Free The Story of Dr. Wassell by James Hilton Page A

the town.
Evidently the news had reached there, for crowds were congregated at street
corners, and the lobby of the Grand Hotel was as busy as—indeed, busier
than—at a normal noon. There was no panic, but a tensely rising
excitement, and just before dawn this excitement soared to fever pitch when
the foremost vehicles of an apparently endless British convoy parked in front
of the hotel, and its commanding officer, dressed in khaki pants and a brown
sun helmet, entered to ask what he could buy in the way of food and supplies.
This officer was not the kind of man the doctor took to on sight. There was a
sort of languid aloofness about the way he gave his orders to the hotel
people and to his subordinates; yet the doctor had to admit that each order
was perfectly clear, despite the languor, and perfectly reasonable, despite
the air with which it was delivered. The doctor thought about this for a
moment, but found it somewhat incomprehensible; so, shrugging off all
feelings about it, he nerved himself to approach the fellow and say “Hello.”
At this the Englishman’s manner instantly froze (the mere conditioned reflex
of being accosted by a stranger), then unfroze very slightly at the sight of
the uniform. “How do you do?” he mumbled as from a great distance.
    “Excuse me, but are you evacuating your men to Tjilatjap?” asked the
doctor.
    “Rather,” answered the Englishman, almost yawning.
    A sergeant touched the officer’s elbow to deliver some message which
elicited another expression of languid assent; after which the sergeant
saluted and the officer turned again to the doctor. The latter was
fidgeting.
    “Anything I can do for you by any chance?” continued the Englishman, his
politeness now chilled with infinite boredom.
    Suddenly the doctor had it. He said abruptly: “Sure you can, if you will.
I have nine wounded men in my charge—most of them stretcher cases. How
about taking us with you?”
    The manager of the hotel was now at hand, proffering chits for the officer
to sign. As he signed them he muttered: “Don’t mind—provided they can
travel in trucks, and you have ‘em here in two hours…”
    This time the doctor did not fidget. He snapped out “Okay” and dashed off
through the crowded lobby.
    The doctor woke each man as quietly as he could, then went to the end of
the ward and leaned over the rail of McGuffey’s bed. “Boys,” he said, “we’ve
another chance to get out of here and it’s a last chance. Get ready as quick
as you can.”
    They tried to delay him with a chorus of questions, protests, and
complaints. “Listen,” he shouted, over their voices, “don’t ask me for
details. You don’t have to go, but I’m going and I’ll take
anybody with me, and I hope it’ll be everybody. So hurry up…I’ll be back in
half an hour for those who’ve made up their minds.” Then from the door he
added: “If you want any reasons, I’ll give you just two. The Japs are in
Java, and those planes we heard last night weren’t reinforcements—they
were our own planes getting the hell out…”
    He woke Wilson and gave him more details. “There’s a British convoy in the
town—the captain says he’ll take us to Tjilatjap. I know there are
ships still there, because I telephoned this morning. So get ready…that is,
if you want to go. I’m going.”
    “What, again? ” said Wilson, putting all his thoughts into that one
word.
    “Yes, again,” answered the doctor. “And don’t pack all that stuff you took
the last time—there won’t be room.”
    He knew that it had been a big bluff, talking like that to Wilson and to
the men. He knew that if a single one of them refused, he could not leave
him, would not leave him—and what would happen then he could lay
no plans for. When the half hour had elapsed he hesitated for a second
outside the door of the ward, as if aware that he was about to try the last
possible key in the lock of