The Military Megapack

by Harry Harrison

  * * * *

  By the time the Japanese were sighted, Croft had worked himself into his usual berserker rage. Behind him his four wingmates seemed to throb with his own fury.

  Away to the right, Zane sensed all this, and smiled. If his men echoed his smile, it was because they envied a man who could smile like that, and wreak such havoc, not because they understood what made him smile.

  More fighter planes were converging on the Japanese concentration. The Dutch, as usual, were doing a gorgeous job of coordination. The fighters arrived at just the right time to give the Jap fighters all they were looking for. And when they were all engaged, the B-26s and the Douglas DB­7s would swing into action, with a few TBD-1s, to give the transports and cruisers something to think about.

  At Zane’s signal, the fighter formations separated, each into its own flight unit. They hurtled straight into the thick of the Jap fighters who were forming a kind of sky-wall to keep them back.

  Lumford Zane was calm. He was a great believer in self-control. You could do so much more if you bossed yourself first.

  Zane led his wingmates straight into the thick of the Japs. The Nips, suicidal in their zeal for the Son of Heaven—goggle-eyed, bespectacled Hirohito—were aching for fight. Zane signaled his men to get after their own targets, and then, while calmly speeding a burst into a Jap who poured lead past the nose of his ’Cobra, he estimated the situation.

  Croft did nothing of the sort. He simply went raging in, and effectively—for four Nakajimas were already going down before the bullets of Croft and his fighters.

  Zane smiled. He himself had got one plane. Now one of his wingmates exploded a Kawanishi. A burst into the middle of the fighter-bomber did the business.

  On the face of things, Zane seemed to be behind in kills. He was undisturbed. First he must estimate, know, as surely as he had when he had put his foot on the head of the cobra. Though he never said it, every Jap was just such a cobra to him. You didn’t let them bite you.

  “Like that for instance,” he told himself, as one of the pilots behind Croft, trying to get three Japs at once, got himself into a pocket and shot to pieces before he could pull out.

  The American bailed out, his parachute flowering. A Jap started to follow him down, but thought better of it. The sharks in the blue waters below would take care of the American flyer, so the Jap saved his bullets.

  Zane looked after that particular Jap with something like understanding. Then he dived on him and shot him down!

  The skies above the Japanese naval armada were filled with planes—Japanese, British, Dutch, American—all mixed up together. The bombers and torpedo-carriers had not yet arrived. Zane looked around for them, somewhat concerned for a moment. The bombers and torpedo-carriers were necessary.

  But he didn’t see them. He signaled his four flyers, spread them out, dived through the Japanese interceptors. But they leveled off above the blue water, and streaked away for the nearest Japanese barges which were bearing soldiers ashore.

  Zane smiled gently. He would leave the transports and the cruisers and destroyers for the time being. No use getting in the way of their guns. The Jap soldiers were the important objectives!

  A barge, right in line!

  * * * *

  Zane did not even stop to think whether to use his thirty or his fifty-caliber machine-guns, or his 36 mm. shell gun. Long ago he had figured out just what to use against an invasion barge. As a result, he nosed up before reaching the barge, brought his thirty-caliber machine-guns to bear on the crouched soldiers.

  Then he nosed down. He was still smiling, though it was more of a mask-like grimace than a smile. The invasion barge changed direction crazily, continued to move erratically, as well it might. For after Zane had fired his brief burst, no Japanese soldier remained alive in that barge.

  He zoomed, picking out another barge, glancing aloft to see whether he should get back into the sky-battle or whether Nakajimas were diving on him. Then he studied the work of his wingmates.

  Two more invasion barges were erratic in movement and direction. A fourth barge had turned back. Fearful men, who had been sure they were willing to die for their emperor, frightened by these deadly Americans had dived into the sea. Too late they had forgotten that there were sharks in the sea that matched in ferocity the sharks in the sky.

  On the crazily zigzagging destroyers anti­aircraft guns were soaring steadily. Larger guns on the cruisers were laying down a barrage on the shore, covering the landing of the soldiers.

  Zane signaled to his men. They swung in widely to follow his lead. Zane zoomed, far above the cruiser guns that were laying down the barrage on the beach.

  Then, he nosed over. To his right two planes nosed down, to his left two more.

  Now Zane set his 50-caliber machine-guns to chattering. He let his 36 mm. shell gun have her head. He had no hopes of sinking or damaging a cruiser of the Kako class with such weapons, but there were men on the cruiser’s decks, and in the rigging.

  Harass the Japs! Irritate the Nips! And keep your self-control. That was the ticket.

  The five ’Cobras gathered speed. Four hundred and fifty-miles an hour, diving straight for the smoke that made a pall about the ships. And Zane smiled again as he saw short men moving to take up positions behind machine-guns on the cruiser’s decks.

  The five planes, with their guns raging full out, hurtled straight into the guns of the Japs. Men began to fall on the decks of the cruiser, dropping behind machine-guns and antiaircraft weapons.

  And Lumford Zane smiled as his five ’Cobras flashed over the cruiser, knowing that a hundred dead, perhaps more, were the result of this battle. Moreover, rattled Jap gunners must have given Dutch defenders on shore a brief breathing space.

  Zane had not lost a ship. His four flyers were still with him and he saw no bullet-holes in his own crate.

  Zane led his men back into battle as the bombers and torpedo-carriers came out of the green jungle to help defend and protect the barges, transports, cruisers and destroyers of Dai Nippon dotting the blue sea. The bigger planes took over, the Nakajimas, roared out to clash in the sky with American, Dutch and British fighters.

  Thirty American fighters, Zane estimated—and did not smile now. There had been fifty. But there was always the chance that the missing flyers were engaged elsewhere. It galled him to think that Japs could take any such toll of planes of the United Nations.

  The pilots of the defenders’ torpedo-carriers swung into action. The Nakajimas converged on the bombers that were attacking transports and barges, and the torpedo-carriers that were after the cruisers and destroyers.

  Half a dozen Nakajimas hurtled at one torpedo-carrier, a TBD-1, and Zane swept down on them. The nose of his crate covered the nearest Nakajima. His guns spoke—all of them, even the shell gun.

  Then the nose of his ’Cobra shifted, and two Nakajimas jumped as if they had been winged deer. And the next instant, as Zane’s wingmates got into action the other four Nakajimas were cutting out of the fight, burning. Zane had taken two, his men one each—and the TBD-1 flew on, while the Kako class cruiser that Zane and his men had plastered, seemed to take a terrific blow in the port quarter. It began to list. It started down.

  Zane saw Rogers Croft in action then. His ’Cobra was riddled, Zane gathered from its behavior. And only two other ’Cobras rode with Croft. But in his own way, Croft was performing Herculean labors in the battle, giving his fury free rein. Croft was everywhere. Even as Zane looked, Croft dived like a bullet on the back of a Kawanishi, smashed it out of the fight, nosed up and let go with all guns on a Nakajima, which also went down, trailing fans of smoke.

  That was Croft, Zane thought. All out, everything—all guns working, going full force to his motor. Croft. The hammer-and-tongs fighter of the skies. His wing-mates were like him, for such men naturally gravitated to Croft as the steadier type of men gravitated to Zane.

  There was an unspoken rivalry between the two top aces of the East Indies.
Zane himself did not count the aircraft he had shot down. He mentioned them in his combat reports, officials added them up, he forgot the totals. His only interest was in whittling away at the Japanese who were whittling away at the Philippines, Singapore, Malaya, the Dutch East Indies, and at Australia. He didn’t care where he found them—on the beaches, anywhere, everywhere—

  Croft was different, for he had to keep his own score. And always, as now, he was a viking of the sky, smashing, diving, his guns all going. While Zane used his guns sparingly, he made every shot count. Croft raged, Zane smiled.

  The fight now was not a conclusive one, however terrific. But a lull finally came when planes needed gasoline and men had to rest. Bombers and torpedo-carriers pulled out first, while the ’Cobras fought back the surviving Jap flyers to keep them from tracing the bombers and torpedo-carriers to their secret bases. Zane and his men downed four more Nakajimas.

  So far, the United Nations had made a grand bag. Twenty Jap planes, a Kako class cruiser, two transports, a destroyer, fourteen barges. And in the sea sharks held high, bloody revelry.

  * * * *

  Some Americans, British and Dutch were down there too, among the sharks, Zane thought sadly, as he led his wingmates back into the jungles, and watched them scatter to their secret fields. Those fields were connected by telephones, so that the commander could keep in touch with his command, one that covered a vast area, many flights and squadrons.

  Zane landed, slicing down into the narrow field. Down after him came Rogers Croft. The two ’Cobras rolled to the end of the carefully camouflaged field. There, at the end of the field, the planes were faced about, ready for the next take-off, which Zane knew would be right away.

  The two captains found the squadron commander waiting for them.

  “How many losses from your flight, Captain?” Major Jackson asked Zane.

  “None, sir,” said Zane.

  “And you, Croft?”

  “Two, sir.”

  “What were you doing, Zane?” snapped the major. “Having a picnic? How could five planes mix into the thick of the fight like the one you’ve just been through, and come back unharmed?”

  “They may have taken a few bullet-holes, sir,” said Zane, “but I saw no reason for risking their lives in wild—”

  “Soldiers in wartime are supposed to risk their lives!” snapped the major. “I won’t have commanders who think more of their men than they do of destroying the enemy!”

  Zane said nothing. He stood quietly while Jackson complimented Croft on his zeal, his courage.

  Then he waved both men aside, to write their combat reports.

  When Zane handed in his, Major Jackson looked up at him, his mouth hanging slightly open. For the first time since his return from battle Zane smiled. “I don’t believe you did as much damage as this report indicates?” snapped the major.

  “I don’t believe, sir,” Zane said softly, “that regulations require that I permit my veracity to be questioned. Are you sure you doubt the truth of my report, which I have said is an estimate, only, of the damage?”

  “I spoke hastily!” said Jackson, flustered. The orderly came bustling into the tent.

  “A flight of enemy planes, flying low, sir,” he said to Jackson, “heading this way. Look-out thinks they’re practically on the air route taken home by Captain Croft and Captain Zane.”

  Croft rose. Zane made no move. Jackson looked from one to the other.

  “What do you make of it, Zane?” he asked.

  “We may have been trailed, sir. Anyway, the Nips would like to rid themselves of certain pests—Croft and me, I imagine!”

  “Well, why not get out and meet them?” snapped Jackson.

  “Might I suggest, sir, that we wait for them to go past the field, or turn back? I like to hit Jap formations when they least expect it, when their backs are turned!”

  * * * *

  The formation, six strong, of Nipponese, fled across the secret field without slowing down, or circling, or noting anything unusual about the jungle where the field was hidden.

  Then Zane led the way out. His face was unconcerned. Croft was again the raging fury. The two crates took off, as soon as the look-out signaled. They had been serviced, were again ready for all-out action.

  They shot up to ten thousand feet. The Japs were heading away.

  Croft waited, with such patience as he could manage, for Zane to take the offensive. Then, when Zane started his slash down the sky, Croft was right on his port side. And the Japs did not even see them until one of their number had been savagely blasted, and was falling into the jungles below. Nothing down there, Zane knew, but head­hunters—and any Jap who bailed out over that jungle would have reason to be sorry.

  Croft got another crate, diving down and coming up from below. Zane, so composed, he was hardly blinking, got his second crate on the way-down. He zoomed, banked, corkscrewing into place as the Japanese formation, attacked from below and above, broke apart.

  Croft was again the slashing, swashbuckling savage of the skies. Zane was the cool, calm, sure—executioner!

  Three Japs gone. Half the Jap force done for, two of whom had parachuted into the jungle to horrible death. But there was no mercy for them in the hearts of Zane and Croft.

  Three planes left. They must not get back, to report about where they had encountered the two Airacobras. None must survive, to make trouble for the secret fields.

  Savagely Croft slashed at the remaining planes, now swiftly and desperately scattering, as a convoy breaks up when attacked by sub-packs. Methodically, scientifically, Zane knocked down two more planes. Croft, the raging demon, accounted for the other. So fiercely swift had been the battle that parachutes were still visible above the green jungle when the two captains realized that the only ships aloft were their own.

  They flew back to their secret field. Major Jackson told them that the Jap invasion force had been driven off temporarily. They could rest.

  But again Jackson glared at Zane.

  “What you could do,” he declared, “if you had some real fighting spirit! You’re a machine. If you had the heart to go with it you would be one of the greatest—”

  The orderly came in to make a breathless report.

  “Look-out reports capture of two Japanese pilots, sir. They’re being brought in now. Should be here in maybe an hour.”

  “You got your first ones that close?” asked Jackson.

  Zane shrugged. Croft’s face looked grim, black.

  “How come the cannibals didn’t get them?” Croft said. “Major, there are other Japs close—jungle troops! These flyers know their way around these jungles. How do we know these men who have been captured are even flyers? They couldn’t be spotted this soon after we get back from miles away. It’s a trick!”

  Zane smiled.

  “Japs who know the jungles would naturally be chosen for the job those Nips were sent to do,” he said softly. “What’s remarkable about it?”

  “I suppose you’ve the answer to everything!” said Jackson.

  Two hours later Jackson sent for Croft and Zane. The Nip pilots had been brought in.

  “Which one of you,” asked one of the Japs, before either captain could say a word, “flies the Airacobra with the slightly heavy left wing?”

  Zane started. Nobody, he was sure, had ever noticed that his plane was slightly inclined to favor the left wing. This Jap hadn’t missed that. Why?

  Jackson read the amazement in Zane’s face, the first real emotion he had ever seen there.

  “I guess it can do no harm to tell, Nip,” Zane said. “I fly that crate!”

  The Japs were covered carefully by men with bayoneted rifles. Their side-arms had been taken from them. They had been thoroughly searched. Yet when Zane answered, the Jap who had asked the question in perfect English, spoke one word in Japanese. Instantly both Japs hurled themselves at Zane—while in their hands were short-bladed knives that must have come out of their sleeves.

&nbs
p; Zane sidestepped. Croft jumped and swung a savage right to the chin of one Jap. The man went over on his back, his neck broken by the blow. An automatic barked, and the English-speaking Jap dropped to his face, rolled onto his back. Sweat beaded his yellow face, but he forced himself to speak—to Lumford Zane.

  “If you have the chance,” he said to Zane, “will you get word to any Jap commander that Matadori—that’s me—died trying to slay one of our greatest enemy airmen? You, sir! Your people call my people murderers, but you, you, with your precision, picking off soldiers—”

  He writhed and died then, his eyes fixed on Zane to the last. And in those eyes was fear. Not fear of death, but of Lumford Zane and of what this American whom he had failed to kill could still do to his people.

  “And I guess, Zane,” Jackson said soberly, “that leaves me nothing to complain about. The enemy risks—and loses—his life to get his most important antagonist. That is recognition.”

  “Well,” Zane said calmly, “we don’t have to be bothered about prisoners. I really ought to have credit for that, since they died trying to get me.”

  And Zane smiled with great gentleness. But nobody else smiled.

  “And I thought I had venom in me!” Croft said wonderingly. “Thank heaven, Zane, that you’re not a Jap, heading this way, and me the only man to head you off!”

  Zane smiled again, and went out to have a look at his Bell Airacobra.

  A SAHIBS’ WAR, by Rudyard Kipling

  Pass? Pass? Pass? I have one pass already, allowing me to go by the rêl from Kroonstadt to Eshtellenbosch, where the horses are, where I am to be paid off, and whence I return to India. I am a—trooper of the Gurgaon Rissala (cavalry regiment), the One Hundred and Forty-first Punjab Cavalry, Do not herd me with these black Kaffirs. I am a Sikh—a trooper of the State. The Lieutenant-Sahib does not understand my talk? Is there any Sahib on the train who will interpret for a trooper of the Gurgaon Rissala going about his business in this devil’s devising of a country, where there is no flour, no oil, no spice, no red pepper, and no respect paid to a Sikh? Is there no help?… God be thanked, here is such a Sahib! Protector of the Poor! Heaven-born! Tell the young Lieutenant-Sahib that my name is Umr Singh; I am—I was servant to Kurban Sahib, now dead; and I have a pass to go to Eshtellenbosch, where the horses are. Do not let him herd me with these black Kaffirs!… Yes, I will sit by this truck till the Heaven-born has explained the matter to the young Lieutenant-Sahib who does not understand our tongue.