Battle Cry (30 page)

My squad was fast becoming radiomen, like the speed merchants of the old Corps. Their fists were certain as they handled the keys. Our walkie-talkie net amazed the entire regiment. Mary knew his business. If I could only stop them from sending dirty messages—someday we’d be intercepted and the boom would be lowered on us for fair.

Our skins were turning yellow from the daily dosages of atabrine, but I kept close track to see that it wasn’t ditched. I had had malaria on the islands ten years before when I was in Manila and I’d have been damned glad to have had atabrine, turn yellow or not.

CHAPTER 1

IN NO
time at all, the word was all over Wellington and the sidewalks were lined with smiling gawkers as the Sixth went by.

“Hi, Limey!”

“We aren’t Limeys. We’re New Zealanders.”

“Let me see that penny. Man, look at the size of it.”

“Hi, Yank,” a girl called from an office window.

“Toss your name and phone number down, honey. I’ll give you a ring.”

“Fine, Yank—and I have some girl friends.”

“You boys from the Fifth Regiment of Marines?”

“Naw, we’re the Sixth.”

“You wear the same braid.”

“Them guys is just cashing in on our glory,” we said of the boys who were even then fighting for the life of New Zealand on Guadalcanal. Yes, they were glad to see us. The tentacles of the Japanese Empire were reaching down to snatch at their country. Every man and woman had been organized to fight to the bitter end. Their own men were a long way away and a long time gone. In the Middle East.

The Fifth Marines had come and left for Guadalcanal. And then we had come, and the Kiwis gave a happy sigh, like they could get a good night’s sleep. A gang of cocky, spoiled Yanks—but they loved us.

And after the
Bobo,
how we loved them!

“Fall in, goddammit, on the double!”

We were off on our first hike in New Zealand. A half mile to the camp gate, then two miles down the highway and a right turn up the slowly winding dirt road. It twisted in a slow rise for nearly four miles. We called it the Little Burma road. From the top, fifteen hundred feet up, we could see the rolling green hills, small dotted farms, and in the distance the ocean.

Then we raced over the hills, through ravines and gulleys, over wire fences, along sheer sheep trails, sliding and falling in sheep drop. Through the woods until we wound up in back of Camp McKay, and Paekakaraki, which we could see far below us. Then down a treacherous cliff on our backs and guts until we descended into camp.

On alternate days we reversed the course. Climbing the cliff in the rear of camp first and through the hills and trails and sheep farms to reach the top of the Little Burma. Then, down hill for four miles, to the highway and back to the camp gate.

The Little Burma run was only twelve to fifteen miles, depending on what route was taken, but I felt it was the meanest course I’d ever gone. It was November in New Zealand and the middle of summer and it was hot. The long stretch up the Little Burma was plain wicked. The slow rise sapped the juice out of our legs and the weight of the gear hung like a heavy burden. Then came the sweat, the eternal sweat. Soggy, drenching sweat—and plenty of bitching from the men. Sweat from the feet irritated the blisters.

We’d pause to eat C-rations at the top where the road leveled off. You had to keep an eye on the water. It was a long way back to camp and we didn’t have any place for stragglers in this outfit. A sweating Marine who drinks too much pukes, and can’t hike.

If the climb up Little Burma was rugged, the hike down her was worse. Going downhill the impact hits you with every goddam step. Your legs act like brakes for four miles and the weight of the pack slams into you with every pace. The downhill runs were the ones that make your knees buckle and your legs feel like they were turning to jelly.

Salt pills. I could never figure how a little pill could replace ten gallons of sweat. Suck them slow or you’ll puke. And lay off the water. Salt makes you thirsty, and too much water will fold you like an accordion.

On the days we carried heavy equipment we’d pull hard on the awkward carts till our hands cracked. We’d throw our bodies against them to keep them from running down the trails. The walkie-talkies made fifty more pounds to lug. Downhill we’d strain and dig our heels into the deck to keep from running away.

On the days we went with just combat packs, Burnside set a murderous pace. He was a hiking fool. The case of beer he had drank the day before worked out of every pore, till he looked like he was floating. As we hit the camp gate he’d yell, “Double time!” We’d run a hundred yards, then quick pace a hundred and run another hundred till we reached the foot of Little Burma.

One day, we went clear from camp to the peak of the road without stopping. And downhill too, we’d hit the bottom of the road and run all the way into camp, straight to the parade ground.

“There go Huxley’s Whores!”

Huxley had the time he had bid for; he had the conditions he wanted and he spared no rods on us. And then we began to pass outfits along the route, crapped out and exhausted. “Candy-ass Marines,” our boys would shout as we flashed past them.

Highpockets Huxley, for reasons known only to himself, went on trying to make a Marine out of our company commander, Lieutenant Bryce. There was an intense rivalry between the Intelligence Squad and our platoon. On alternate days Bryce was assigned to hike with us. On the other days, he’d go with Sergeant Paris’ boys. Many a case of beer was bet on who would hike him into the deck first. When Bryce was with us, we’d scorch the road until we saw his ass starting to drag, then Burnside would open a mile-long burst on the uphill pull. If Bryce wasn’t on his knees yet, we’d wait until he had that faraway look as if he was going to quote Shakespeare, then we’d double time. Bryce knew he’d get his ass burned out by the Major if he fell out and he sometimes made it rough on us to finally put him away.

Huxley made everyone in the battalion hike. From time to time cooks, field musics, corpsmen, and other dead weight were assigned to go along with us. For the most part they didn’t hold up too well. We left them littered about here and there along the route to limp back to camp on their own.

“Tenshun!”

“All present and accounted for, sir.”

“At ease.”

Lieutenant Bryce opened the document and read the usual birthday greetings of the Corps from the Commandant. His letter had the flavor of glory, duty, and honor and recalled great feats of the past and the task of the future. In accordance with tradition a day of rest was declared and two bottles of beer were issued to all enlisted men. After a rousing “Semper Fidelis” the formation broke and we entered into our hundred and sixty-seventh year.

“Dibs on your beer, Mary.”

“Two lousy bottles, can they spare it?”

“Aw shaddup, ain’t you got no sentiment, cousin?’

The garbage truck finished its pickup of large cans of slop from each company mess hall. Hanging on the back for dear life as it sped along the bumpy dirt road toward the dump were Shining Lighttower and L.Q. Jones. As the truck bounced, the contents of the cans splattered all over the two men. Soon they were standing ankle deep in garbage and then the cans began sliding about on the slick iron deck of the truck. It was difficult to hang on, much less try to be nimble as a ballet dancer to avoid the cans, to say nothing of the showers of slush being rained on them.

“Radiomen—haha, I’m laughing,” L.Q. groaned.

“I want to go back to the reservation.”

“Naaa…naaaa,” sneered Speedy Gray from the chow line.

“Naaaaaa,” repeated Seabags at Burnside, who was up ahead of him.

“Naaa,” said L.Q.

“Naaaa,” said Lighttower.

The inference in their calls to Sergeant Burnside was that he was more goat than human when he hiked them along the mountainside trails. Burnside spun around quickly as the last bleat came out and the four mutineers looked lazily at the sky. After chow, Burnside came into their tent as they moved into their gear for the usual hike.

“I feel I have been hiking you boys too hard,” he said.

Their eyes turned to him suspiciously.

“Yes sir,” he continued. “I feel kind of bad because you think old Sarge here is more mountain goat than gyrene.”

“Aw, Burnside, we was just kidding.”

“Shucks, cousin, we love hiking.”

“No, no,” Burnside said holding up his hands piously. “I want to give you four fellows a rest. You don’t have to hike any more.”

“Oh-oh…he’s got a gizmo up his sleeve.”

“Happens that the cook was talking to me this morning.”

“Looks like we got potwalloping, men.”

“Aw, fellows, you don’t think that Burnside would make his boys potwallop? Clean out them old greasy pots…now do you? You get enough of that dirty work when your turn for mess duty comes up.”

“Gee, Sarge, you really giving us the day off?”

“Now, ain’t that right nice of Burnside.”

“Seems as though the grease trap at the bottom of the cesspool is clogged,” Burnside continued, “so I says to myself, now I been hiking them boys too hard. Besides, a day in the cesspool might be refreshing. So I went and volunteered you to bucket the slop out and release the trap. Matter of fact, I’m even going to let you use the communications cart to run the stuff out to the boondocks. But please, fellows, please clean out the cart when you finish.”

He went to the tent flap, then turned. “As for the rest of us, I think we’ll take it slow and easy to the Little Burma and go out in the woods and just lay by a stream and crap out with a little TBX practice. Ta-ta.”

“The cesspool!”

“You’re always getting me into trouble, white man. Me and you have split the blanket.”

“Go on, you goddam renegade, blame it on me.”

“Man, that stuff down there stinks worse than limburger,” Speedy moaned.

“Rather spread a ton of manure,” Seabags said.

They trudged sadly to the rear of the mess area and adjusted clothespins to their noses. The cesspool was an aged, well-like construction. All the waste garbage and slush was tossed down it. On the bottom, some fifteen feet down, was an iron grate filtering the waste and funneling it to a subterranean runway. Generally, a hosing from above was sufficient to break loose any clogs; however, at the moment it was dammed up tight with gray slop that had backed up some five feet in the well.

They lifted the wooden cover from the opening. The vile odor blasted them back. Bravely they edged forward again and peered down.

“We’ll draw straws to see who goes down.”

“Shucks, I’m too big to fit in the opening, fellows, so I guess I’ll just have to help bucket the stuff off from up here.” Seabags smiled.

“To hell with that noise,” Speedy cried.

All eyes turned to L.Q. Jones. “Don’t look at me that way, old buddy buddies…besides, you guys always said I’m a blimp.”

“You was the one that dreamed up that bleating at Burnside, L.Q.”

“Fellows! Let’s be democratic about this. Let’s talk this over.”

“Sure, we’ll be democratic, L.Q.,” the Texan said. “Let’s vote…I vote for Jones.”

“Ugh,” said the Injun.

“Recktum you’re the unanimous candidate,” said Seabags, handing him a rubber suit and gas mask.

It was a long day for the cesspool detail. A hundred buckets were raised and run out to the boondocks before L.Q. could pearl dive for the trap. Finally, he sprung it. As he climbed up the ladder triumphantly and took off the mask, the others coughed violently, as though a skunk was loose.

“Clean out the cart,” Seabags said. “I got three days service over you. Besides, I’m a regular and you’re a reserve. We can’t stand the smell another minute.” They took off at high port, leaving L.Q. to finish the detail.

The smelly gyrene finally headed back to his tent. As he moved down the catwalk strong men cleared a path for him. He opened the tent flap and stepped in.

“Gawd! Get out of here!”

Someone hurled a helmet in his direction, making him duck out of the tent. In a few seconds, a hand reached out of the tent flap and dropped a towel, soap, and scrubbing brush at his feet.

“And don’t come back till you smell like roses!”

Dear Mom,

I’m not allowed to tell you where I am. However, I find that I have lots of new zeal and energy…

“Come in, Pfc. Jones. Did you write this letter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may go, Private Jones.”

CHAPTER 2

ANDY HOOKANS
strolled listlessly through the Wellington railway station. He had missed the first liberty train back to camp and it was nearly an hour until the next one.

He walked outside for a breath of air. Across the street he saw a sign: S
ALVATION
A
RMY
C
ANTEEN
—
Welcome Armed Forces Members.
He entered and seated himself upon a stool at one end of a long counter.

“May I help you, Yank?”

“Coffee, please.”

The big Swede eyed her from stem to stern as she filled his cup. Not bad, not bad at all. Tall, slim, not skinny exactly…fair skin like most of the girls here…short hair, kind of honey blond. She passed the cup over the counter.

“Anything else, please?” she said smiling.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Talk to me.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t do that, you know. Against the rules to fraternize on duty.”

“Doesn’t seem like much business tonight.”

“Picks up a few minutes before train time. Fast cup of coffee for the Americans, you know.”

“Is that so? My name is Andy.”

She turned to go.

“Come to think of it, I’d like a crumpet or whatever you call those things.”

“You could just as well reach over and get it yourself.”

“Nice country you’ve got here.”

“I’m glad you like it, but of course nothing can compare with America.”

“Matter of fact, it compares very well.”

“Really,” she said in amazement. “I say, you
are
a rare one.”