Orders Is Orders (9 page)

Chapter Fifteen

T
HE
Japanese had entered, purged and executed Shunkien. Patrols marched through the streets,
turning aside to blast out lurking Chinese troops, occasionally running into a sniper’s
bullets, singling out a few civilian examples to put the remains of the city upon
its good behavior.

The south gate of the town was shut. Machine guns pointed both outward and inward
as a double precaution; sentries stood stiff and alert. Weary soldiers sat in groups,
staring at the ground in complete exhaustion after their attack and the subsequent
mopping up.

Along the wall was a line of gray bundles and above them the stone was pitted with
bullet holes. In a watchtower above the gate, a Chinese hugged his machine gun and
the muzzle pointed at the afternoon sun. Small wisps of steam still rose from the
burst water jacket.

Occasional troops of cavalry rode in from the plains, bringing fragments of the rear
guard of the fleeing Chinese army. The prisoners were officers only, men who might
wish to talk.

Above the entire area hung smoke, shredded and whipped away by the wind but ever rising
like a shroud.

Mitchell stopped a hundred yards from the gate. Until now troops had been too busy
with gray uniforms to bother about olive green. No PC had been established to the
south as yet. But this high gate barred the way and the sentries were very stiff before
it.

“James,” quavered the reverend, “it is not too late to back away. If they know about
us, it’s prison! And your pass may include details! James—”

“Shut up,” growled Toughey mechanically. “Leave the sarge alone!”

They had their breath back and Mitchell took up the stretcher again. The reverend
did his dance with more steps than ever, his eyes fixed on the next stopping place—the
gate.

Mitchell glanced at the low-hanging sun. It was crimson an hour above the rim of the
world. He looked at the walls ahead and the soldiers there. The shadows of the men
were incredibly long.

“March,” said Mitchell.

They advanced slowly. Ahead of them the sentries stirred. An officer’s red bands could
be seen as he stopped a few paces forward to stare at the oncoming party.

Mitchell approached within ten feet and set down his burden. The reverend was staring
so widely at the officer that he forgot to lower his end, leaving Toughey’s head much
lower than his feet.

With brisk military precision, Mitchell produced the pass and handed it over. The
officer’s small face brightened and he glanced up.

“United States, so?”

“United States Marines,” said Mitchell. “I am under orders to report to the United
States Consulate of this city.”

But “United States, so?” was the entire fund of English at the officer’s disposal.
He shrugged and then fell to examining the pass again. Three of his guard had advanced
within thrusting distance and the reverend changed his attention to the points of
their bayonets, one of which was reddish black halfway to the hilt. He was still holding
his end of the stretcher in the air and Toughey was too intent to protest.

“United States, so?” said the officer again, looking up.

“Yes,” said Mitchell. “United States,
so
.” And he pointed past the officer toward the gate.

The officer suddenly understood and once more examined the identity pass. Then, evidently
thinking that Mitchell could be no less than a captain, he saluted and bowed.

Mitchell saluted and bowed, waiting to see what would happen.

The officer shouted,
“
Mon o akero
!”
and saluted and bowed again. Mitchell saluted and bowed and the big gate was slowly
opened by the sentries. He put the pass back in his pocket and picked up the stretcher.

“March,” said Mitchell.

They passed through the gate and into the littered street beyond.

“I told you he had brains,” said Toughey. “We’re in Shunkien!”

Ahead of them, whipping proudly against the sky, was the Stars and Stripes.

Chapter Sixteen

T
HE
machinery salesman heard the knocking at the gate and he hurried into Jackson’s office.
“Somebody wants in, Jackson.”

“It’s the Japanese,” said Jackson, running his fingers through his white hair. “A
lot of good
they’ll
do us.”

He went through the packed corridors and the Americans watched him pass with dull
eyes. The machinery salesman had talked and now that two men were down, their hope
was gone.

Jackson heard the knock repeated as he carefully let down the bars of the small door,
expecting to see an officer’s red band.

Mitchell saluted with precision.

“Gunnery Sergeant Mitchell and party reporting to Consul Jackson, Shunkien.”

Stunned, Jackson could only gape until Toughey raised up on his stretcher and said,
“Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Christmas?”

“The Marines,” whispered Jackson. “I thought . . . I thought . . .”

“I was ordered to be here by Saturday and it’s Saturday,” said Mitchell.

Jackson recovered himself and began to grin. He threw the door wide and marched off
in front, spring coming back into his stride, chest expanding, white hair starting
straight up from his head.

As they passed through the corridor, people stared in disbelief and then, as they
went by leaped up and jammed the passage. A young oil scout whistled shrilly and the
machinery salesman bellowed with joy. And then the cannonade of the week before was
nothing compared to the din within the consulate.

The group reached Jackson’s office and the reverend gladly deposited his end on the
rug at Mitchell’s command. But the noise outside was too great for any conversation.
With difficulty, Jackson shut the jammed door.

The young radio operator grinned up at Mitchell.

“They’ve come, Billy!” cried Jackson as though Billy could not see for himself. “They’ve
come! You’ve been hammering that key for days asking, pleading for them and now they’re
here!”

“Got a cigarette?” said Billy.

The doctor, whose eyes were further than ever back in his round skull, came from another
room. Hurriedly he stepped up to Mitchell.

“Quick! Have you got that serum? I can save the lot if you have.”

“Serum?” said Mitchell blankly. “Oh. This box. Was
that
what was in it?” He unstrapped it from his web belt and handed it over.

The doctor grabbed it like a hound grabs steak. He whisked himself out of the place
and his voice could be heard outside getting the Americans in line.

Jackson saw Toughey then. “There’s a bed in the next room. My bed. If you care to
use it. . . .”

“Father,” said Mitchell. “The stretcher.”

The reverend struggled with it and got it off the floor and they carried Toughey away
to a soft bunk.

The doctor had made this his sick bay and a few medical supplies were scattered on
the table. Mitchell glanced at them as he eased Toughey’s head to the pillow.

“Dress his wound,” said Mitchell to the reverend. “Right away and do a good job on
it.”

The reverend looked resignedly at his son. And then he peeled off his coat and rolled
up his sleeves and started to work.

“We made it,” said Toughey.

“Did you think we wouldn’t?”

“Well, for a while there I had my doubts, Sarge. What with you packin’ a bottle .
. .” He stopped too late and then saw that Mitchell was grinning at him. “Well, we
made it anyhow. I always said you could go to hell and come back draggin’ the devil
by the tail.”

The reverend looked shocked.

“Maybe I have,” said Mitchell.

He was still grinning when he went out and closed the door.

Goldy was sitting in Jackson’s chair. She looked up when Mitchell came in and followed
him across the room with her eyes.

He stopped beside the operator. “Can you send a message to the USS
Miami
for me?”

“I know that call by heart,
leatherneck
. Here’s paper.”

“You take it,” said Mitchell. “Commanding Officer, Marine Detachment, USS
Miami
. Have reported to United States Consul Jackson, Shunkien, delivering box and keg.
Mitchell, James, gunnery sergeant USMC.”

The operator threw his starter switch and began to rattle his bug. Mitchell saw another
door beyond him framing a white bed. He walked very briskly toward it, carrying himself
in a military manner.

Goldy had seen men walk that way before, just before they fell flat on their faces.
In some alarm she started up and kept Mitchell from closing the door on her.

She edged in, looking up at him watchfully. She eased the door closed behind her.

“Sit down on that bed,” said Goldy.

Mitchell had about-faced in the middle of the room. He started to smile at her and
then stopped. He was suddenly the color of
whitewash
.

“Don’t care if I do,” he said unsteadily, and half sat, half fell upon the covers.

Goldy squared him around. She unbuttoned his overcoat and braced him up while she
took it off him. His blouse followed and she let him lie back. She was unloosening
the khaki-colored tie and she saw his side.

“You’re hit! Look!”

“I don’t have to look,” said Mitchell, his eyes closed.

“You were hit the same time Toughey was!” she accused in great alarm. “Oh, you fool.
Why didn’t . . . ?”

“We got here, didn’t we?” whispered Mitchell.

She had unbuttoned his shirt and she saw that he had a crude bandage on his side.

“Does it . . . does it hurt much?” she said.

“It’s just a scratch,” whispered Mitchell. “Gimme a drink. The bottle’s . . . bottle’s
in my pack.”

She gave him a drink and he lay back, eyes still closed. She stared at him, frightened,
her heart thundering in her throat. She turned, almost in a panic, and hurried toward
the door.

“Stop,” said Mitchell.

“But the doctor . . .”

“It’s not that bad,” said Mitchell, not moving or even winking. “I got kind of worn
out the last couple miles. That’s all. Just kind of worn out. Come back and sit down.”
He patted the cover with his hand and his eyes were still shut and his face was very
white.

She stood where she was, still uncertain about getting the doctor.

“I won’t make a pass at you,” whispered Mitchell with a faint grin.

Everything was suddenly misty to her. She sat down gently on the edge of the bed.

“Now put the bottle on the table there,” said Mitchell. “Put it so the label is facing
me.”

She obeyed.

“Got it?” said Mitchell. “Now wait a minute. I’m going to look at it. Maybe it will
say ‘Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that
be of heavy hearts. Proverbs 31:6.’ And maybe it will just say ‘Canadian Whisky. Five
Years Old. One Quart.’”

He lifted himself slowly on his elbow and opened his eyes. He stared for a long time
at the bottle and then grinned a little as he lay back.

“It said ‘Canadian Whisky. Five Years Old. One Quart.’” He chuckled about it and was
silent for a long time. Then suddenly he opened his eyes and grinned at her. “Did
you see him asleep in the car?”

Abruptly Goldy understood. “Do you want another drink?”

“No, thanks. Later maybe.” He seemed to get stronger and his grin broadened. “Toughey
says I could go down to hell and come back dragging the devil by his tail.” He stopped
and propped himself up on his elbow and took Goldy’s hand. “I guess I could—now.”

He looked better and she smiled at him. “Want that drink yet?”

“No,” said Mitchell, laughing aloud. “Hell, no. I’m not ready to perish, am I?”

A
nd back aboard the
Miami,
Captain Davis reported in a rush to the captain’s quarters, so precipitately that
he carried his dinner napkin with him and tried to salute, bare-headed, with the napkin
in his right hand.

And then he saw Blackstone’s unclouded visage and beheld the uncrumpled radiogram
in the captain’s big fingers. Blackstone was reading it over and over and Davis, seeing
that it was addressed to himself, took the liberty of reading it over his shoulder.

Davis grinned and polished his palms on the napkin, subduing a desire to kiss the
top of Blackstone’s head.

Blackstone turned as though Davis had been there for hours.

“Great fellow, that Mitchell,” said Blackstone. “I shall have to tell him so when
he comes aboard. I guess I know how to run this ship, eh, Davis?”

“Yes, SIR!”

Story Preview

N
OW
that you’ve just ventured through one of the captivating tales in the Stories from
the Golden Age collection by L. Ron Hubbard, turn the page and enjoy a preview of
Wind-Gone-Mad.
Join Jim Dahlgren, representative in China for the Amalgamated Aeronautical Company,
who’s had enough of the fatalistic brand of diplomacy that allows warlords like “The
Butcher” to rise up in the provinces with weapons of fire and sword. But when Dahlgren
disappears, supposedly to find a mysterious aviator called Feng-Feng to bring the
Butcher’s administration to its knees, he ignites a series of events which just may
spell disaster.