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 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 and his face was very white.
She stood where she was, still uncertain about getting the doctor.
“I won’t make a pass at you,” whispered Mitchell with a faint grin.
Everything was suddenly misty to her. She sat down gently on the edge of the bed.
“Now put the bottle on the table there,” said Mitchell. “Put it so the label is facing me.”
She obeyed.
“Got it?” said Mitchell. “Now wait a minute. I’m going to look at it. Maybe it will say ‘Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts. Proverbs 31:6.’ And maybe it will just say ‘Canadian Whisky. Five Years Old. One Quart.’”
He lifted himself slowly on his elbow and opened his eyes. He stared for a long time at the bottle and then grinned a little as he lay back.
“It said ‘Canadian Whisky. Five Years Old. One Quart.’” He chuckled about it and was silent for a long time. Then suddenly he opened his eyes and grinned at her. “Did you see him asleep in the car?”
Abruptly Goldy understood. “Do you want another drink?”
“No, thanks. Later maybe.” He seemed to get stronger and his grin broadened. “Toughey says I could go down to hell and come back dragging the devil by his tail.” He stopped and propped himself up on his elbow and took Goldy’s hand. “I guess I could—now.”
He looked better and she smiled at him. “Want that drink yet?”
“No,” said Mitchell, laughing aloud. “Hell, no. I’m not ready to perish, am I?”
And back aboard the Miami, Captain Davis reported in a rush to the captain’s quarters, so precipitately that he carried his dinner napkin with him and tried to salute, bare-headed, with the napkin in his right hand.
And then he saw Blackstone’s unclouded visage and beheld the uncrumpled radiogram in the captain’s big fingers. Blackstone was reading it over and over and Davis, seeing that it was addressed to himself, took the liberty of reading it over his shoulder.
Davis grinned and polished his palms on the napkin, subduing a desire to kiss the top of Blackstone’s head.
Blackstone turned as though Davis had been there for hours.
“Great fellow, that Mitchell,” said Blackstone. “I shall have to tell him so when he comes aboard. I guess I know how to run this ship, eh, Davis?”
“Yes, SIR!”
Story Preview
NOW that you’ve just ventured through one of the captivating tales in the Stories from the Golden Age collection by L. Ron Hubbard, turn the page and enjoy a preview of Wind-Gone-Mad. Join Jim Dahlgren, representative in China for the Amalgamated Aeronautical Company, who’s had enough of the fatalistic brand of diplomacy that allows warlords like “The Butcher” to rise up in the provinces with weapons of fire and sword. But when Dahlgren disappears, supposedly to find a mysterious aviator called Feng-Feng to bring the Butcher’s administration to its knees, he ignites a series of events which just may spell disaster.
Wind-Gone-Mad
THE square of yellow earth slid up over the motor cowl with appalling speed. The altimeter shot down to five hundred feet before the pilot whipped his ship into a slashing sideslip.
Men in gray uniforms were running away from deserted machine guns, disappearing behind piles of sandbags. An officer stopped t
o empty his automatic at the charging slash of color.
The pilot fishtailed wildly and shot over the stiff wind sock. The plane snapped suddenly into landing position. With a crunching slap, the ship was down.
It was as if an electric current had been shut off. Men began to fumble for their lost caps. Gunners slouched back to their pieces. The officer calmly slid another clip into his gun and holstered it. On the side of the red fuselage they had all seen the dragon and the two mammoth characters which identified their visitor. They knew this man and they also knew that he had little connection with The Butcher.
The pilot stood up in his narrow pit and stretched. But he did not remove the goggles which hid a quarter of his face, nor did he so much as unfasten the chin strap of the lurid helmet he wore.
The officer, a White Russian, stopped and looked at the red dragon which spat fire above the pilot’s eyes and then curled down around the ear pads. Assured of the man’s identity, he came forward again.
“I am sorry, Feng-Feng. Had I but seen the dragon—”
“Quite all right,” interrupted the pilot. “I wish an audience with Cheng-Wang immediately.”
“Cheng-Wang is at your service, I am sure. But perhaps it would be better for us to place your plane in a bombproof hangar. We are waiting an attack by The Butcher. Perhaps if we service your engine, when the bombers come you can—”
Wind-Gone-Mad laughed joyously. “Such faith! You think that I would attack three Demming bombers single-handed? Really, my good friend Blakely sells better ships than you suppose. I would be downed in an instant.”
It was the Russian’s turn to laugh. Wind-Gone-Mad shot down? The thing was impossible, ludicrous. In a moment he subsided and spoke again more seriously. “Had Cheng-Wang listened better to the proposition to buy three Amalgamated bombers when you asked—”
“Quiet,” said Feng-Feng, not unkindly. “That is a secret that only a few of us hold. Its release would mean my death. But never mind. I go to see Cheng-Wang. Service my ship and listen in on my panel radio for talk in Shen Province. The pigs will give you warning. If you know that they come, send for me and I will do my best to beat them off.” He dropped to the ground lightly and strode toward a waiting motorcycle.
Cheng-Wang was old. On his parchment face was stamped the weariness of one who has seen too much, has fought too many battles, has witnessed too often the summer’s fading into the dusty harshness of winter.
Cheng-Wang was frail and when he moved his hands the almost-fleshless bones clattered above the click of his long fingernails. With an impassive nod, he gave the order that the man called Feng-Feng be admitted to the audience room.
Still masked by his goggles and casqued by his helmet, Wind-Gone-Mad entered with long, determined strides. His leather flying coat rustled when he sat down in the indicated chair.
“It pleases me that you come,” said Cheng-Wang in five-toned Mandarin Chinese. “Long have I wanted to give you my regrets for not accepting your offer and your warning. Now there is little we can do. The Butcher has begun his fight and it will be short. Along the eastern border, my troops lose miles of ground each day. They are harassed from the air. But you have come too late.”
Behind the lenses of the great goggles, Feng-Feng’s gray eyes held those of the provincial governor. “I do not think that I have. Our friend Blakely sold them no pursuit planes because they could procure no pilots. At the North China Airways field I now have a fighting ship—my own. It has two machine guns and it travels four miles a minute. With that I can help you.”
“It is useless,” mourned Cheng-Wang. “I will not allow you to throw your life to The Butcher. You do it out of sympathy alone and you use no regard for your own safety. The Butcher has placed a price on you, and that long ago. He would see your helmeted head dangling from a picket. Blakely, the man you oddly call your friend, negotiated that these many months gone by.”
“There are no bombers at my call in Shanghai,” stated the man called Feng-Feng. “I can only do as fate and my hand dictate. Is it true that you are to receive an air attack today?”
Without explanation, knowing that it was not needed, Cheng-Wang presented a square of paper which bore black slashes. Deciphered, it said:
The Hawks of The Butcher strike before dark. It is better to accept an honorable surrender from Cheng-Wang than for The Butcher to occupy a lifeless town.
The massive black doors swung back and a soldier in gray stood rigidly at attention in the opening. He saluted. “To the east, heaven-borne, are the Hawks of The Butcher.” Dropping his hand he left-faced, waiting for Wind-Gone-Mad to precede him out of the palace.
The pilot turned, and his mouth was set. “Refuse to know terror, Cheng-Wang. This one goes to dull the claws of The Butcher.” He tramped rapidly away and the black doors swung softly shut behind him.
To find out more about Wind-Gone-Mad and how you can obtain your copy, go to www.goldenagestories.com.
Glossary
STORIES FROM THE GOLDEN AGE reflect the words and expressions used in the 1930s and 1940s, adding unique flavor and authenticity to the tales. While a character’s speech may often reflect regional origins, it also can convey attitudes common in the day. So that readers can better grasp such cultural and historical terms, uncommon words or expressions of the era, the following glossary has been provided.
adagio dancers: performers of a slow dance sequence of well-controlled graceful movements including lifting, balancing and turning, performed as a display of skill.
Adonis: an extremely handsome young man; originating from the name of a beautiful youth in Greek mythology.
altimeter: a gauge that measures altitude.
Atlantic Fleet: the part of the Navy responsible for operations in and around the Atlantic Ocean. Originally formed in 1906, it has been an integral part of the defense of the US for most of the twentieth century.
batteries: groups of large-caliber weapons used for combined action.
Big Town: nickname for New York City.
bobtail: to curtail or reduce, as in rank.
boot: a Marine or Navy recruit in basic training.
brigand: one who lives by plunder; a bandit.
Browning, 1917: a light machine gun weighing fifteen pounds. It looks like and can be fired like an ordinary rifle, either from the shoulder or the hip. It was invented by John M. Browning (1855–1926), an American firearms designer.
bug: a high-speed telegrapher’s key that makes repeated dots or dashes automatically and saves motion of the operator’s hand.
bulldog toes: high rounded toes on shoes with thick soles.
carbine: a short rifle used in the cavalry.
casqued: having a military headpiece or helmet on.
cat’s: cat’s pajamas; cat’s meow; someone or something wonderful or remarkable.
Château-Thierry: a town of northern France on the Marne River, east-northeast of Paris. It was the site of the second Battle of the Marne (June 3–4, 1918), which ended the last major German offensive in World War I.
Chi: Chicago.
cholera: an infectious disease of the small intestine, typically contracted from infected water.
C-in-C: Commander in Chief.
Clydes: Clydesdale; one of a Scottish breed of strong, hardy draft horses, having a feathering of long hairs along the backs of the legs, so called because they were bred in the valley of the Clyde in Scotland.
cork off: go to bed; sleep.
corn willy: canned corned beef hash.
cowl: a removable metal covering for an engine, especially an aircraft engine.
dixie: a mess tin or oval pot often used in camp for cooking or boiling (as tea).
Doko e yuku!: (Japanese) Where are you going!
embrasures: (in fortification) openings, as a loophole through which missiles may be discharged.
emplacements: prepared positions for weapons or military equipment.
fan dancer: a woman dancer who performs solo, nude or nea
rly nude, using fans for covering.
Frisco: San Francisco.
gangway: a narrow, movable platform or ramp forming a bridge by which to board or leave a ship.
Genghis Khan: (1162?–1227) Mongol conqueror who founded the largest land empire in history and whose armies, known for their use of terror, conquered many territories and slaughtered the populations of entire cities.
G-men: government men; agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
golden guinea: a British coin worth twenty-one shillings (a shilling is one-twentieth of a pound).
gunwale: the upper edge of the side of a boat. Originally a gunwale was a platform where guns were mounted, and was designed to accommodate the additional stresses imposed by the artillery being used.
Hell to Halifax: a variation of the phrase “from here to Halifax,” meaning everywhere, in all places no matter how far from here. “Halifax” is a county in eastern Canada, on the Atlantic Ocean.
howitzers: cannons that have comparatively short barrels, used especially for firing shells at a high angle of elevation for a short range, as for reaching a target behind cover or in a trench.
Huangpu: a long river in China flowing through Shanghai. It is a major navigational route, lined with wharves, warehouses and industrial plants, and provides access to Shanghai for oceangoing vessels.