“I . . . I’ll have you all court-martialed and shot—eek. Magh’!” he shrieked, as the varied white grub-shapes poured over the top of the trench.
* * *
The lieutenant’s flight lasted less than thirty yards before one of the Magh’ caught up with him.
“Help! Help me!” he yelled desperately.
Gobbo shook his head as the venomous barbed tail stabbed through the man’s uniform. “Help me, if you please, Lieutenant.”
3
The seven of them were on their way back from the mess hall in the moonlight when they came upon two very, very drunken NCOs. Under most circumstances this would have been a good reason to turn and quietly walk away. In fact, they all checked. It was the whimpering that was coming from a thing at the feet of the two corporals that made Fitz decide to walk forward. That, and the fact that SmallMac was already doing so.
Coming closer, Fitz saw that the bundle lying there was human. Or had been, before they’d started kicking it.
“Whatsh are you lot doing here?” slurred the one man.
“KP duties, Corporal,” said SmallMac, kneeling next to the victim.
“Well bugger off to y’r tent. And leave that little dickhead alone.”
“We’re taking him to sick bay, Corporal,” said the small man, his glasses glinting in the moonlight.
“Like fuck you are!” The corporal swung a vicious kick at SmallMac’s head.
Fitz caught the man’s foot and extended the swing. He gave the falling corporal a far-better-placed kick in the solar plexus. The corporal doubled over as he flew. And as his fellow drunk swung wildly at him, Fitz hit him neatly on the jaw.
“Holy shit! Let’s get out of here!” gasped one of the conscripts.
“What the hell do you think you’ve done, Fitz?” demanded another, horrified.
Fitz ignored them. He leaned down and grabbed both of the drunk NCOs by the throats. Neither was a particularly large man. The little Vat they’d been beating was even smaller than SmallMac. “Is he okay?”
SmallMac shook his head. “Hard to tell. He’s not really conscious. Blood coming out of his ears by the feel of it. Let’s get him to sick bay.”
One of the drunks began to struggle. Fitz brought their heads together with a crack and tossed them aside. SmallMac was already staggering to his feet with his burden. They linked arms to form a chair. And ran. Three of the others ran too, heading for their tent with as much speed as possible. The other two came along to the sick bay. One of them actually had the forethought to run ahead and pound on the door. There was always a medic on duty.
When it opened . . . Fitzhugh realized that things could get a lot worse. Two medic NCOs, the camp doctor, and Major Ogata were all there—playing cards on one of the examination beds.
“What is it?” asked the medic who had opened the door, plainly not pleased.
“Emergency, sir. We found this man. He’s been beaten up, sir. He’s unconscious.”
“Bring him in. Get him onto the examination bed.”
Fitz and SmallMac complied.
“Christ! I want an IV line up on this kid,” snapped the doctor.
The doctor and medics moved into action.
That left the four of them . . . and Major Ogata, who had moved against the far wall to allow them passage. Ogata, with JAG flashes on his shoulders, had arrived in the camp three days before. Nobody knew quite what he was doing here, but he had been taking some bangstick drills. “Stand,” he ordered coldly, as they attempted to melt back to the open door. “Just what happened here?” he asked. He pointed to one of the young Vats in the group. “You speak.”
The youngster looked around, nervously. “We were on our way back from KP, sir. We . . . we found that private in the alley between Q-stores and the chaplain’s offices, sir. We brought him here.”
“You had no part in beating him up?” All of them shook their heads.
“We wouldn’t have brought him in if we had, sir,” said SmallMac earnestly.
The major looked at them with cold speculation. “Maybe. And maybe you realized that you or perhaps your companions had gone too far? You know who did this.”