Free Orders Is Orders by L. Ron Hubbard

erect. Toughey
     leaned heavily against him.
    Mitchell motioned toward the car. “Get his rifle and pack, Goldy. And get into them.”
    “Huh?”
    “You heard me. Father, do you see that keg?”
    “Ah . . . yes. Yes, yes. Of course I see it, James.”
    “Well, pick it up and put it on your shoulder and find out how much it weighs.”
    “But, my boy!”
    “Pick it up!”
    The reverend polished his glasses in grief and then looked at his son’s unrelenting
     face. He sighed and started to haul the keg out of the car but when he felt its weight
     he paused, about to draw himself up in loud protest. He caught another glimpse of
     the gunnery sergeant’s face. The reverend boosted the keg to his shoulder with a despairing
     grunt.
    “Somewhere ahead,” said Mitchell, “we’ll run into the Japanese lines. Maybe something
     can be done. We’re about twenty miles from Shunkien.”
    “Practically there,” mourned Goldy, feeling for the first time in her life just how
     heavy a pack and rifle can be.
    “March,” said Mitchell and moved off, more than half carrying the huge Toughey.

Chapter Eleven
    T WO flares burned in the darkness and by their jumpy light could be seen the irregular
     pattern of sandbags stretched across the road and topped with barbed wire. Silhouetted
     in the foreground was a triangular stack of rifles and gleaming to one side squatted
     a spraddle-legged machine gun, manned by a sleepy Japanese crew.
    A short row of tents faced the road, glowing with inner light and patterned with grotesque
     shadows, caricatures of the officers within.
    A stocky sentry snapped erect to the right of the machine gunners. Rifle at port,
     he advanced two cautious paces, staring into the darkness down the road.
    Four shadows were less dark than the night beyond.
    “Todomeru!” barked the sentry. “Halt!”
    The machine gunners popped up like jack-in-the-boxes. The shadows stopped moving on
     the walls of the tent and then surged toward the entrances.
    Staggering under the almost inert weight of Toughey, Mitchell advanced until he could
     be seen in the light of the flares. Behind him the reverend stopped, panting, to set
     down the keg. Goldy paused uncertainly.
    Mitchell saw an ammunition box on his right. He eased Toughey down to it and then
     stood erect again. He felt curiously lightheaded and his side was aching. He had not
     dared explore the wound.
    Several curious officers closed into a semicircle about him. Two sentries moved warily
     down to better watch the other members of the party.
    The silence was very long. Behind the impassive faces of the officers, astonishment
     was rife. There was no mistaking the globe and anchor and eagle on this haggard soldier’s
     cap. Officers of the Mikado were not prepared to see a United States Marine.
    Mitchell started to speak in Shantung dialect and then stopped. It made no impression upon them. He swung back to English.
    “I am Gunnery Sergeant James Mitchell of the United States Marines. I am under orders
     to proceed to Shunkien and report to United States Consul Jackson of that city. You
     will please let me pass.”
    The officers stood where they were, just as blank as ever. Irritably, Mitchell started
     to speak again but a small, pigeon-breasted fellow, with a face as round and shining
     as the reverend’s bald head, stepped a pace forward.
    “I speak English. Why do you want to go to Shunkien?”
    “I am under orders from the commanding officer of the United States cruiser Miami . I wish to pass through your lines with my . . . my landing force.”
    The Japanese massaged his face very thoughtfully, much like a sleek cat adjusting
     its whiskers. He stepped back and conversed very rapidly with a quick-eyed gentleman
     of higher rank.
    Presently he spoke again. “Why do you wish to go to Shunkien? Did you not know that
     the city is under siege?”
    “I am under orders,” said Mitchell stubbornly.
    “It is impossible. We are very sorry. You, of