Clifford Simak - Dusty Zebra - And Other Stories

The Jap screamed shortly before he crashed against the plane, before he flopped into a grotesque rag-doll bundle, head twisted at an angle that said his neck was broken.

Foster leaned weakly against the ship, stared dully out to sea, where the first pale streamers of the sun were lighting a new day.

Minutes later, he walked over to pick up his revolver. Then he dragged the two dead Japs into the brush and staggered down the beach.

There, behind a spur of rock, he found the machine gun from the Avenger and on the rock a belt of ammo and many empty cases.

On the beach beyond was the burned skeleton of a truck and bursted steel drums. There also were dark spots in the sand … spots where men had died.

Legs braced wide, his body drooping with the punishment it had taken, Foster stared at the tracks of the truck leading out of the jungle, shifted his gaze to the climbing jungle, black and green with the coming dawn.

Up there somewhere was the Jap air base. Up there was a job to do.

And there was the Avenger to be destroyed and bombs that could be used.

Another thing, too. Hank was dead. That called for some sort of fitting gesture, some sort of rough tribute.

Steve Foster stood, stiff-legged, and stared at the hills.

But Hank Mason wasn’t dead.

He sat on the edge of a bed fashioned of poles and held his head in his hands. His head ached. No wonder, he thought, after the clout he’d got with that rifle butt.

The jungle bowl in which lay the Jap base swam with sullen heat.

A Japanese guard lounged against the hut’s door and looking past him Mason could see the air field, small but good enough for small planes and pilots that didn’t care whether they lived or died. Taking off and landing would be tricky in such a place, but it had the advantage of being well hidden, hard to find. The only way it could be spotted, Mason knew, was by a plane flying directly over it.

Great drums of fuel were stacked along the field and a line of planes rested under a flimsy camouflage. A group of natives were toiling on the field, wrestling stones and stumps, while Jap guards kept close watch, shrilling sharp words at any who might lag.

Mason took his left hand down from his head and looked at his wrist watch. It was almost 10 o’clock. By this time Foster and his native guide would have reached the American base. Soon a plane or two would be roaring out to rescue the stranded Avenger. If there was only some way to let them know. N’Goni, of course, would have told them of the Jap base, but there was the problem of finding it. Unless a plane flew directly overhead, it would be hard to spot.

If there were only some way—

His eyes narrowed as he stared at the fuel drums. There might be a way, after all. If only he just knew when those planes would be around.

He shifted his gaze to the guard. The fellow watched him closely with shiny black eyes. Something was sticking out of the man’s pocket…a long handle and a bulge in the pocket. Mason gulped. Unless he was mistaken, it was a hand grenade, one of those potato-masher affairs.

“American feel so bad,” suggested the guard, hopefully.

“Shut up,” snarled Mason.

The Jap’s face darkened and his eyes grew brighter, if that were possible.

“You no talk to me like that,” he said. “Me good as you are. Better maybe.”

“Like heck, you say,” said Mason.

The guard jerked his gun down toward Mason.

“Me tickle you up a bit, maybe. Talk different, then.”

Mason stared at the bayonet. “You keep that thing out of my reach, Joe,” he warned, “or I’ll take it away from you and slit your gizzard with it.”

“Commander see you in little while. Talk with you. Then we take you out, kill you.” The Jap squinted his eyes to see how Mason took it.

“You scummy little buzzards get a big kick out of killing people, don’t you?” said Mason.

“You talk too much,” hissed the Jap.

“Sez you!” said Mason.

The guard stepped inside the hut, moved closer, bayonetted rifle held stiffly in front of him.

“Me mess you up a bit,” he decided.

“The commander won’t like that,” Mason warned.

“Commander won’t care. Just so not too much.”

He advanced with mincing steps, pushing the pointed steel closer and closer. Mason watched it idly, but the blood was pounding in his throat. This baiting of the guard was taking a chance, an awful chance.

The Jap danced nearer, eyes sparkling.

The bayonet was no more than six inches away when Mason moved…moved like an unwinding coil spring. With a single motion he slapped the bayonet aside, rose to his feet and hit the Jap with his fist. The swing was a round-house blow, coming almost from the floor. It caught the Jap on the chin even before he could look surprised, lifted him off the floor, slammed him against the wall.

Glassy-eyed, the man sagged to the floor.

Grunting in satisfaction, Mason picked up the fallen rifle, used the bayonet, then bent above the erstwhile guard and took the long-handled thing from his pocket. It was a grenade, all right.

Clutching it in his hand, he walked to the door of the hut, stuck out his head, glanced cautiously up and down. There seemed to be Japs everywhere, but none of them were looking in his direction.

There was, he decided, only one way to do it. If he ran, they’d notice him, be on him in a minute, sure he was making a break. But if he walked he might not attract attention. They might be puzzled, but they might think it was all right, give him the time he needed.

Regretfully, he leaned the rifle against the wall, slipped the grenade in his belt and sauntered out into the open.

Walking slowly, he had gone a hundred feet when someone yelled at him. Stifling a desire to run, he kept on unhurriedly. The yell was not repeated.

Another hundred feet. Those fuel barrels were nearer now, much nearer. Just a few more steps and in a pinch he could reach them.

Another shout. A chorus of shouts and the patter of running feet.

Mason jerked the grenade from his belt, snapped out the pin and heaved. Then he ducked and ran. Rifles cracked and chugging things kicked up dust at his feet and in front of him.

He doubled behind a hut, ran full tilt into a startled soldier. From the field came the roar of the grenade, the gushy sigh of rushing flame.

The impact had knocked the soldier off his balance and, as he staggered, Mason reached out and snatched away his rifle.

A rocky hillside lay just ahead. He sprinted for it. Something tugged at his side and a sharp jab of pain went through him.

Behind him an oil drum exploded with a hollow boom. He snatched a quick glance over his shoulder. Black smoke was mushrooming far above the field.

Also, and more important, at least a dozen Japs were on his heels.

He swung around and snapped the rifle up. The mechanism was unfamiliar, but he got in two shots. Both counted. Then he was running again, stumbling as something smacked into his shoulder.

A roaring filled his head and he went down on hands and knees. This was the end, he knew. They’d get him now. He’d be cold meat for the Japs and no mistake.

But the roaring wasn’t all in his head. There was another roar. The throaty roar of a motor sweeping down into the bowl. And then another sound. The chattering of guns, a wicked, vicious sound, a snarling crescendo that seemed to sweep down upon him, then snapped off.

He flopped over and sat down, stared into the sky.

Climbing over the field was a ship—a ship he’d know anywhere. The Avenger he’d left back on the beach!

The camp was in pandemonium. Shrieking Japs were running. In front of him lay five of them, where they had been mowed down by the strafing guns. “Steve,” he yelled. “Give it to ’em, Steve!”