Jackson grabbed his decoding book and started to work. The doctor stared over his shoulder with bated breath, straining his eyes to read the letters which began to string out.
Finally the consul had it!
JACKSON
UNITED STATES CONSUL SHUNKIEN
BE ADVISED THAT TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS IN BRITISH GOLD IS BEING CONVEYED TO YOU AND YOUR REQUIRED MEDICAL SUPPLIES. GUNNERY SERGEANT JAMES MITCHELL IS UNDER ORDERS TO REPORT TO YOU NOT LATER THAN SATURDAY.
V. G. BLACKSTONE CAPT. USN
COMMANDING
USS MIAMI
The consul trembled as he handed the message to the doctor but that worthy had already read it and his invisible eyes were glowing.
“Looks easy enough,” said the doctor. “Even if a few do get it, the serum will be here in time. It’s certain we can’t leave here at all unless we do get it.”
“Yes,” whispered Jackson, feeling the throb of the floor beneath his feet as another aerial bomb blammed into Shunkien. “Yes, it looks easy. Only two major offensives and two hundred miles of war-gutted China between here and Liaochow.”
Chapter Eight
DUSK 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
AT 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.
Directly 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 d
ream 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.