Junior wasn’t called out to headquarters after that, except at irregular times like everyone else. Since he didn’t have tailormades any more, Seakle and company weren’t so jovial with him as they had been. They reverted back to the old practice of poking fun at him and bossing him around as the mood struck them.

"We gotta stop ‘em from doing that," Bowmar said. "It’s making him worse again."

"Can’t blame them entirely, though," Pete conceded. "He’s so damn aggravatin’. Takes stuff without askin’, and borrows tobacco he knows he can never pay back."

"If everybody’ll go along with it, an’ not try to boss him around, I think I can keep Junior outta other people’s hair," Bowmar said.

"How?"

"Well, it’s sort of a business manager arrangement. I talked it over with Junior last night. I’ been helpin’ him ration himself on tobacco since last issue, and it’s worked pretty good. If the guys will agree not to jump on him, but complain to me, I’ll do my best to keep him from botherin’ them so much. Especially on the tradin’. Junior can’t keep straight in his mind who he borrows from, oç how much, so he’s agreed to keep an account of it written down, if I’ll help him. Before he makes any swaps or borrows anything he’ll check with me. That might keep some of the sharpies from takin’ advantage of him on the trades, too."

"Does Junior agree to it?" Pete asked.

"Yep. He says he knows part of the trouble is his own fault because he forgets. What seems to be botherin’ him most is so many people jumpin’ on him, tellin’ him what to do and orderin’ him around."

"It might work, then," Pete said. "Only I wonder how we’ll get the rest of the people to cooperate. There’s several of them like to have someone like Junior they can shove around."

"Well, I thought we could ask them," Bowmar suggested. "I think most of them would go along with the idea quick enough, except maybe Hack and Seakle."

"Hack’s no problem," Pete said. "If he doesn’t understand any- thing else, he knows I meant what I told him the other day. Seakle’s the one. I tried to remind him politely of his responsibility as an officer the other day, but it didn’t work very good."

"What did he say?"

"Guess I shouldn’t have reminded him he was an officer. All the sun-uva-bitch did was pull rank on me. Said, since he was an officer, no damn sergeant was tellin’ him what to do."

"Well, maybe that’s your answer then," Sergeant Wolfe inter- jected. Apparently occupied with the repair of a badly worn sock, he had been listening to the discussion.

"What’s the answer?" Pete asked.

"If Seakle wants to play the old numbers game, get the major who just joined us to order him to lay off," the Sergeant answered.

"D’you think he’d do it?" Pete asked. "He’s on pretty thin ice. One word from anyone to the chinks, and back he goes to solitary. I can’t say as I’d blame him if he wanted to keep out of it."

"Maybe we can get him to do just this much," Bowmar sug- gested. "Put Seakle in his place without everybody knowing."

"To take over in one thing he has to take over everything," Pete said. "It’ll never work unless he tells the whole group he’s boss."

"Pete’s right," the Sergeant told Bowmar. "C’mon, Pete, let’s go have a talk with the Major."

So they did. The Major had been with the group only a few days. He’d spent several months in solitary before he joined them. When the chinks put him in with the group, they warned him he’d be right back, at the first indication he was trying to assert his position as senior officer; but when the two sergeants showed him the need, he agreed readily to take the risk. They would try Bowmar’s "Junior management" scheme, and the Major would come in if it seemed necessary.

The word was circulated quietly that complaints about Junior and any trading with him would be handled by Bowmar. Things smoothed considerably, without it becoming necessary for the Major to take over, until the next time there was meat in the soup.

Meat in the soup! An occasion indeed! Carefully apportioned, there were four small cubes of fatty pork per man. "Uncle Shill" called to Junior as the youngster came away from the soup bucket.

"Have a seat here, Junior." Shiller patted the mat beside himself. "Join your ol’ uncle for dinner."

Although Shiller was a sociable sort who might often invite others to dine with him, there seemed to be something out of the ordinary in his invitation to Junior. Bowmar, Pete, and the Ser- geant watched Junior situate himself beside "Ol’ Unc" and after a while transfer the meat from his bowl to Shiller’s. Bowmar stepped forward.

"What goes here?" the young medic asked.

Shiller, his mouth full of food, raised his eyes slowly to the speaker. First, he swallowed the food. Bowmar was only a foot or so in front of him, so the lieutenant’s head was back and his eyes rolled upward. The awkward position lifted his eyebrows in a manner that enhanced Shiller’s pretense of innocence.

"Were you speaking to me?" Shiller asked.

"Yessir, I was," said Bowmar. "What gives here?" The "sir" could hardly be considered respect. The intimacy of the prisoners’ lives had eliminated most formalities of rank. Though Bowmar often said "sir" from habit, his inflection now indicated the young medic simply wanted to be technically correct in his demeanor.

What do you mean?" Shiller asked. Despite the studied puzzlement on the lieutenant’s face, no one doubted that the question was unnecessary.

"How come you get Junior’s meat?"

Junior, shoveling rice and soup into his mouth, looked at neither Bowmar or Shiller.

"Well, I don’t see that it’s any of your concern," said Shiller. "But if you feel you should know, Junior and I have sort of an agreement about it. Isn’t that right, Junior?"

Junior was very uncomfortable. He had violated the agreement made with Bowmar. That agreement had been voluntary and for his own good, and he knew it. The young fellow glanced at Bowmar, then away, as he answered, "Yeah, that’s right. We made a deal."

"What kind of a deal?" Bowmar asked him.

"I don’t know as that’s any of your—" Shiller began.

"I’m talking to Junior, if you don’t mind!" There was something more than displeasure in the medic’s voice. It was rare for him to display anger.

"Just a private deal," Junior replied, sounding a bit as though he had been coached in advance.

"The kid’s got a right to make some of his own decisions," Shiller said, aware that most of the other prisoners were watching now. "He isn’t being gypped. What do you want him to do—welch on his bargains?"

"I ain’t no welcher," Junior interjected, still shoveling rice and not looking at Bowmar. "Got a right to make my own decisions—as much right as anybody." The coaching was quite obvious. Junior had been very appreciative of Bowmar’s guidance in such matters, prior to development of his intimate friendship with "Uncle Shill’." Bowmar fumed. His face became red. His left hand, holding his bowl of food, was shaking. The right hand, hanging by his side, clenched and unclenched. His eyes shifted rapidly back and forth between Shiller and Junior, but he said nothing.

Shiller took his eyes away from Bowmar’s face, when he saw the medic wasn’t going to speak again. As he lowered his eyes, the lieutenant swept a quick glance around the room, trying to sense the feeling of the rest of the group. He knew Bowmar wouldn’t strike him while he was sitting down and wasn’t likely to invite him to his feet over the matter. It simply wasn’t the medic’s nature. Shiller smiled to give the impression there was no ill-feeling on his part, but that he considered the issue closed.

"It’s okay, kid," Shiller said to Junior. "Just a little misunder-. standing. It’s all straightened out now."

"I keep my bargains. I know what I’m doing. You know me, huh, Unc’?" Junior sought reassurance. He kept his eyes averted from Bowmar.

In a smooth, oily tone Shiller replied, "Everybody knows your word’s as good as anyone’s, Junior—good as gold."

Junior relaxed a little. Shiller glanced up at Bowmar, still stand- ing in front of him. Bowmar wasn’t looking at him. "Junior," the medic called softly.

"What?" The youngster looked up, disturbed again.

"I want to talk to you after we’ve eaten."

"What about?"

"Just a couple of little things that happened today. Nothing to worry about. I just want to be sure to see you later."

"Oh. Okay." Junior relaxed again and resumed eating.

Later he learned that one of the "little things" was what had just occurred. Though reluctant at first, Junior finally decided in view of his previous agreement with Bowmar he should tell the medic how the deal with Shiller came about. From what Junior related, it had been a shrewd bit of trading on Shiller’s part.

Shiller had heard Junior’s remark about not caring for fat pork. The kid didn’t realize those few bits of fat might mean the differ- ence between life and death for him that winter. To Junior, food was merely something you filled your stomach with, if you had enough, and it didn’t matter what kind it was. Shiller knew better.

First came the "buttering up" process. Shiller even profited from that, when Junior had the tailormades. With the establishment of the "uncle-nephew" relationship, the groundwork was well laid. Then one day, with Junior out of tobacco several days before the next issue was due, the trap was set. "Dear Ol' Uncle Shill" rolled his "nephew" a cigarette.

"Junior," Shiller said as he handed over the cigarette, "your ol’ uncle’s got an idea that’ll save you a lot of trouble."

"Yeah, Unc’, what is it?"

"You always run out of tobacco between rations, don’t you?

"Well, usually I do."

"An’ people are always accusin’ you of snitchin’ from them, or borrowing and not paying back; or even cussin’ you just for asking them. Aren’t they?"

"Yeah. Soreheads!"

"Well, your ol’ unc’s got a way figured to solve your problem so you won’t have to ask them any more."

"Yeah?" Junior was puzzled. "How?"

"Well, it’s like this. You don’t care much for fat pork, do you?"

"Naw. Damn fat pork these damn chinks give us."

"Well, I kinda like it."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Don’t ask me why. I just do."

"Well, I guess it’s all right—" Junior began. If Shiller liked fat pork he wanted to agree with him. The only reason he’d ever said he didn’t like it was because he had wanted to agree with Seakle.

"And me," Shiller went on, not wishing for Junior to have time to change his mind, "I usually have a pretty good supply of ‘tombay’ on hand—"

"Yeah—tombay—tombay!" The use of the Korean word for tobacco distracted Junior from other thoughts.

"—except when you hit me too hard after you run out," Shiller concluded his statement.

"Aw, I don’t get so much."

"I was only kiddin’, nephew."

"Oh. Okay, Unc!"

"Now I’d like to help you on this tobacco problem of yours, so you won’t have to ask the other fellows for any; then they won’t have any reason for griping at you. But I know you don’t want charity." There was a pause to give Junior a chance to respond.

"Nope. Not me; I don’t ask nobody to give me handouts. I may borrow a bit, but I pay off, I do. I ain’t lookin’ for charity."

"Right! Well, you know you can always count on your ol’ uncle to help you out when you run short."

"Good ol’ Unc’."

"—and you know you’re always welcome. But I don’t want you to feel that it’s charity—"

"Oh, I don’t."

"—so we can work up a little trade on this thing."

"A trade?" Junior was surprised. "I don’t think I’ got anything left to trade. I’d have to ask Bowmar."

"Well, it isn’t exactly a trade. More of a ‘gentleman’s agreement."

"Gentleman’s agreement? Whatcha mean?" Junior was impressed by the phrase.

"Well," Shiller said, "I just figure that since you don’t care for fat pork and I do, if you want to give me your ration of it, whenever we happen to get any, we can call that paying me back for furnishing you with tobacco when you run short. That way you won’t feel like it’s charity—me giving you tobacco."

"Yeah?" Junior was somewhat confused. Besides, he didn’t want to give up his share of the fatty pork, because he didn’t really dislike it.

"You’ll be giving me something you don’t want in exchange for something I really don’t need," Shiller encouraged.

"Yeah, I guess so." Junior was still uncertain.

"Of course, it’s pretty much of a gamble for your ol’ uncle, y’know. No more often than we’ve had it in the past, we may never get any pork again. If that happens, I’m just out of luck, but I don’t mind, since it’s for you."

"Well, I suppose I should ask Bowmar first," Junior hedged.

"I don’t see any need for you to ask him about this," Shiller said. "You’re capable of making some of your own decisions. Besides, this isn’t a trade anyway. Remember, this is a gentleman’s agreement."

"That’s right!" In his elation over the term, Junior completely forgot the real issue. He liked nice-sounding phrases, as Shiller well knew.

"Strictly between you and me," Shiller said. "Nobody else’s business."

"Right you are, ‘Unc’. Between you and me—a gentleman’s agreement!"