby park, during a fairly harsh day in the office, MacDougal opened the letter. Mattingley had chosen to stay on for a more permanent position in the South Pacific, and MacDougal missed his friend quite dearly. It was warm and sunny and even a bit humid like his early days in the South Pacific.

"Dearest Maccie,
I hope this letter finds you well. As it turns out, I will not be getting back to Blighty anytime soon as my appointment to Director of Colonial Affairs has been made official. An army man, Mr. Barron, I believe his name is, presented me with the certification at a black-tie affair some nights ago. It was all quite royal, I wished you hadn't left when you did. I still wonder as to where I was going to find a suit and tie in the South Pacific, but I suppose that something I'll be left in charge of when I acquire my duties.
Now, you are required to write me back, Mr. MacDougal, because I will not know anything of our cold, little island for some time except what I read in the paper. I believe that you know me as one who doesn't fully trust newsmen.
What could you possibly be up to in London without the adventure of constant tropical rain and torrid office romance? Do you only file the King's papers now? The old lady is fine, should you be wondering, though she did request a return to White Man's Country. Like you, she'd rather be bored to tears without the threat of native invasion.
I, myself, like it here and will perhaps make a home here. I may even romance a savage female and write it into my later memoirs. The scandal will dissolve the very Britannia upon which I swore my oath! Which would be a shame as I had my first decent meal in all my time here yesterday. Apparently you have to win commendation before they cook you a presentable piece of meat.
Are you eating well, Maccie?

Godspeed,
Thomas Mattingley III
Director of Colonial Affairs and Protector of the Crown"

He signed his name in large, cursive letters that took up much of the page. That's what important men do.

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