Authors: Leon Uris
Battle Cry (58 page)
Her eyes closed. She held him, trying to grasp each second for an eternity.
“You ain’t sorry about us, Pat?”
“No.”
“I ain’t either. Just say once more how you love me.”
“I love you, Andy.”
Then her arms were empty. The door shut. He was gone.
There were no tears left in Pat. All night she stood vigil by the window which looked into the bay. Then she donned her greatcoat and in the hours before dawn walked aimlessly through the streets of Wellington. The misty sunrise found her in the Tinokori Hills, looking down over the harbor. A cold wisp of breeze rushed past her and she drew the coat over her belly where she felt the first kick of life from her unborn child.
Below her, in the murk, were the gray outlines of ships. In silence one by one they slipped from the bay to open sea until they were all gone and the water was empty.
MAJOR WELLMAN,
the battalion exec, entered Huxley’s office. He dropped a record book on his desk. “Here it is.”
Huxley picked up the hefty record and wrinkled his forehead as he opened the cover and looked at the picture of Captain Max Shapiro. “I don’t know, Wellman. I don’t know but what I’m making a big mistake.” He began to thumb through the pages, which told a story of transfers, demotions, courts-martial, citations for valor, promotions. It was a book of contradictions.
Wellman seated himself, knocked the tobacco from his pipe and placed it in his pocket. “This Shapiro, he’s quite a legend. Some of the stories I’ve heard about him are utterly fantastic.”
“Don’t discount them,” Huxley said. “Don’t discount a thing you hear about that man.”
“I hope you don’t mind me asking a question?”
“Of course not.”
“This Shapiro is an obvious troublemaker. He’s been run out of over a dozen commands and he’s got a list of courts-martial as long as your arm. Why did you grab him out of the replacement pool? Matter of fact, you didn’t have to grab for him—no one else wanted him.”
Huxley smiled. “The book only tells part of the story, Wellman.”
“They call him Two Gun. Is he an expert?”
“On the contrary, he’s a lousy shot. Has very bad eyes. The story goes that he sneaked up on a Jap at point-blank range and fired two clips of forty-fives and missed every time.”
Wellman shrugged. “I don’t get it.”
Huxley gazed at the ceiling. His mind wandered back. “The first time I heard of him was…oh, let’s see…must have been ten years ago. His father was a ward heeler in Chicago and got him into West Point. He was low man in his class. One summer he followed a girl to Europe and married her. Her parents had it annulled but he was kicked out of the Academy. The next day he joined the Corps as a private. His career’s hardly been illustrious. For six years he went up and down in the ranks from Private to Pfc. and back. Brig time, bread and water, readings off—they never had much effect on such a free soul. He wasn’t much with his fists but he wasn’t afraid to stick out his jaw in a brawl. In Shanghai in 1937 when Smedley Butler sent the Sixth to defend the International Settlement, Shapiro showed his mettle against the Japs.”
Huxley paused.
“The turning point in his cruise came two years later. He had drawn guard duty at a general’s home at Camp Quantico. The general’s eldest daughter became infatuated with the headstrong little Pfc. who was indeed a change from the big, tanned, well-mannered peacetime Marines she had been in contact with all her life. Well, the inevitable happened. Shortly after, she took the news to her father that she was to become the mother of Shapiro’s child. He had performed a feat no other Marine had been able to accomplish. The old general was frantic, of course, but did the only sensible thing. They were married secretly and Max Shapiro was shipped to Officers’ Training School to obtain a rank befitting the father of the general’s daughter’s child. Two years later they were divorced. After that Shapiro was bandied about from post to post and hidden behind obscure desks or put in command of remote details. He’s always in debt to his men. They call him Max.”
“Sounds like a character, all right,” said Wellman. By this time he was deep in study of the fantastic record book.
Huxley turned about seriously. “I’m gambling on him. If I can control him, he’ll give me a company of infantrymen second to none.”
“From the looks of this, you’re chewing off quite a bit, Sam.”
“I’ll get the drop on him. If I don’t, I’ll be in for trouble.”
“I see here,” Wellman said, “he just received a second Navy Cross for a patrol on Guadalcanal.”
“It was more than a patrol. It saved the Guadalcanal operation.”
Wellman relit his pipe and listened.
“The Japs were putting tremendous pressure on the Teneru River line. Thousands of reinforcements landed. Our beachhead seemed ready to collapse. Coleman’s Raiders landed at Aola Bay, some forty miles east of the beachhead. They set up a regular reign of terror behind the enemy lines. Broke their communications, razed their supplies, and butchered the Japs till they were half insane with fear.”
“I remember it well,” the exec said. “It gave everyone in the beachhead a chance to breathe. But go on, where does Shapiro fit in?”
“The Raiders spotted a fresh column of Japs heading for the lines. Ed Coleman sent Shapiro and twenty men up to engage the Jap rear guard while he moved his main forces parallel with their column through the jungle. It was a famous tactic of Coleman’s to lull them into thinking that the Raiders were behind them. Actually only a few were behind, Shapiro’s group and the rest were right alongside, separated by a few yards of jungle. Coleman caught them during a rest period and inside fifteen minutes killed six hundred. At any rate, Shapiro’s unit lost contact with the battalion. They voted to stay out and maraud instead of returning to our lines. They stayed out for almost ninety days, using Jap weapons and eating Jap food. God knows how many times they hit and how many supplies they destroyed. They are credited with killing almost five hundred Japs. Twenty-one Raiders, mind you.”
The story sounded fantastic indeed.
“They kept going. Malaria, starvation, Japs—nothing could stop them. Until there were only four men left. Seymour, that battle-happy sergeant who boarded our ship on the way to the Canal—remember him?”
Wellman nodded.
“He saw the four of them come back in. They were naked skeletons. Bloody and inhuman looking. They couldn’t even speak coherently.”
Huxley arose and walked to the window. “Sure, I know I’m getting a hot potato.” He wheeled about. “But I’ve got a feeling that Shapiro is going to pay off one of these days when the chips are down.”
My squad gathered around the large shack which housed the Battalion office. There was rampant excitement. Captain Max Shapiro had been transferred into the Second Battalion to take over Fox Company. The notorious and glorious Two Gun Shapiro from Coleman’s Raiders who had earned his first Navy Cross in the Makin raid—and a court-martial. He had more decorations and courts-martial than the next three officers in the Corps combined. He was a legend. As the jeep swung into our street we were bursting with excitement to get a glimpse of him.
The jeep stopped before the Battalion office on the dirt road. Our mouths fell open. There sat a short, pudgy man with ringlets of curly black hair, a heavy moustache, and thick-lensed glasses.
“Jesus, is
that
Two Gun Shapiro?”
“Must be.”
“Looks like a rabbi to me.”
“He sure doesn’t look very tough, cousin.”
Shapiro debarked from the jeep ungracefully, bucking under the weight of his officer’s bag. He asked for instructions and headed for the office, tripping over one of the steps. Disillusioned, we went back to our tents.
Captain Shapiro set his gear in front of the door marked B
ATTALION
C
OMMANDER
, knocked, and without waiting for an answer entered. Sam Huxley glanced up from the paperwork on his desk. The little man stepped up and thrust his hand forward. “Shapiro’s the name, Max Shapiro. I’m your new captain, Huxley.” Highpockets was on guard. He had just finished pouring through the Captain’s fabulous record book. Max withdrew his hand under Huxley’s stern glare, seated himself on the Colonel’s desk and threw a pack of cigarettes down. “Have a weed, Huxley. What’s my company?”
“Have a seat, Shapiro.”
“I’m sitting. Call me Max.”
“Let’s chat, Captain,” Huxley said. Shapiro shrugged. “You have quite a record preceding you into this battalion.”
“Don’t let that scare you.”
“On the contrary. I grabbed you out of the replacement pool as first choice. Seems like I had a clear field. No one else wanted any trade with you.”
“Call me Max.”
“I think we’d better come to a quick understanding. First, you are not in the Raiders any more. Let me say that no man in the Corps respects Ed Coleman more than I do. However, we aren’t a roving band here and we like to play Marines.”
“Pep talk, huh? Listen, Huxley, I don’t aim to give you a bad time if you don’t give me one, so just can all the chatter.”
“In this battalion we observe military courtesy. You address me as Colonel Huxley at all times. The only time I want individualism is under fire and that is why I asked for you. You can give me the type of company I want out of Fox. However, as long as you are in my command you will observe all rules and regulations down to the letter. Do I make myself clear?”
“Chickenshit outfit.”
“Not quite. I realize that we may never gain the stature of the Raiders, but this battalion will take a back seat to none in the Corps. We can outhike, outshoot, and when the chance comes, outfight anyone. We also know how to behave like gentlemen, something you overlooked in your previous tours of duty.”
Shapiro reddened and snarled.
“Don’t think, Captain Shapiro, you are going to run a three-ring circus here. I’m not going to get rid of you because you’re a hot potato, either. You are going to take over Fox Company and you are going to make them the best riflemen in the world, but under my rules.” Huxley drew himself to his towering height over the little captain. “If military discipline holds no awe for you let’s just go to the boondocks right now and see who is the boss here.”
Max Shapiro’s face broadened in a big grin. “I’ll be a sonofabitch. Now you talk my language. You and me are going to hit it off swell. I don’t care to fight you right now, but I admire your courage,” he said, looking far up into Highpocket’s face. “Shake, Colonel, and I’ll give you a mean, smelly outfit.” Huxley and Two Gun Shapiro clasped hands warmly. “Well, sir, I’d like to get acquainted with my crew.”
“Very well, Captain. My orderly will show you to your company area.”
“By the way—who is my gunnery sergeant and my exec?”
“McQuade is your gunny—hell of a good man. Fox is being reorganized and I have assigned no new exec officer yet…by God, I’ve got just the man for you.
Ziltch!
” The little orderly tumbled in the door. “Get Lieutenant Bryce over here on the double.”
NOVEMBER
the first came into being with the dawn. The transport
J. Franklin Bell
drifted from Wellington Harbor into open sea and took its place in the convoy. Each hour the water turned a deeper blue and a new ship appeared on the horizon. The last thought of another maneuver faded by the second day. Warmer air enveloped the ship as it moved north toward the equator.
The initial excitement gave way as they settled down on a zigzag course. It appeared we were in for a long ride on a slow freight. Troopship monotony in the crowded quarters set in by the third day. We exercised topside, played poker, wrote letters, sang, and repeatedly cleaned and checked our already spotless equipment.
The packed holds made it advisable to remain topside for as many hours a day as we could. As we slipped into hotter climates the air below became foul and the dulled senses and sluggishness that always appear on a troopship hit us. So much so that it was a real chore to drag into the crammed head for a sticky saltwater shower and a tortured, scraping shave.
It was impossible to ascertain the number of knots we had put between ourselves and New Zealand on the wiggly course north. Once again the water turned green, indicating land. In a searing noonday sun an island loomed over the horizon. We lined the deck, buzzing thankfully for the break in the boredom of the seemingly aimless and endless journey. The word passed about that we were pulling into the French New Hebrides and the island of Efate, south of the Espiritu Santo. We passed the coast line of another typical “Pacific paradise” baking in the sun and caught a glimpse of Havannah Harbor. I had never seen anything like it. It was crammed with more warships than my seabag held socks. The sailors aboard identified the battlewagons
Colorado
and
Tennessee,
the cruisers
Mobile, Birmingham, Portland,
and
Santa Fé.
There were carriers whose decks bristled with fighter planes and dive bombers and I caught sight of Old Mary, the U.S.S.
Maryland.
It did my heart good to see the old girl. I had done two years aboard her as a seagoing bellhop a long time ago and was glad she had been resurrected from her watery grave at Pearl Harbor.
We dropped anchor in Mele Bay and a wild rash of scuttlebutt broke loose. Foul Ball Philips, Lt. General Tod B. Philips, Commander of the Fleet Marine Force, the big skipper himself, was ashore with Admiral Parks of the Fifth Fleet. The story snowballed from ship to ship that we were going back to Wake Island. There were whoops of joy on the
J. Franklin Bell.
Surely, we reckoned, the Sixth Marines would draw the honor of establishing the beachhead.
With Wake Island and revenge in our minds, the New Hebrides hellhole held little fascination. We wanted to get under way. Even stories of the rare collection of Army nurses there held small interest.
We held maneuvers before departing. A dress rehearsal with Foul Ball himself and his cigar in attendance. I was worried because the landing went off without a hitch. An old superstition of long-forgotten schooldays in the dramatic club came to mind. Something about a bad dress rehearsal meaning a good opening night. I would have settled at that point for the debacle at Hawke Bay.