Part 4 (2/2)
Lieutenant Wims unfolded out of the jeep into the jungle mud. The driver pointed to a cl.u.s.ter of tents sagging under the weight of the streaming rain. ”You'll find Major Hecker in there.”
”Thanks fer the ride,” Wims said as he wrestled his gear out of the jeep. He located the headquarters tent and an orderly brought him in to the major. ”Lieutenant Dolliver Wims reportin' fer dooty, suh,” the saluting Wims said crisply.
Major Hecker's hand slid wearily to the vicinity of his fatigued and unshaven face in return salute. ”Welcome, lieutenant, to Hlangtan, Burma's foremost nothing.” Wims handed his orders to the major who said as he accepted them, ”You'll be taking the third platoon of A company.
They lost their lieutenant two days ago.” The major glanced at the orders and exploded. ”What do they mean, 'attached to your command as an observer'? I need a platoon leader! What are you supposed to observe?”
Wims s.h.i.+fted uneasily. ”Ah cain't rightly say, suh.” The truth of the matter was that Wims didn't really know. His commission had been virtually thrown at him. In Was.h.i.+ngton he had been vaguely briefed that he was to be sent to the front in Burma on a mission of the utmost importance and not to breathe a word to anyone. It was only when he alighted from the plane in Rangoon that he fully realized that actually no one had breathed a word to him about what exactly he was to do. His orders merely stated that he was to get as close to the enemy as possible and observe.
The major regarded him nastily. ”What's that insignia you're wearing?
They look like question marks.”
”Ah guess they do,” Wims replied unhappily.
”Well are they?” the major inquired with a soft shout.
”Ah guess they are, suh.”
”You guess!” The major now regarded him with open animosity. ”And I suppose you don't know what they stand for.”
”Well, suh, Ah tried to find out but somehow Ah couldn't get a straight ansuh.”
”O.K., O.K., Lieutenant Cloak and Dagger, but if you don't want questions why wear the things? If the Commies know you're a special and catch you--”
”But Ah'm not no special nuthin'. Ah'm jus'--”
”Yeah, sure.” The major poked a grimy finger at the paper before him and grinned almost savagely. ”It says here you're to operate with our most forward units. That's just fine. I've got a patrol going out tonight.
They will take you close enough to sit in their ever-lovin' yellow laps.”
As Wims was leaving the major suddenly called after him. ”Say, lieutenant, since you're some kind of special agent you probably have an 'in' at the Pentagon. Will you pa.s.s the word that I need a looey replacement? One that doesn't wear punctuation marks.”
The patrol had not been out twenty minutes before it fearfully decided it had better ditch this boy lieutenant who, with each step, sounded as if he were setting off a room full of mousetraps. At a whispered signal from the sergeant in command, the patrol slid noiselessly off the trail and dropped to the ground as the groping Wims went clattering by in the darkness. Within the hour Wims tripped over a Chinese patrol that lay cowering in the ferns as it listened apprehensively to what it thought was an approaching enemy battalion.
The next several days were confusing ones for Wims. With little food or sleep he was hustled from place to place and endlessly questioned by officers of increasing rank. He was pa.s.sed up to the divisional level where he was briefly interrogated by a Russian officer-advisor to the Chinese headquarters. There seemed to be some disagreement between the Russian and Chinese officers concerning Wims and they were almost shouting when he was pulled from the room and thrown back into his cell.
In the chill, early hours of the following morning he was yanked out of an embarra.s.sing nightmare where he dreamed he went to a hoedown in his briefs. He was squeezed between two furtive men into a shade-drawn limousine with unillumined headlamps and after a frenzied ride the vehicle screeched to a halt. He heard a roaring and in the darkness he was dimly aware that he was being shoved into an airplane. After that he was certain of nothing as he plunged gratefully back into sleep.
Wims was back at the hoedown only this time without even his briefs. And all the interrogators had stopped dancing and were circled around him, glaring and demanding to know what he was hiding. As they closed in upon him he was s.n.a.t.c.hed from the dream by two guards who prodded him out of his cell, down a bleak corridor and into a large room. The windows were hidden by drawn, dark-green shades and two low-hanging, unshaded electric-light bulbs provided a harsh illumination. The chamber was spa.r.s.ely furnished with a splintered desk, several battered chairs and half a dozen Russian MVD officers.
A man, so thick and heavy in appearance and movement that he was obviously a concrete abutment come to life, stepped up to Wims. The man's stony visage cracked in a slow, cold smile as he rumbled in English, ”Welcome to Moscow, Lieutenant Dolliver Wims. I am Colonel Sergei Bushmilov. I am your friend.” The word ”friend” sounded rather squeaky as if it had not been used in years and needed oiling.
Wims glanced around the room. These people were like uns.h.i.+elded reactors throwing off hard radiations of hostility. ”Ah sure could use a friend,”
he said with utmost fervency.
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