Orders Is Orders (5 page)

Chapter Eight

D
USK
was seeping across the barren hills. The wide and fertile plains below were already
merged into a deep pool of ink. To the north, scattered mountaintops were a deep rose,
a color to match the patch of unsteady light on the southern horizon—which might be
artillery or a burning town. A rumble like summer thunder pulsed in the air.

Mitchell turned a climbing curve in the rutted highway and stopped, stepping back.
He faced about.

“We crossed a stream a hundred yards back. Double time!”

“What?” said the girl. “Y’mean we got to go back and then walk
up
again?”

Mitchell was bearing down upon her as though he would run over her if she did not
move. She turned and walked.

Toughey set the old man of the sea down and let it roll. Gravity was kind. The keg
teetered off a bridge and dropped five feet to the almost dry creek bed.

“Under the bridge,” said Mitchell. “Quick!”

Toughey hauled the keg into the gloom, upended it and waited for the girl to seat
herself. But she had other ideas. She perched herself on a rock beside a pool of water
and took off what was left of her slippers. With a voluptuous sigh of pure pleasure,
she slid her feet into the cool water.

“What’s up?” said Toughey, turning his sling and sliding his left arm into it. He
worked his bolt and stood facing the outside edge of the bridge.

“About two hundred Chinese cavalry,” replied Mitchell. “They’re coming this way. Maybe
we’ll be lucky enough to have them pass up this stream for a watering place.”

“Would they do anything to us?” said the girl.

“We can’t take that chance,” said Mitchell. “Without orders, anything is liable to
happen.”

“I thought you had orders.”

He shook his head. “I had to give them up at the first Japanese
PC
we hit.”

The clatter of hoofs, the clink of sabers and the creak of leather came from afar,
growing louder. Toughey took his arm out of the sling and fixed his bayonet. Mitchell
unbuckled the flap of his holster.

The bridge trembled and the amplified sound was deafening. Dust and stones showered
down on either side for an interminable time. Finally the rear guard was over and
gone and the hoofbeats were swallowed by distance.

Toughey unfixed his bayonet, slung his rifle across his back, took off his cap and
selected a cigarette. He sat down on the keg, puffing thoughtfully.

Mitchell went up on the road and looked down the hill, but it was now much too dark
below to see anything. He came back.

“We might as well eat before we go on.”

“Go on?” said the girl faintly. “Gosh, don’t you guys ever get tired? Listen, maybe
a moon will come up later on. Let’s take a little shut-eye and then hike about mid—”

“If you don’t mind,” said Mitchell mildly, “I’ll make our plans.”

“I was thinking,” she protested, “that if there was two hundred cavalry, there might
be more along the road.”

“That’s a chance we’ve got to take,” said Mitchell. “We can find other places to duck.”

He slid his pack off his shoulders and she watched for him to flex his arms and stretch.
But he didn’t. He acted as though the pack weighed a pound and no more. Disappointed,
she watched him bring forth some of the provender he had foraged along the way—some
peanuts and a few chunks of bread.

They fell to on the chow and cleaned it up. The girl was silent as she ate but as
soon as she had finished, it was plain that she had been spending her time in thought.

“Listen, mister,” she said, “if you was to take me to the nearest point out, my old
man could make it worth your while. Did I tell you he was the soybean king?”

“No,” said Mitchell. “Is he?”

“Sure. He can write his check for a million any old day. Now if you boys would just
quit this everlasting march, march, march and put me someplace where I could be taken
care of—”

“Save it,” said Mitchell. “There’s no such place. I realize your feet are practically
on the ground but we can’t slow down and still make Shunkien by Saturday. Here it
is Wednesday night and we’ve only got tomorrow and Friday to make most of our time.”

“Maybe you can get a car someplace. I’m telling you, mister, if my old man—”

“Please,” said Mitchell.

“Maybe you don’t think my old man
is
the soybean king,” she said indignantly.

“No, I don’t,” replied Mitchell.

She was shocked. “You mean you don’t believe me?”

“I mean just that. Quit pulling the line. You’re Dawn LeMontraine, the fan dancer.”

“How . . . how did you find that out?”

“You left your purse in the car, and now that I’ve told you, you can have it back.”
He gave it to her and her fingers were eager as she opened it.

She powdered her nose and rouged her lips and made herself very attractive. Mitchell,
looking at her, forgot himself for a moment.

“I’m sorry I pulled that gag,” she said unabashed. “Thanks for rescuing my war paint.
I felt down without it.”

Mitchell grinned at her and she froze up immediately. Hurriedly she began to pull
on her stockings.

“Okay, Marine. Keep your distance.”

“Look here,” said Mitchell. “You’ve got me all wrong. What was the idea of telling
me that whopper in the first place?”

She looked at him resentfully. “I knew what I was doing. I suppose I should have come
right out and said I was what I am. I know Marines by reputation. And—”

“That’s interesting,” said Mitchell. “Even if not true.”

“Well, I got to take care of myself, haven’t I?”

He merely looked at her.

But she was tired and the food had not been good and she wanted to take a hot bath
and then sleep forever and then ride the rest of her life.

She stopped putting on her slippers and put her head down in her hands and her platinum
hair cascaded over her knees. Her shoulders shook.

Mitchell knew it was his fault. He moved closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder
to tell her he was sorry.

She whipped away from him and stood up, backing angrily. “See? What did I tell you?
I let down my guard and you try to make a pass at me. Gee, guy,” and the tears were
big in her blue eyes, “can’t you be square?”

“I was just—”

“Sure. Sure. That’s what they all say!” She drew herself up. “Get this, Marine. I’m
a one-man woman, and I haven’t met him yet. Am I understood?”

Mitchell was sliding into his pack again. He motioned at Toughey to come on and Toughey
shouldered the keg.

She put on her wrecks of slippers and followed them back to the inky road, falling
in between them and marching.

For an hour and four miles, not a word was said. And then Mitchell spoke.

“What’s your real name?”

“Goldy Brown. And if you laugh, I’ll kill you.”

“Okay, Goldy.”

Chapter Nine

A
T
two o’clock in the morning, human life is at its lowest ebb—and it must have been
close to that dark and eerie hour when Goldy dropped down on a milestone and refused
to go on.

Mitchell looked at her for a long time. “You mean you don’t care whether we leave
you or not?”

“No, I don’t care,” she wept. “Keep going. I don’t care what happens to me, but for
God’s sake don’t make me go on!”

Mitchell tried to pull her to her feet.

“Leave me alone!” she whimpered. “You don’t care what happens to me! All you can think
about is your orders. To hell with your orders! They don’t include me.” She subsided,
slumping wearily, every muscle in her body screaming for rest. There was less than
a shred left of her slippers.

Mitchell lighted a match to look at her and by its jerky glow, her face was haggard.
He dropped it and it glowed in the black road.

“Get up!” said Mitchell, his voice sharp and hard. “Get up and walk. I didn’t ask
you to stay with us and now that you are, you’ll carry on. Get up!”

She did not move. He grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. She sagged away from
him and he angrily straightened her up. Half dragging her, he forced her on up the
road. Staggering, Toughey limped after them.

Mechanically then, she was again walking, too numb with fatigue to mind the pain anymore.
And when she faltered, Mitchell’s harsh voice whipped her on.

After a racked eternity, Mitchell called a halt. Toughey and the girl sat down in
the road, dimly aware of the dawn which had begun to spread its crimson flood across
the plains. Mitchell was gone for some time and at last Toughey perked up enough to
light himself a cigarette and look around. He saw Mitchell coming back. Beyond Mitchell
there was a sandbagged wall, sprawled bodies and a broken, smoking gun carriage.

Mitchell sank down beside Goldy. He had three pairs of felt shoes under his arm and,
one by one, he held their soles to her feet. The smallest pair fitted her.

Mitchell stood up. “We’re several miles to the north of our course.”

“Lost?” said Toughey.

“No. We’re detouring toward Yin-Meng and if we’re lucky we can get a car there.”

“A car?” said Goldy huskily.

“How?” demanded Toughey.

“March,” said Mitchell.

They moved on through the smoky birth of day and as they progressed, the countryside
became more and more littered with the debris of war. Mitchell’s hopes sank in inverse
ratio. This, then, had been the scene of the far-off battle they had heard. Somewhere
around them armies were on the march. Somewhere ahead were the hurdles of both Chinese
and Japanese PCs.

D
irectly ahead, crushed by shells into a river bank, was Yin-Meng.

A straggling line of refugees dragged dismally down the broken road, pushing wheelbarrows,
bending their backs under children and bedding, hauling unwilling animals. Even the
dogs were silent.

The apathy on the Chinese faces was complete in its recognition of fate. The sad brown
eyes were not even curious enough to examine the two men in olive green and the girl
in the dusty blue swagger coat. Mitchell touched the arm of a shrunken old man.

The ancient looked up into the sergeant’s haggard face. And then, miraculously, fear
gave way to stunned surprise.

The ancient spoke gladly and Mitchell, his stubbly face cracking into a grin, replied.

For several minutes they spoke and then the old man began to shake his head and point
into the west. And Mitchell shook his head and pointed east.

They parted, finally, and Goldy and Toughey got up and followed on.

“He looked like he knew you,” said Toughey, reviving with the day.

“Sure,” said Mitchell. “I haven’t seen him since I left here fifteen years ago.”

“You’ve been in this place before?”

“I was born in Yin-Meng,” said Mitchell.

Toughey looked at the shattered town which grew larger ahead.

A walled set of stone buildings stood upon the river bank. Through the unhinged gates,
trampled gardens could be seen. On the cobblestones within stood a limousine and beside
it crouched a man who would have been a scarecrow if he had not been so fat.

His coattail was in shreds and his right pants leg was ripped from knee to ankle.
His bald head glistened with sweat as he worked.

On the approach of the strange trio he stopped work and looked up, holding a monkey
wrench uncertainly in his grease-smeared hand. Upon his long nose were perched a gold-rimmed
pince-nez
from which drooped a long black silk ribbon. One end of his clerical collar had become
unfastened and stood out straight from the back of his neck. Mitchell marched through
the gate, smiling faintly.

“Hello, Father.”

The man gulped convulsively. He took off his pince-nez and gave them a violent polishing.
He put them back and steadied them with his pudgy hand.

“James!” he exclaimed. He detached his gaze from the face of his son and stared at
the uniform. “A Marine!”

“Father, I know you’ll hardly consider my visit a social call and I’m in as much a
hurry as you are. I want a car.”

“Oh, my goodness!” wailed the Reverend Mitchell. “It can’t be done. Those Philistines
have looted me! Positively looted me! I had nine cars and a station wagon and not
one of them is left but this. And it won’t run, James! It won’t run!”

“Toughey,” said Mitchell, crisply, “the monkey wrench.”

Toughey advanced and followed his orders. He poked his broken nose under the hood
and began to pry around.

“I must make the coast,” said the agitated reverend. “There is nothing left. Nothing
left! They’ve taken everything! Even my money. You’ll help me make the coast, James?
Of course you will!”

“I’ll help you all I can,” replied Mitchell. “Is there any food in the house?”

“Not a bite.”

“Are you certain, Father?”

“Well, er . . . I had a few supplies. But I need them, James! It may be days before
I can make Liaochow.”

“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” said Mitchell.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes. Yes, indeed, my boy. But really I haven’t a tin to spare. They’ve
looted me of everything! Everything!”

“Pardon me, Father,” said Mitchell, going by. He reached into the
tonneau
and began to pull out
corn willy
and pears and potatoes and coffee.

Goldy was much recovered by the sight of the car and the glimpse of the food. She
looked around her with some interest. “A mission, huh? This is a pretty swell layout
you got here, Reverend.”

“But they’ve looted it!” wailed the elder Mitchell. “It was the finest mission in
the province and now look at it. Look at it!” Tears fogged his glasses and he took
them off and shined them.

“When Toughey here said the sarge’s old man was a missionary, I thought it was a big
laugh, but I guess it’s the straight goods.”

The reverend looked at her with an uncomprehending frown. “What a strange language
you speak, young lady. May I ask why you are touring about this country with my son?”

“Aw, it’s out of the bag by now,” said Goldy, sitting down on the running board and
watching Mitchell vanish into one of the small stone houses. “I was on my way from
Shanghai to Peking via the Tientsin-Pukow Railway when this war started up. Everybody
said it would be over before it began so I sat down in Teng—after the rails were ripped
up—and thought maybe I’d pick up some
jack
on the side. But the war got hot around Teng and I rented a car and driver to take
me to Liaochow and . . . well . . . here I am.”

“Extraordinary,” said the reverend. “And you met my son? But tell me, how is it that
an unescorted young lady would wander about China at such a time?”

“Unescorted? Are you tryin’ to pull my leg?”

“Oh, no. Good gracious, no. I . . . ah . . . would never dream of such a thing. But
why is it? Where are your parents?”

“In the Bronx, mister. In the Bronx.”

“And they allowed you to . . .”

“Nix, Reverend. I’ve supported my old man since I could do a handstand on amateur
night.”

“A . . . a what?”

“Handstand. I’m a fan dancer.”

“A
fan
dancer. My goodness. You mean you’re a . . . a woman of the stage? A chorus girl?”

“No, I ain’t a chorus girl. I do a solo.”

“My, my, my. First he is a Marine and then he goes about with a dancer! I
knew
he wouldn’t come to any good.” This seemed to stiffen the reverend’s spine and he
waddled over and tapped Toughey on the shoulder.

“Are you having any luck, my man? I mean can you repair the thing?”

“I don’t know. I’m undoing all you did,” said Toughey ungraciously. “I ain’t run into
one of these wagons for twenty years. You ought to be able to get a lot of money for
this as an antique, Reverend.”

“Oh, I assure you it was my oldest car. When the troops came through here at midnight,
they got it to run this far and could get it no further and . . . ah . . . I was never
much a hand at machinery.”

“You tellin’ me?” said Toughey. “You was tryin’ to screw the timer onto the carburetor.
Now beat it and let me alone and maybe I’ll be able to get into the guts of this thing.”

“It’s precisely a hundred and two miles to the coast,” said the reverend, retreating.
“We should be able to make it—”

“That’s not news,” cut in Goldy, staring down at her feet.

Mitchell was coming back with an armful of steaming kettles and the tools of attack.

“You mean you came from the coast?” said the reverend. “But where were you going?”

“Why, to . . . OUCH! Hey, Sarge, what the hell’s the idea? Tryin’ to bust my shins
for me?”

“Sorry,” said Mitchell. “
Pipe down for chow
, Toughey.”

The reverend eyed the heaped plates with great misgivings and, watching Toughey stow
away a warehouse of food, was so visibly affected that he had to wipe his glasses
half a dozen times during the meal.

After he had stoked himself until he had to let out his belt a notch, Toughey renewed
his attack on the car to learn at last that a battery cable had jarred loose.

He stood back and swabbed the grease from his hands and face with an already grimy
handkerchief. He climbed up under the wheel and started the car. It ran with great
smoothness.

With satisfaction radiating from him, he got down again and stowed the keg into the
rear seat. “Who’s drivin’, Sarge?”

“I’ll take the first
trick
,” said Mitchell. “Are we all set, Father?”

“My boy, you have saved my life! We must get out of here before those troops come
back.”

The reverend got into the front seat, knowing of old that it was the smoothest riding.
Goldy luxuriously stretched herself on the cushions and went to sleep abruptly in
the middle of a yawn.

Toughey planted both feet on the keg, settled his enormous bulk, stood his rifle between
his knees and was snoring before the car had even reached the gate.

Mitchell drove out between the pillars and turned into the road, heading west.

Until that turn, the reverend was most complacent. Clamorously, now, he cried, “James!
You have mistaken the direction! The coast is to the
east
! James!”

“I haven’t mistaken anything,” said Mitchell.

“But . . . but . . . good gracious, this is the direction all those troops took! We’re
going into the very heart of the battle area! I
demand
that you turn around.”

“Demand away,” said Mitchell. “If you don’t like this direction, you can get out.”

“No. Oh, no. My goodness. I can’t stay in Yin-Meng! Please, my boy, have you no sense
of duty to your father? Have you no sense of duty?”

“Father,” said Mitchell, “we’re headed for Shunkien. If you would rather come with
us than stay behind, settle down and ride.”

“Shunkien,” wept the reverend. “But, my boy, it’s in a state of
siege
. You can never even approach the city!”

“I got orders to deliver a box and a keg to Shunkien, siege or no siege. And whether
you like it or not, that’s our destination. Now put up or shut up.”

The reverend subsided for a long while and then he muttered, “You always were a wayward
boy, James. A Marine and then a chorus girl and now you defy your own father.”

Rolling deeper into hostile China, the reverend wiped the emotional mist from his
glasses and watched the rough miles go by.