The Military Megapack

by Harry Harrison

  “No,” Roberts said loudly, “There’s no chance of any help. I just happened to fall into the sea within swimming distance and I thought I was safe because you fellows had the island. Who is the boss here?”

  A gray-haired man moved up. Roberts spoke to him in a low voice.

  “All of you,” he said quickly, “start talking. Ask me questions and make so much noise nosey ears won’t hear me speak. The Jap lieutenant knows English.”

  They jabbered at him. The gray-haired man spcke with his lips against Roberts’ ear.

  “They just swarmed over us in the dead of night. We didn’t even know war was declared. For hours before it happened, our radio was jammed. They wrecked it. I’m the assistant super. The real boss showed some fight and they—they wrapped him in an American flag and—turned a machine-gun loose on him. We, all of us, had to stand there and watch it. I’m telling you, if I lay my hands on one of those Japs—”

  Roberts’ face was grim. He gestured for silence, but first he had the word passed along to get ready for trouble. The bedlam died away just before a dozen Jap troops pushed their way into the barracks. They held the Americans back. The Jap lieutenant swaggered in.

  “Very nice trick,” he hissed at Roberts. “Very good indeed, having the men talk all at once so you could pass propaganda among them. I suspected something was in the wind. Lieutenant, come with me. And you’re going to talk. Do you understand? You’ll talk!”

  They herded Roberts to the Jap lieutenant’s quarters. All the lights had gone out. Sentries patrolled the field, but most of the troops were lounging in front of their barracks.

  Roberts was pushed against a wall, a bayonet held at his throat. The Jap lieutenant eyed him malevolently.

  “Well, have you made up your mind to talk yet? Or shall I have that bayonet thrust through your throat?”

  “I’ll talk,” Roberts gasped. “But not under these conditions. Treat me as a prisoner of war, of a rank equal to your own. Then I’ll fill your ears full of things that will make you plenty sorry to be here.”

  The lieutenant gestured and the guards withdrew. He motioned to a chair and handed Roberts a cigarette.

  “Very well, you shall be fairly treated, but I know something is in the wind. You will keep your promise?”

  “Sure.” Roberts blew smoke toward the low ceiling. “Why not? Listen, my buckoo, a destroyer is heading this way. When we couldn’t contact the island, we suspected something was afoot. When that destroyer arrives in the morning, what chance will you have? There are about forty men here. Do you think they could fight off United States Marines? According to the odds at Wake Island, three Marines should be able to take you over.”

  The Jap flushed, but retained his temper.

  “One destroyer?” he repeated. “That is bad. Very bad. What do they intend doing when they take over the island?”

  Roberts shrugged. “What did you think?”

  “Ah, yes. Very pleasant for you to contemplate, Lieutenant. So the destroyer will not arrive until morning? Fine! Excellent! Do you know why? Because at dawn I shall have enough heavy bombers coming this way to sink your precious destroyer. I shall radio at once.”

  Roberts made a half-hearted move to leap out of the chair, but a gun menaced him. The Jap lieutenant walked over to a short-wave radio set, concealed beneath tarpaulin. He contacted one of their bases not too far away.

  Roberts didn’t understand what he said, but it was clear that he meant to carry out his threat. He cut the connection finally and Roberts heaved a mental sigh of relief. He had been tense with fear that O’Malley would start the fireworks before the Jap finished.

  “You will go back now—to the swine who live in the barracks and work for us,” said the Jap officer. “Beginning tomorrow, I shall have a good assignment for you, Lieutenant. You wish to be treated as a prisoner of war equal to my rank. Very well—you shall wait on me hand and foot. There are boots to be cleaned, laundry to be done. Food to be fed me. I shall grow fat and lazy while you become thin and puny. Then some day, when I am tired of seeing your face around, I shall treat your comrades to another spectacle of our contempt for the United States.”

  “Don’t go into detail,” Roberts said quietly. “I know all about the murder of the superintendent of this island. Remember it was murder and there is a certain penalty—”

  The Jap leaped to his feet and raised his gun to rake its muzzle across Roberts’ face. At that moment bedlam broke loose. The barracks where the troops were quartered went first, under half a dozen grenades lobbed through its windows by O’Malley.

  The Jap lieutenant spun around. Roberts leaped. He got an arm around the Jap’s neck. Instantly, the Jap dropped his gun and reached up to secure a ju-jitsu grip. But Roberts let go of him suddenly and stepped back. The Jap, with a bellow for help, started slowly to circle Roberts, both arms outspread like a wrestler’s.

  * * * *

  Roberts watched him narrowly. He could hear running footsteps drawing closer. That would be part of the guard. If they arrived too soon, he would be shot in the back. Then O’Malley’s machine-gun, at the end of the field, let go. There were screams. Bullets plastered into the walls of the shack.

  At that moment Roberts bored in. He evaded the Jap by ducking under his outthrust arms, came up within two inches of the yellow-skinned man and pumped a savage blow to his midriff. The Jap bleated in pain and doubled up. Roberts slammed one against his face and flattened his nose. Blood spurted. The Jap squealed in terror now. He dropped to the floor and started fumbling for his gun. Roberts pounced on it first.

  As his fingers closed around the weapon, a Jap soldier appeared in the doorway with leveled rifle. Roberts shot him through the chest. The Jap lieutenant made a mad leap for the Yank. Roberts squeezed trigger again. The slug passed through the Jap’s forehead, squarely between the eyes.

  Roberts was up in a flash. He picked up a submachine-gun from a dozen stacked in one corner. At the doorway, astride the body of the dead soldier, he saw O’Malley’s guns go into action. Half a dozen Japs were running like mad toward the barracks where the workers were imprisoned. Apparently they intended to take their vengeance there.

  Roberts swept the group with fire. All but one dropped. The survivor threw away his rifle and reached for the stars.

  Men swarmed out of the barracks. Weak and pale from the ordeal of capture and virtual torture, they nevertheless closed in on other Japs who surrendered. Roberts did not attempt to dissuade them. They had a certain amount of fun due them.

  O’Malley came running down the field, carrying the heavy machine-gun. He dropped it and began thumping Roberts on the shoulders.

  “Boy, I thought I’d missed the train! A couple of sentries came up behind me and we had a little scrap.”

  “Are you hurt?” Roberts asked.

  “Nope.” O’Malley shook his head. “That blood on my sleeve dripped off the bayonet. Say, those can be pretty darn good weapons—and do the Japs hate ’em! How’d I do?”

  “Great,” Roberts said. “Now we’ve got to go to work.”

  He raised his voice and called all the men around him.

  “Listen, men, you want to get back to the United States. There’s no radio except the short¬wave set the Japs used, and it’s too weak to contact our forces. The only chance we have is getting the plane O’Malley and I came here in. There isn’t enough gas to fly back to our base, but I’ve taken steps to have some delivered.

  “Six of you arm yourselves with tommy guns and patrol the beaches. If you see any more Japs, let ’em have it, and don’t stop to ask questions. The rest gather axes and knives. Shovels and picks. We’ve got to haul our plane to this field. It’s the only way O’Malley and I can take off.”

  “But you said there wasn’t enough gas,” O’Malley protested. “Did you find a cache of it here?”

  “There isn’t a drop,” the gray-haired strawboss said. “The Japs made sure of that. But didn’t I hear you say you’d sent for some?”r />
  “Yep—it’s coming C.O.D. But O’Malley and I have to be in the air to pay off for the stuff. Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  For the rest of the night they worked furiously. A swathe was cut through the jungle. Ropes were arranged to haul the plane ashore, and a quick examination showed it was in excellent condition.

  O’Malley put the machine-gun back into place. As the sun rose, the plane was poised at the end of the field. Men, posted on the highest portions of the island, fired a signal. The Jap bombers, sent to destroy the mythical warship, were coming in.

  Roberts gave his plane the gun. He zoomed across the rough field, broke contact with it and soared into the sky. There were three Jap bombers, heavy, slow affairs and unaccompanied by fighters. Probably the distance was too great for smaller ships to negotiate.

  “Here comes our gasoline!” Roberts yelled. “See what you can do with the gun, Mike.”

  The bombers spotted them and wheeled frantically, but the Vultee could about double their speed and triple their maneuverability. O’Malley got the first one with a burst straight down on top of the pilots’ compartment. The big bomber dived into the sea.

  The rear gunners in the blister of the second bomber started to throw up plenty of hardware. Roberts smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. He was remembering that island superintendent, shot to death for no reason at all. He streaked for altitude, then came down, a howling demon of revenge. All guns cut loose.

  The heavy bomber broke in mid-air and the pieces darted toward the water. The third bomber was riding with wide-open throttle. Roberts went in pursuit, overtook it in ten minutes and sang out an order to O’Malley. The Irishman smashed the aft blister and its occupant and gun.

  Roberts flew directly above the bomber and sent a burst of smoking white incendiaries just ahead of it. The bomber slowed up. Gradually Roberts herded the big plane around, keeping steel spraying near it every moment or two. O’Malley joined in the game.

  The island was almost directly below them. Roberts dived toward the bomber, and its pilot dropped fast. He must have seen the open field and realized that surrender was his only salvation. The bomber came down, hit the rough field and buckled over.

  The workers closed in on it. The Japs were hauled out and tied up. Roberts came in, too. He jumped out of the plane, ran up to the bomber and made sure no devices were in operation to destroy it.

  They took the gas from its tank by bucket loads. The fuel gauge of the Vultee began to rise.

  “We’ll be back,” Roberts promised the men. “This is our island and we’ll keep it! Within twenty-four hours destroyers and cruisers will put in. Interceptors will come to fight off any more Jap attacks. There’s gas enough in our tank now to reach the base. Thanks very much. Good-by, and good luck.”

  The Vultee roared across the field, nosed up at a sharp angle, then circled the island. O’Malley pointed down.

  “Hey, look at that! They’ve got the flag flying again! Say—I didn’t hear all that went on, but that flag looks as though it’s shot full of holes.”

  “It is, and it’s bloody, too,” Roberts said quietly. “But before this is over, that flag will fly anywhere we wish and pretty soon the blood on that one will be washed out. Brave men are buried on that island. Not soldiers, but civilians who have proved themselves just as good soldiers as any men who ever flew or handled a gun.”

  THE CLOUD WIZARD, by David Goodis

  “That makes twenty-seven for Bersbee.”

  “Tops for this outfit.”

  “Tops for almost any outfit. He’s due for a promotion soon. They can’t decorate him any more, unless it’s to give him a V. C.”

  And then they stopped talking, because Bersbee was entering the lounge of the Officers’ Mess. His hair was new-combed, wet, and his face glowed red from a rough towel. He wore a clean uniform and his shoes were well polished. There was something fresh and assured and bright about him. Whenever the other men in Squadron 19 looked at Bersbee, their own feelings were upped. Their own confidence was heightened.

  Flying Officer Bersbee was the best man in the outfit. He had been in the thickest part of the business since the Battle of France. Only this morning, over the Channel, near Portsmouth, he had knocked down his twenty-seventh Nazi. And he had done it with the customary Bersbee finesse.

  No madman stuff. No acrobatics. No suicide dives, hundred-to-one lunges, turns, swirls, roll-outs, loops. None of the wild flying that distinguished the work of other high-ranking men in the R. A. F.

  With Bersbee it was cold and clean and very mathematical. Although he was just as fast as any of the others when it came to running from the Dispersal Hut, taking off, climbing, moving into combat stance, he always seemed to be taking his time. He always seemed to be moving with calculated deliberateness, as if he had drawn up blueprints for every move.

  He rather looked the part. For his medium height he was overweight by about twenty pounds. But it was packed in hard, and he was built firmly, stocky in a square way. He had very black hair, severely tonicked, combed and brushed. He had eyes that were almost black. His features were well balanced, well lined, and his complexion was outdoors-and-flying red. But he was not handsome. There was something cold and rigid and somewhat artificial in his appearance, and it kept him from being handsome.

  Bersbee was twenty-seven years old. Before the war he had been a statistician, working in the actuary division of a large London insurance firm.

  Now he walked toward his chair. He always sat in the same soft-backed leather chair. No other chair would do. If someone was already sitting in his chair, he would stand, even though there were other chairs. But things were at a point where nobody, not evem the squadron leader, would take Bersbee’s chair. He didn’t demand anything like this. He didn’t ask for special privileges. But the others seemed to know what he wanted, and they rushed to cater to him. He was best man in the outfit. He had downed 27 enemy planes. A few days ago he had saved Luckerson. Last week he had pulled Flight Lieutenant Limm-Gawes from a tough spot. A short time before that he had saved Hackedorn. He had saved Bensing, and Illvers, and Litchington. He had pulled them out of it at a time when it seemed as though nothing could snatch them from Nazi bullets and a cold, deep Channel.

  They adored Bersbee.

  * * * *

  He walked toward his chair and before he sat down he creased his trousers. Then, when he was settled comfortably in his chair, he looked up. And it was a signal for the white-coated waiter to come over with the silver tankard that held “half a can” of beer. Bersbee took it, raised it slowly to his lips. The waiter stood by. Sometime the beer was not cold enough. Sometime it was too cold.

  “Cold enough, sir?”

  “It’ll do.”

  Bersbee slowly sipped his beer. The lounge of the Officers’ Mess was filling rapidly now, as those who had taken part in the full-day combat were concluding the hot-and-cold shower, the nap, and coming to the lounge for the remainder of their evening relaxation. There had been a buzz of casual conversation before Bersbee’s entrance, and then a lull during his walk toward the chair, and his receiving of the beer, and the ceremony of the first few sips. And then the conversation heightened again as more men entered the room.

  Nobody spoke to Bersbee. They wanted to. They wanted to, very much. But it was gathered that he preferred to be let alone while he sipped his beer. Generally, he wanted to be let alone.

  They all knew this, even the new men. It was immediately impressed upon the new men. Leave Bersbee alone. Don’t ask him a lot of foolish questions. Don’t try to engage him in conversation. Leave him alone. He has enough to do when he gets in the air. When he’s on the ground he must relax. He must fully relax. Leave Bersbee alone. There aren’t many like Bersbee. Indeed, there aren’t many like him. The 19th must take good care of Bersbee. Leave him alone. Stay out of his chair. Don’t talk to him when he enters the lounge. Let him relax. Leave him alone.

  It had been duly impressed upon Mea
der, who was one of the new men. But Meader was forgetting about it now, as he entered the lounge. He was a tall, blond fellow, twenty-five, and this morning he had been saved by Bersbee. He had been attacking two Messerschmitts and had come out of a vertical right turn to find a third Nazi on his tail. As he manipulated out of the turn, he was brought into the bullet-line of the other Messerschmitts, and they were closing in, feeding upon him, when Bersbee entered the party. Bersbee entered cleanly from the side, like a surgeon’s blade. And cleanly he had flipped a three-second burst at the plane on Meader’s tail. The plane faded away from Meader’s tail and broke out in flames. Then Bersbee had edged up, feinted a loop, cleanly lunged at one of the other Messerschmitts. His Brownings found the enemy cockpit. Meader saw the Nazi die. He saw the other Nazi running away. He waved his thanks to Bersbee. But Bersbee was already hunting for more Nazis.

  Meader was more than glowingly grateful. He was very excited. He was fascinated. He had never seen flying like that. He had never believed that it could be done like that. It was so precise, and so thorough, and it was timed magnificently. During the come-home, landing at a small emergency field, waiting at a Dispersal Hut for another call to action, all during the second phase of the big air battle, all during the short nap and the third phase and the nap and then the hot-and-cold shower, Meader had been thinking of Bersbee, and what the man had done, how he had gone about it. Meader was a very sincere student of air combat. He kept telling himself that he was going to approach Bersbee. At first he remembered what the other flying officers had told him. Then he was purposely forgetting it.

  And now, as he entered the lounge of the Officers’ Mess, he walked directly to Bersbee’s chair. He stood in front of the chair. His mouth was open, and the first words were almost out. But not quite. Meader was much too awed.

  Bersbee was taking a long swallow. Then he was looking up. He was looking at Meader’s face. He was blinking, slightly puzzled, and he couldn’t exactly be blamed. The tall blond fellow was standing there, bent forward, mouth open, no words coming out, dull doltish film in the eyes.