Mitchell struck and the soldier went down.
Toughey lay in the road, unconscious, until a stretcher was produced and he was loaded aboard.
Three men were detailed to Mitchell personally and the bayonets glittered brightly in the flares. Wearily he allowed himself to be shoved along. He knew he had not helped his case.
Two days. Three days. A week?
Chapter Twelve
MITCHELL, James, gunnery sergeant USMC, was stretched on a cot, alone in a small tent. The Japanese had ample facilities for housing strange prisoners, as only a fool would bother to feed a captured Chinese soldier and several officers had gone down in the din of battle to the eternal glory of Nippon. But Mitchell, James, gunnery sergeant USMC, was not appreciative of the fact.
He had swabbed iodine into his wounded side and had padded the place as well as he could, but it felt as feverish as his brow. Images danced a little and he had to concentrate to keep them in their place.
The bottle of whisky was standing on his pack at attention. The contents were lowered exactly to the place where Toughey had put them and no farther.
Mitchell was reading the label over and over, but it didn’t say Canadian Whisky. Five Years Old. One Quart, anymore. He didn’t know what it said but he was reading the label anyway.
Sometimes he thought he could read a line from the Old Testament across the white face. He had had that hallucination before. In Gothic type, across that label, was scrawled Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts. Prov. 31:6.
Puzzled he read the invisible over and over again and it became more and more clear to him. He clenched his eyes in heavy thought and opened them again to read anew the Gothic type which had danced there for fifteen years.
He looked toward the closed flap of the tent as though his vision could bridge twelve miles and penetrate the walls of Shunkien.
This was Friday and night was coming on. He could see the hard, walnut visage of Captain Davis coming out of the canvas wall to silently look at him. He blinked the phantom away and slowly returned his attention to the fantastic label.
Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish . . .
Why did the label read that way? Why had it read that way for fifteen years?
His throat was dry and hot and the incessant clatter of a far-off gun hurt his head. He raised up on one elbow and read the label again.
Give strong drink . . .
In the next tent Goldy sat on an empty case and watched Toughey’s chest rise and fall beneath a mustard-colored blanket. His broken nose made him snuffle as he breathed. He was lying half awake as though coming back from a trip to another world. He turned his head and looked at Goldy for a long time.
“Hello,” said Toughey.
“How are you doin’?”
“Okay. Get caught up on your sleep?”
“Yeah. I thought I could sleep for a year but at the end of fourteen hours I couldn’t lie still another minute. How long do you think we’ll be here?”
“Duration of the war for all I know. You seen the sarge?”
“I looked into his tent a little while ago. These Japanese let you roam around as long as you stay peaceful.”
“What’d he say?”
“He didn’t even know I was there. He’s layin’ on his back looking at a whisky bottle he’s got propped up on his pack.”
“Holy hell!” cried Toughey, trying desperately to sit up and failing to make it unassisted. “Good God, Goldy, if you know what’s good for us, grab that bottle quick! Where’d he get it?”
“He had it all the time so far as I know. I just remembered that he gave you a couple snorts when that lead bouquet got wrapped around you.”
“That’s so!” said Toughey. “I was so far gone I never clicked. Listen, Goldy. Shove off and grab that bottle and bust it. We’ll never get out of here if he gets himself three sheets to the wind. You don’t know that guy. He’d tear up this whole Japanese outfit to get another snort once he got started.”
“He looked pretty peaceful to me,” said Goldy, not moving. “Besides, what’s the use? We’ll be shipped back to the coast and he’ll have plenty of time to recover. As for me, I’d just as soon we did get shipped back.”
“He’s got his orders,” said Toughey. “And if he can’t carry on, it’s his finish!”
“Don’t get all worked up, pal,” said Goldy. “You hear that shootin’? Well, that’s the end of Shunkien according to our cat-faced friend.”
“That don’t make no difference. If the Scandinavians took the town, we still got our orders. Hey, what you know about me carryin’ that gold all over the place!”
Goldy laughed at him.
Toughey’s single-track brain reverted to Mitchell. “You better go get that bottle if you ever expect to get under weigh from this dump. I’ve served with the sarge for six years and I know what makes him tick. Sober, he’s the best Marine in the outfit but drunk, he’s the damnedest, most scatterbrained sap you ever met. And he’s the only one who can talk us out of this mess.”
Goldy sat on the case without any signs of moving off and Toughey sank back, giving up.
The reverend came into the tent shortly after, looking very downcast. He stood gazing at Toughey as though about to read his funeral service and then removed his glasses and shined them up and replaced them.
“It’s terrible. Terrible!” said the reverend.
“What?” said Goldy.
“I’ve seen two of my trucks! I shall write to the State Department about this!”
“Probably,” said Goldy.
“Undoubtedly,” wept the reverend. “They were stolen by Chinese and now the Japanese have them, and though I fail to understand how this came about, it is certain that I shall make every effort to collect indemnity from the Japanese army.” He gave way under the strength of his emotion and polished his glasses again. When he had carefully replaced them and had stroked their long black ribbon out straight, he continued. “I shall call the attention of the State Department to this in the strongest terms.”
“I’m callin’ your attention,” said Goldy, “to Toughey’s leg—in terms strong enough to scorch your ears. You haven’t looked at it all day.”
“Aw, I’m all right,” said Toughey.
The reverend was about to take Toughey’s word for it when he caught the full force of Goldy’s glare. Hastily he pulled up the blanket and inspected Toughey’s leg for possible infection which he did not find.
“It seems to be mending nicely,” said the reverend. “That is,” he added recalling professional prudence, “there is no evidence that it is not mending.”
“Did you set it straight?” said Goldy.
“Oh, yes. It is a very simple fracture and would not have compounded without the shrapnel wound. The break is confined to the tibia, leaving the femur untouched. The extensor tendon is unaffected and the internal malleolus is intact. The astragalus is bruised slightly but seems to have been spared harm by the shoe. Thus I doubt that the articulation will be hampered upon healing.”
“It’s all Greek to me,” said Goldy.
“I beg your pardon,” replied the reverend. “But most medical terms are derived from Latin.”
“Is that so,” said Goldy without any great interest. “I get it that you’re puttin’ us wise to the fact that he’ll be toesmithing with the best of ’em.”
“Eh?” said the reverend.
She looked at him in surprise and then decided to let it pass.
“I have just heard,” said the reverend, “that Shunkien’s walls have been taken. I have also employed my time in trying to convince the Japanese colonel that he is doing us a grave injustice by refusing to allow us to return to the coast. I might say that I brought the strongest pressure to bear but he seemed impatient.”
“You better talk to the sarge before you go hangin’ out the wash to the Japanese.”
“But I thought if I personally could
be allowed—”
“So you’re tryin’ to shin the chains,” said Toughey with bitterness. “You better get wise to yourself. The sarge is in command around here and you better talk to him. If he says you can slip cable and full-speed out of here, okay. As long as you got into this outfit, he’s responsible for you.”
“You mean James?” gaped the reverend.
“I mean Gunnery Sergeant Mitchell,” said Toughey hoarsely.
“You mean I am to get his permission to leave? Even if the Japanese say that I can?”
“I mean just that,” said Toughey with a regulation growl. “And I ain’t got no delusions about him lettin’ you go. What if the skipper found out we was the cause of castin’ you adrift in this country and maybe lettin’ you get bumped off? There’d be hell to pay. If the sarge knew you was plannin’ to run out on him, you’d think a buzz saw was somethin’ to eat for indigestion.”
The reverend removed his glasses and scrubbed off the fog. “To think he would place his own father in such a predicament! But I did my best. I tried to raise him to be a credit to his church. And these are the thanks I get. These are the thanks! He exposes me to imprisonment, perhaps death. . . .”
“I bet you raised him,” said Goldy with heavy sarcasm.
“To the best of my ability,” wept the reverend. “I tried to place his feet upon the godly path and the only appreciation he ever gave me was to run away. He even . . .” and here he almost broke down. “He even robbed the poor box when he left.”
“Robbed the poor box?” said Goldy. “How much was in it?”
“Three dollars at the very least. It required months to recover from the shock of knowing that my boy was not only disobedient but also a thief. God is my witness that I strove to teach him the way to salvation and now I find that he runs about the country with a . . .” He caught himself in time on that one and hastily plunged on.
“I find that he is a Marine, a drunkard, capable of placing his own father in a perilous position, of stealing a car . . .”
Goldy’s eyes were intent upon him. “So you fed him full of hellfire and damnation, did you? And he couldn’t stand it any longer and took a powder. And he’s been running ever since.”
“What?” said the reverend.
“Skip it,” said Goldy. “You got the least to cry about and you’re the only one that’s turnin’ on the rain.” She got up and looked down at Toughey. “Want anything before I go?”
“Yeah. F’gawd’s sake get that . . . you know . . . away from him. We’re in this deep enough now without that.”
Goldy went out, her hands thrust deeply into the pockets of her swagger coat, her platinum hair escaping from beneath the cap with the jockey brim.
A sentry came alertly to attention as she emerged and watched her closely as she moved down the line to Mitchell’s tent. She whistled a bar of jazz with elaborate carelessness and when she looked through the flap of Mitchell’s tent, the bottle had vanished.
“How’s the feet?” said Mitchell, sitting up and swinging his legs down.
“Okay,” said Goldy. “Of course, they have been in better shape. Any news yet?”
“Not yet,” said Mitchell wearily. “This is a hell of a note. We’re twelve miles from Shunkien and we can’t get a yard closer. Listen to that row out there. The little boys in mustard must be moppin’ the place up. But that won’t change my orders. I got to get there!”
“Sure,” said Goldy, soothingly.
“I suppose you won’t care one way or the other,” said Mitchell. “Maybe you’d rather steer for the coast.”
“Maybe. It’s a cinch I ain’t got any billing in Shunkien. Don’t take it so hard, Sarge. You tried. . . .”
“I haven’t stopped trying,” he replied sharply. “By God, they won’t dare keep that keg and turn us back. We’ve come this far and we’ll go the whole way. I been thinking it might be a good bet to grab a rifle off one of these sentries. . . . But I know I’m crazy.”
She sat down on the foot of his cot. “Don’t pull anything like that.”
“Aw, I know I can’t. But I’m going crazy sitting here twiddling my thumbs. I guess you’re pretty sore at me for getting you into this.”
“I’ve been madder in my life,” said Goldy.
He grinned in sudden appreciation of the gallantry of her and turned a little to face her.
She got up abruptly, backing toward the flap.
“I didn’t mean anything,” said Mitchell. “You act like I was poison.”
“Good night,” said Goldy, backing out. “Sweet dreams.”
She was gone and Mitchell watched the flap stop swaying. He lay back on his cot, staring at the sloping canvas above him.
The angry rumble of the attack beat against him in waves. It matched the storm of his own spirits and made him more restless than ever. But sleep came to him at last.
Toward midnight the ferocity of the mopping-up diminished and Mitchell began to wake up, sensible of the change even in his slumber.
He put on his cap and buttoned up his blouse. He went to the flap of his tent and looked out across the active camp. Troops were coming up from the west, fagged after a forced march, ready to fill the gaps in the ranks so that the Japanese could circle out and cut off all retreat from Shunkien.
Mitchell’s appearance conjured a sentry out of the shadows. Slowly Mitchell began to stroll down the company street toward the headquarters tents with the sentry pacing alertly at his heels.
All was activity despite the lateness of the hour. Every officer was dressed and furiously busy. A stream of runners came and went from the largest of the tents.
Mitchell waited for half an hour, ignored by all, before he caught sight of the cocky linguist. He stopped him by stepping in his road.
“Is there any word yet?” said Mitchell.
It took a moment for the officer to shift the gears of his mind. Impatiently then, anxious to be gone on his business, he said, “Certainly. It came hours ago.”
“Good news?” said Mitchell, eagerly. “I can proceed into Shunkien?”
“See me about it later.”
Mitchell was still in his path and the officer tried to dodge around him and found Mitchell still blocking the way.
“I got orders to be in Shunkien by tomorrow morning,” said Mitchell doggedly. “If you have word from the east I want to know what it is.”
The Japanese was about to bite off another short answer when he recalled the import of the news. It was worse than a mere verbal rebuff.
“Your orders are on file with the second division but our colonel refuses to allow you to proceed toward Shunkien. Your burden is to be returned to you and you are to be started for the coast tomorrow morning. We cannot allow you either an armed escort or any vehicle. Now get out of my way.”
“You refuse to let me through to the city?” persisted Mitchell.
“Naturally. We have too much to do already without being bothered with you. Those are the orders of our colonel and if you attempt to disobey them we can only resort to imprisonment of you and your party for the duration of this unfortunate incident. Thank you very much and get out of my way.”
The officer ducked around him and was gone. Mitchell stared after him with mayhem plain upon his face. The sentry, alarmed, prodded Mitchell in the back and motioned toward Mitchell’s tent.
Dispiritedly, Mitchell trooped back down the company street to throw himself on his cot and beat his clenched fist into his pillow. He knew his fate was written. There were too many Japanese swarming between this camp and Shunkien. Any attempt at force would be suicidal.
He knew these things and he also knew his orders.
But he could do nothing. He had failed.
He lay back, wincing as he touched his aching side, and stared holes into the darkness.
Chapter Thirteen
BILLOWING smoke from the burning shores of the Huangpu rolled in suffocating waves across the decks of the USS Miami. Saturday’s sun made sm
all impression on the gloom which overhung Shanghai and now it sat straight overhead, a spinning sphere as red as blood.
Blackstone, V. G., commanding, was piped over the side. He was in a mood as lowering as the day. Unhappy Captain Davis started to retreat from the gangway but he had been observed.
“Davis!” said Blackstone. “Report to my quarters immediately.”
Davis followed with none of the esprit he had displayed in a score of landing parties and in a dozen battles.
Blackstone hurled his cap to his desk and sat down so hard that his chair shrieked in protest. His big red hands shuffled through his papers and came up with a radio.
Davis stood just inside the door, cap in hand, feeling much as he had the time a live grenade of the tin can variety had fallen in his foxhole in Nic.
Blackstone read the radio and balled it up. He spun around and glared. “I suppose you think the C-in-C invited me over for a tea party. I suppose you think he complimented me upon my strategy.” Unnecessarily, he roared, “Well, he didn’t! I’ve been on a carpet hotter’n boilerplates. And all because I was fool enough to listen to a half-baked captain of Marines! You see this?” He rattled the radiogram in the air and then crunched it up again. “They haven’t heard of your damned Marines in Shunkien. Jackson is yowling for relief and here we are reporting back in Shanghai without having completed our mission. Here it is noon Saturday!”
“They’ve got until midnight,” said Davis feebly, his usually walnut visage a dull red.
“Bah! I’ll tell you what’s happened to them. That booze-fighting sergeant of yours got himself scuppered with liquor and he’s somewhere in Shantung right now spending that keg of gold!”
“Sir,” said Davis, stiffly, “Mitchell—”
“To hell with Mitchell! Two Americans in the consulate are already down with cholera and it’s only a matter of hours before they all die! They’ll all be dead! And who’ll take the blasting for that? Me! Ohhhhhhh,” he shivered, “if I could only get my hands on that precious pair, I’d—”
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