Orders Is Orders by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

the reverend. “I tried to place his feet upon the
     godly path and the only appreciation he ever gave me was to run away. He even . .
     .” and here he almost broke down. “He even robbed the poor box when he left.”
    “Robbed the poor box?” said Goldy. “How much was in it?”
    “Three dollars at the very least. It required months to recover from the shock of
     knowing that my boy was not only disobedient but also a thief. God is my witness that
     I strove to teach him the way to salvation and now I find that he runs about the country
     with a . . .” He caught himself in time on that one and hastily plunged on.
    “I find that he is a Marine, a drunkard, capable of placing his own father in a perilous
     position, of stealing a car . . .”
    Goldy’s eyes were intent upon him. “So you fed him full of hellfire and damnation,
     did you? And he couldn’t stand it any longer and took a powder . And he’s been running ever since.”
    “What?” said the reverend.
    “Skip it,” said Goldy. “You got the least to cry about and you’re the only one that’s
     turnin’ on the rain.” She got up and looked down at Toughey. “Want anything before
     I go?”
    “Yeah. F’gawd’s sake get that . . . you know . . . away from him. We’re in this deep
     enough now without that.”
    Goldy went out, her hands thrust deeply into the pockets of her swagger coat, her
     platinum hair escaping from beneath the cap with the jockey brim.
    A sentry came alertly to attention as she emerged and watched her closely as she moved
     down the line to Mitchell’s tent. She whistled a bar of jazz with elaborate carelessness
     and when she looked through the flap of Mitchell’s tent, the bottle had vanished.
    “How’s the feet?” said Mitchell, sitting up and swinging his legs down.
    “Okay,” said Goldy. “Of course, they have been in better shape. Any news yet?”
    “Not yet,” said Mitchell wearily. “This is a hell of a note. We’re twelve miles from
     Shunkien and we can’t get a yard closer. Listen to that row out there. The little
     boys in mustard must be moppin’ the place up. But that won’t change my orders. I got
     to get there!”
    “Sure,” said Goldy, soothingly.
    “I suppose you won’t care one way or the other,” said Mitchell. “Maybe you’d rather
     steer for the coast.”
    “Maybe. It’s a cinch I ain’t got any billing in Shunkien. Don’t take it so hard, Sarge.
     You tried. . . .”
    “I haven’t stopped trying,” he replied sharply. “By God, they won’t dare keep that
     keg and turn us back. We’ve come this far and we’ll go the whole way. I been thinking
     it might be a good bet to grab a rifle off one of these sentries. . . . But I know
     I’m crazy.”
    She sat down on the foot of his cot. “Don’t pull anything like that.”
    “Aw, I know I can’t. But I’m going crazy sitting here twiddling my thumbs. I guess
     you’re pretty sore at me for getting you into this.”
    “I’ve been madder in my life,” said Goldy.
    He grinned in sudden appreciation of the gallantry of her and turned a little to face
     her.
    She got up abruptly, backing toward the flap.
    “I didn’t mean anything,” said Mitchell. “You act like I was poison.”
    “Good night,” said Goldy, backing out. “Sweet dreams.”
    She was gone and Mitchell watched the flap stop swaying. He lay back on his cot, staring
     at the sloping canvas above him.
    The angry rumble of the attack beat against him in waves. It matched the storm of
     his own spirits and made him more restless than ever. But sleep came to him at last.
    Toward midnight the ferocity of the mopping-up diminished and Mitchell began to wake
     up, sensible of the change even in his slumber.
    He put on his cap and buttoned up his blouse. He went to the flap of his tent and
     looked out across the active camp. Troops were coming up from the west, fagged after
     a forced march, ready to fill the gaps in the ranks so that the Japanese could