Orders Is Orders by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

sentries stirred. An officer’s red bands could
     be seen as he stopped a few paces forward to stare at the oncoming party.
    Mitchell approached within ten feet and set down his burden. The reverend was staring
     so widely at the officer that he forgot to lower his end, leaving Toughey’s head much
     lower than his feet.
    With brisk military precision, Mitchell produced the pass and handed it over. The
     officer’s small face brightened and he glanced up.
    “United States, so?”
    “United States Marines,” said Mitchell. “I am under orders to report to the United
     States Consulate of this city.”
    But “United States, so?” was the entire fund of English at the officer’s disposal.
     He shrugged and then fell to examining the pass again. Three of his guard had advanced
     within thrusting distance and the reverend changed his attention to the points of
     their bayonets, one of which was reddish black halfway to the hilt. He was still holding
     his end of the stretcher in the air and Toughey was too intent to protest.
    “United States, so?” said the officer again, looking up.
    “Yes,” said Mitchell. “United States, so .” And he pointed past the officer toward the gate.
    The officer suddenly understood and once more examined the identity pass. Then, evidently
     thinking that Mitchell could be no less than a captain, he saluted and bowed.
    Mitchell saluted and bowed, waiting to see what would happen.
    The officer shouted, “ Mon o akero !” and saluted and bowed again. Mitchell saluted and bowed and the big gate was slowly
     opened by the sentries. He put the pass back in his pocket and picked up the stretcher.
    “March,” said Mitchell.
    They passed through the gate and into the littered street beyond.
    “I told you he had brains,” said Toughey. “We’re in Shunkien!”
    Ahead of them, whipping proudly against the sky, was the Stars and Stripes.

Chapter Sixteen
    T HE machinery salesman heard the knocking at the gate and he hurried into Jackson’s office.
     “Somebody wants in, Jackson.”
    “It’s the Japanese,” said Jackson, running his fingers through his white hair. “A
     lot of good they’ll do us.”
    He went through the packed corridors and the Americans watched him pass with dull
     eyes. The machinery salesman had talked and now that two men were down, their hope
     was gone.
    Jackson heard the knock repeated as he carefully let down the bars of the small door,
     expecting to see an officer’s red band.
    Mitchell saluted with precision.
    “Gunnery Sergeant Mitchell and party reporting to Consul Jackson, Shunkien.”
    Stunned, Jackson could only gape until Toughey raised up on his stretcher and said,
     “Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Christmas?”
    “The Marines,” whispered Jackson. “I thought . . . I thought . . .”
    “I was ordered to be here by Saturday and it’s Saturday,” said Mitchell.
    Jackson recovered himself and began to grin. He threw the door wide and marched off
     in front, spring coming back into his stride, chest expanding, white hair starting
     straight up from his head.
    As they passed through the corridor, people stared in disbelief and then, as they
     went by leaped up and jammed the passage. A young oil scout whistled shrilly and the
     machinery salesman bellowed with joy. And then the cannonade of the week before was
     nothing compared to the din within the consulate.
    The group reached Jackson’s office and the reverend gladly deposited his end on the
     rug at Mitchell’s command. But the noise outside was too great for any conversation.
     With difficulty, Jackson shut the jammed door.
    The young radio operator grinned up at Mitchell.
    “They’ve come, Billy!” cried Jackson as though Billy could not see for himself. “They’ve
     come! You’ve been hammering that key for days asking, pleading for them and now they’re
     here!”
    “Got a cigarette?” said Billy.
    The doctor, whose eyes were further than ever back in his round