Chapter Twelve
M
ITCHELL
, 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.”