Hunter Patrol | Page 8

was
a pretty far-fetched explanation, but it was the only one he could think
of.
But about this tank, now. He was positive that he could remember
throwing a grenade.... Yet he'd used his last grenade back there at the
supply dump. He saw his carbine, and picked it up. That silly blackout
he'd had, for a second, there; he must have dropped it. Action was open,
empty magazine on the ground where he'd dropped it. He wondered,
stupidly, if one of his bullets couldn't have gone down the muzzle of

the tank's gun and exploded the shell in the chamber.... Oh, the hell
with it! The tank might have been hit by a premature shot from the
barrage which was raging against the far slope of the ridge. He reset his
watch by guess and looked down the valley. The big attack would be
starting any minute, now, and there would be fleeing Commies coming
up the valley ahead of the UN advance. He'd better get himself placed
before they started coming in on him.
He stopped thinking about the mystery of the blown-up tank, a solution
to which seemed to dance maddeningly just out of his mental reach,
and found himself a place among the rocks to wait. Down the valley he
could hear everything from pistols to mortars going off, and shouting in
three or four racial intonations. After a while, fugitive Communists
began coming, many of them without their equipment, stumbling in
their haste and looking back over their shoulders. Most of them avoided
the mouth of the ravine and hurried by to the left or right, but one little
clump, eight or ten, came up the dry stream-bed, and stopped a hundred
and fifty yards from his hiding-place to make a stand. They were
Hindus, with outsize helmets over their turbans. Two of them came
ahead, carrying a machine gun, followed by a third with a
flame-thrower; the others retreated more slowly, firing their rifles to
delay pursuit.
* * * * *
Cuddling the stock of his carbine to his cheek, he divided a ten-shot
burst between the two machine-gunners, then, as a matter of principle,
he shot the man with the flame-thrower. He had a dislike for
flame-throwers; he killed every enemy he found with one. The others
dropped their rifles and raised their hands, screaming: "Hey, Joe! Hey,
Joe! You no shoot, me no shoot!"
A dozen men in UN battledress came up and took them prisoner.
Benson shouted to them, and then rose and came down to join them.
They were British--Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders, advertising the
fact by inconspicuous bits of tartan on their uniforms. The subaltern in
command looked at him and nodded.

"Captain Benson? We were warned to be on watch for your patrol," he
said. "Any of the rest of you lads get out?"
Benson shrugged. "We split up after the attack. You may run into a
couple of them. Some are locals and don't speak very good English. I've
got to get back to Division, myself; what's the best way?"
"Down that way. You'll overtake a couple of our walking wounded. If
you don't mind going slowly, they'll show you the way to advance
dressing station, and you can hitch a ride on an ambulance from there."
Benson nodded. Off on the left, there was a flurry of small-arms fire,
ending in yells of "Hey, Joe! Hey, Joe!"--the World War IV version of
"Kamarad"!
* * * * *
His company was a non-T/O outfit; he came directly under Division
command and didn't have to bother reporting to any regimental or
brigade commanders. He walked for an hour with half a dozen lightly
wounded Scots, rode for another hour on a big cat-truck loaded with
casualties of six regiments and four races, and finally reached Division
Rear, where both the Division and Corps commanders took time to
compliment him on the part his last hunter patrol had played in the now
complete breakthrough. His replacement, an equine-faced Spaniard
with an imposing display of fruit-salad, was there, too; he solemnly
took off the bracelet a refugee Caucasian goldsmith had made for his
predecessor's predecessor and gave it to the new commander of what
had formerly been Benson's Butchers. As he had expected, there was
also another medal waiting for him.
A medical check at Task Force Center got him a warning; his last
patrol had brought him dangerously close to the edge of combat fatigue.
Remembering the incidents of the tank and the unaccountably fast
watch, and the mysterious box and envelope which he had found in his
coat pocket, he agreed, saying nothing about the questions that were
puzzling him. The Psychological Department was never too busy to
refuse another case; they hunted patients gleefully, each psych-shark

seeking in