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.
D irectly 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
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.
D irectly 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
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