Free Orders Is Orders by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

across that label, was
     scrawled Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of
     heavy hearts. Prov. 31:6.
    Puzzled he read the invisible over and over again and it became more and more clear
     to him. He clenched his eyes in heavy thought and opened them again to read anew the
     Gothic type which had danced there for fifteen years.
    He looked toward the closed flap of the tent as though his vision could bridge twelve
     miles and penetrate the walls of Shunkien.
    This was Friday and night was coming on. He could see the hard, walnut visage of Captain
     Davis coming out of the canvas wall to silently look at him. He blinked the phantom
     away and slowly returned his attention to the fantastic label.
    Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish . . .
    Why did the label read that way? Why had it read that way for fifteen years?
    His throat was dry and hot and the incessant clatter of a far-off gun hurt his head.
     He raised up on one elbow and read the label again.
    Give strong drink . . .
    In the next tent Goldy sat on an empty case and watched Toughey’s chest rise and fall
     beneath a mustard-colored blanket. His broken nose made him snuffle as he breathed.
     He was lying half awake as though coming back from a trip to another world. He turned
     his head and looked at Goldy for a long time.
    “Hello,” said Toughey.
    “How are you doin’?”
    “Okay. Get caught up on your sleep?”
    “Yeah. I thought I could sleep for a year but at the end of fourteen hours I couldn’t
     lie still another minute. How long do you think we’ll be here?”
    “Duration of the war for all I know. You seen the sarge?”
    “I looked into his tent a little while ago. These Japanese let you roam around as
     long as you stay peaceful.”
    “What’d he say?”
    “He didn’t even know I was there. He’s layin’ on his back looking at a whisky bottle
     he’s got propped up on his pack.”
    “Holy hell!” cried Toughey, trying desperately to sit up and failing to make it unassisted.
     “Good God, Goldy, if you know what’s good for us, grab that bottle quick! Where’d
     he get it?”
    “He had it all the time so far as I know. I just remembered that he gave you a couple
     snorts when that lead bouquet got wrapped around you.”
    “That’s so!” said Toughey. “I was so far gone I never clicked. Listen, Goldy. Shove
     off and grab that bottle and bust it. We’ll never get out of here if he gets himself three sheets to the wind . You don’t know that guy. He’d tear up this whole Japanese outfit to get another
     snort once he got started.”
    “He looked pretty peaceful to me,” said Goldy, not moving. “Besides, what’s the use?
     We’ll be shipped back to the coast and he’ll have plenty of time to recover. As for
     me, I’d just as soon we did get shipped back.”
    “He’s got his orders,” said Toughey. “And if he can’t carry on, it’s his finish!”
    “Don’t get all worked up, pal,” said Goldy. “You hear that shootin’? Well, that’s
     the end of Shunkien according to our cat-faced friend.”
    “That don’t make no difference. If the Scandinavians took the town, we still got our
     orders. Hey, what you know about me carryin’ that gold all over the place!”
    Goldy laughed at him.
    Toughey’s single-track brain reverted to Mitchell. “You better go get that bottle
     if you ever expect to get under weigh from this dump. I’ve served with the sarge for six years and I know what makes him
     tick. Sober, he’s the best Marine in the outfit but drunk, he’s the damnedest, most
     scatterbrained sap you ever met. And he’s the only one who can talk us out of this
     mess.”
    Goldy sat on the case without any signs of moving off and Toughey sank back, giving
     up.
    The reverend came into the tent shortly after, looking very downcast. He stood gazing
     at Toughey as though about to read his funeral service and then removed his glasses
     and shined them up