Orders Is Orders by L. Ron Hubbard

somethin’ when he gets it hot. He’s got one!”
    Mitchell was still staring at his paper, his jaws pulsing, his teeth clenched.
    “Cut the suspense,” said Goldy. “Are we goin’ to walk to the coast or have you thought
     up how to steal an airplane or something?”
    Mitchell looked down at Toughey. “We’re going to Shunkien.”
    “Oh, good gracious,” mourned the reverend. “If we get caught, and I’m certain we will
     be, they’ll lock us up for months! Have you no feeling, James? Really, I should rather
     carry this stretcher all the way to Liaochow than to be a prisoner for the remainder
     of my life. James, have you no heart?”
    “Shut up,” said Toughey. “Orders is orders.”
    “It’s shorter,” said Goldy, already aware of the blisters she had lately contracted.
     “But how you going to pull this off, huh? They didn’t listen to you back there, why
     should they listen to you someplace else?”
    “Only posts in the rear have been told about us,” said Mitchell, thinking aloud. “Posts
     to the south of Shunkien won’t know a thing. And if this pass merely says to let a
     sergeant and party through the Japanese lines, they’ll honor it anywhere.”
    “But if we don’t report . . .” began the reverend.
    “A United States Consulate is the same as USA soil,” said Mitchell. “To hell with
     what happens once we’re there.”
    “I beg pardon, James?”
    “I said to hell with it.”
    “We’ll be caught,” said the reverend. “James, have you no—”
    “No! Pick up that pack.”
    The reverend picked it up and struggled into it. His dance as he got the stretcher
     up was more prolonged than before.
    They headed south.
    “I knew he had an idea,” crowed Toughey.
    “It’s shorter anyhow,” said Goldy.
    And after that they slogged in silence with the wind pushing them and stirring the
     rags of the reverend’s coattails.

Chapter Fifteen
    T HE Japanese had entered, purged and executed Shunkien. Patrols marched through the streets,
     turning aside to blast out lurking Chinese troops, occasionally running into a sniper’s
     bullets, singling out a few civilian examples to put the remains of the city upon
     its good behavior.
    The south gate of the town was shut. Machine guns pointed both outward and inward
     as a double precaution; sentries stood stiff and alert. Weary soldiers sat in groups,
     staring at the ground in complete exhaustion after their attack and the subsequent
     mopping up.
    Along the wall was a line of gray bundles and above them the stone was pitted with
     bullet holes. In a watchtower above the gate, a Chinese hugged his machine gun and
     the muzzle pointed at the afternoon sun. Small wisps of steam still rose from the
     burst water jacket.
    Occasional troops of cavalry rode in from the plains, bringing fragments of the rear
     guard of the fleeing Chinese army. The prisoners were officers only, men who might
     wish to talk.
    Above the entire area hung smoke, shredded and whipped away by the wind but ever rising
     like a shroud.
    Mitchell stopped a hundred yards from the gate. Until now troops had been too busy
     with gray uniforms to bother about olive green. No PC had been established to the
     south as yet. But this high gate barred the way and the sentries were very stiff before
     it.
    “James,” quavered the reverend, “it is not too late to back away. If they know about
     us, it’s prison! And your pass may include details! James—”
    “Shut up,” growled Toughey mechanically. “Leave the sarge alone!”
    They had their breath back and Mitchell took up the stretcher again. The reverend
     did his dance with more steps than ever, his eyes fixed on the next stopping place—the
     gate.
    Mitchell glanced at the low-hanging sun. It was crimson an hour above the rim of the
     world. He looked at the walls ahead and the soldiers there. The shadows of the men
     were incredibly long.
    “March,” said Mitchell.
    They advanced slowly. Ahead of them the