skull, came from another
room. Hurriedly he stepped up to Mitchell.
“Quick! Have you got that serum? I can save the lot if you have.”
“Serum?” said Mitchell blankly. “Oh. This box. Was that what was in it?” He unstrapped it from his web belt and handed it over.
The doctor grabbed it like a hound grabs steak. He whisked himself out of the place
and his voice could be heard outside getting the Americans in line.
Jackson saw Toughey then. “There’s a bed in the next room. My bed. If you care to
use it. . . .”
“Father,” said Mitchell. “The stretcher.”
The reverend struggled with it and got it off the floor and they carried Toughey away
to a soft bunk.
The doctor had made this his sick bay and a few medical supplies were scattered on
the table. Mitchell glanced at them as he eased Toughey’s head to the pillow.
“Dress his wound,” said Mitchell to the reverend. “Right away and do a good job on
it.”
The reverend looked resignedly at his son. And then he peeled off his coat and rolled
up his sleeves and started to work.
“We made it,” said Toughey.
“Did you think we wouldn’t?”
“Well, for a while there I had my doubts, Sarge. What with you packin’ a bottle .
. .” He stopped too late and then saw that Mitchell was grinning at him. “Well, we
made it anyhow. I always said you could go to hell and come back draggin’ the devil
by the tail.”
The reverend looked shocked.
“Maybe I have,” said Mitchell.
He was still grinning when he went out and closed the door.
Goldy was sitting in Jackson’s chair. She looked up when Mitchell came in and followed
him across the room with her eyes.
He stopped beside the operator. “Can you send a message to the USS Miami for me?”
“I know that call by heart, leatherneck . Here’s paper.”
“You take it,” said Mitchell. “Commanding Officer, Marine Detachment, USS Miami . Have reported to United States Consul Jackson, Shunkien, delivering box and keg.
Mitchell, James, gunnery sergeant USMC.”
The operator threw his starter switch and began to rattle his bug. Mitchell saw another
door beyond him framing a white bed. He walked very briskly toward it, carrying himself
in a military manner.
Goldy had seen men walk that way before, just before they fell flat on their faces.
In some alarm she started up and kept Mitchell from closing the door on her.
She edged in, looking up at him watchfully. She eased the door closed behind her.
“Sit down on that bed,” said Goldy.
Mitchell had about-faced in the middle of the room. He started to smile at her and
then stopped. He was suddenly the color of whitewash .
“Don’t care if I do,” he said unsteadily, and half sat, half fell upon the covers.
Goldy squared him around. She unbuttoned his overcoat and braced him up while she
took it off him. His blouse followed and she let him lie back. She was unloosening
the khaki-colored tie and she saw his side.
“You’re hit! Look!”
“I don’t have to look,” said Mitchell, his eyes closed.
“You were hit the same time Toughey was!” she accused in great alarm. “Oh, you fool.
Why didn’t . . . ?”
“We got here, didn’t we?” whispered Mitchell.
She had unbuttoned his shirt and she saw that he had a crude bandage on his side.
“Does it . . . does it hurt much?” she said.
“It’s just a scratch,” whispered Mitchell. “Gimme a drink. The bottle’s . . . bottle’s
in my pack.”
She gave him a drink and he lay back, eyes still closed. She stared at him, frightened,
her heart thundering in her throat. She turned, almost in a panic, and hurried toward
the door.
“Stop,” said Mitchell.
“But the doctor . . .”
“It’s not that bad,” said Mitchell, not moving or even winking. “I got kind of worn
out the last couple miles. That’s all. Just kind of worn out. Come back and sit down.”
He patted the cover with his hand and his eyes were still shut
room. Hurriedly he stepped up to Mitchell.
“Quick! Have you got that serum? I can save the lot if you have.”
“Serum?” said Mitchell blankly. “Oh. This box. Was that what was in it?” He unstrapped it from his web belt and handed it over.
The doctor grabbed it like a hound grabs steak. He whisked himself out of the place
and his voice could be heard outside getting the Americans in line.
Jackson saw Toughey then. “There’s a bed in the next room. My bed. If you care to
use it. . . .”
“Father,” said Mitchell. “The stretcher.”
The reverend struggled with it and got it off the floor and they carried Toughey away
to a soft bunk.
The doctor had made this his sick bay and a few medical supplies were scattered on
the table. Mitchell glanced at them as he eased Toughey’s head to the pillow.
“Dress his wound,” said Mitchell to the reverend. “Right away and do a good job on
it.”
The reverend looked resignedly at his son. And then he peeled off his coat and rolled
up his sleeves and started to work.
“We made it,” said Toughey.
“Did you think we wouldn’t?”
“Well, for a while there I had my doubts, Sarge. What with you packin’ a bottle .
. .” He stopped too late and then saw that Mitchell was grinning at him. “Well, we
made it anyhow. I always said you could go to hell and come back draggin’ the devil
by the tail.”
The reverend looked shocked.
“Maybe I have,” said Mitchell.
He was still grinning when he went out and closed the door.
Goldy was sitting in Jackson’s chair. She looked up when Mitchell came in and followed
him across the room with her eyes.
He stopped beside the operator. “Can you send a message to the USS Miami for me?”
“I know that call by heart, leatherneck . Here’s paper.”
“You take it,” said Mitchell. “Commanding Officer, Marine Detachment, USS Miami . Have reported to United States Consul Jackson, Shunkien, delivering box and keg.
Mitchell, James, gunnery sergeant USMC.”
The operator threw his starter switch and began to rattle his bug. Mitchell saw another
door beyond him framing a white bed. He walked very briskly toward it, carrying himself
in a military manner.
Goldy had seen men walk that way before, just before they fell flat on their faces.
In some alarm she started up and kept Mitchell from closing the door on her.
She edged in, looking up at him watchfully. She eased the door closed behind her.
“Sit down on that bed,” said Goldy.
Mitchell had about-faced in the middle of the room. He started to smile at her and
then stopped. He was suddenly the color of whitewash .
“Don’t care if I do,” he said unsteadily, and half sat, half fell upon the covers.
Goldy squared him around. She unbuttoned his overcoat and braced him up while she
took it off him. His blouse followed and she let him lie back. She was unloosening
the khaki-colored tie and she saw his side.
“You’re hit! Look!”
“I don’t have to look,” said Mitchell, his eyes closed.
“You were hit the same time Toughey was!” she accused in great alarm. “Oh, you fool.
Why didn’t . . . ?”
“We got here, didn’t we?” whispered Mitchell.
She had unbuttoned his shirt and she saw that he had a crude bandage on his side.
“Does it . . . does it hurt much?” she said.
“It’s just a scratch,” whispered Mitchell. “Gimme a drink. The bottle’s . . . bottle’s
in my pack.”
She gave him a drink and he lay back, eyes still closed. She stared at him, frightened,
her heart thundering in her throat. She turned, almost in a panic, and hurried toward
the door.
“Stop,” said Mitchell.
“But the doctor . . .”
“It’s not that bad,” said Mitchell, not moving or even winking. “I got kind of worn
out the last couple miles. That’s all. Just kind of worn out. Come back and sit down.”
He patted the cover with his hand and his eyes were still shut
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