Free Orders Is Orders by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

course, have your orders with you?”
    “The first Japanese PC I ran into relieved me of them.”
    “Hmmmmm. This is very irregular. Have you a receipt for those orders?”
    Mitchell stilled his wrath. He reached into his right blouse pocket and found the
     spot spongy. The piece of paper he brought forth was stained a sticky red. He passed
     it over.
    The Japanese clustered around their English-speaking member. They moved en masse to
     the front of a tent and inclined the slip to the light. They looked at each other
     and shook their heads.
    The linguist stepped back to Mitchell, chest thrust forward importantly. “This might
     very well be anything. There is nothing but part of a signature here. I am sorry,
     but we cannot accept this. It is necessary that you be detained pending further investigation.”
    Mitchell tried to muster up the energy to sound off long and loud. But he was too
     weary and too angry to say a great deal. It was, perhaps, fortunate.
    “I am under orders to proceed to Shunkien and I am to be there before Saturday. It
     is imperative that you allow me to pass. If you do not—”
    “Enough of this,” said the Japanese. “You will only be detained long enough for us
     to confirm these orders. Have we any proof that you are what you say you are? Perhaps
     you are renegades masquerading. Perhaps you have deserted. Ah . . . What do you have
     in that keg?”
    “I do not know. I am under orders—”
    “Yes, of course. You have said that before.” The Japanese turned and spoke swiftly
     to his commanding officer who, in turn, rattled orders to the sentries.
    The soldiers thrust the reverend off the keg and rolled it forward. More commands
     were passed and a broadsword was produced.
    When Mitchell lunged ahead, his way was barred by bayonets crossed before him. He
     stopped and looked helplessly and angrily on.
    The keg was broken open and tipped on its side. A flood of golden guineas slid into the dust.
    The Japanese officers clicked their tongues and felt of the coins and looked askance
     at Mitchell.
    “This is very bad,” said the linguist. “You may have looted this somewhere. We shall
     check up.”
    “How long will that take?” said Mitchell bitterly.
    “Two days. Three days. A week.” He shrugged.
    Another Japanese officer marched up with a file of infantry and indicated to Mitchell
     that his group was to fall in. Toughey did not respond to a thump on the back and
     a Japanese soldier, before Mitchell could stop him, yanked Toughey to his feet.
    Mitchell struck and the soldier went down.
    Toughey lay in the road, unconscious, until a stretcher was produced and he was loaded
     aboard.
    Three men were detailed to Mitchell personally and the bayonets glittered brightly
     in the flares. Wearily he allowed himself to be shoved along. He knew he had not helped
     his case.
    Two days. Three days. A week?

Chapter Twelve
    M ITCHELL , James, gunnery sergeant USMC , was stretched on a cot, alone in a small tent. The Japanese had ample facilities
     for housing strange prisoners, as only a fool would bother to feed a captured Chinese
     soldier and several officers had gone down in the din of battle to the eternal glory
     of Nippon . But Mitchell, James, gunnery sergeant USMC, was not appreciative of the fact.
    He had swabbed iodine into his wounded side and had padded the place as well as he
     could, but it felt as feverish as his brow. Images danced a little and he had to concentrate
     to keep them in their place.
    The bottle of whisky was standing on his pack at attention. The contents were lowered
     exactly to the place where Toughey had put them and no farther.
    Mitchell was reading the label over and over, but it didn’t say Canadian Whisky. Five Years Old. One Quart, anymore. He didn’t know what it said but he was reading the label anyway.
    Sometimes he thought he could read a line from the Old Testament across the white
     face. He had had that hallucination before. In Gothic type,