The Thin Red Line (15 page)

There were other reactions. There were in fact as many various reactions as there were men under the whickering bombs. But however various, there was in all of them one constant: Everybody wished these nightly air raids would stop. But they didn’t.

There was one night of relief for them in the two weeks. Regimental Headquarters, functioning as a unit now after its separation into echelons for the sea voyage by transport, opened up a post exchange. C-for-Charlie only learned of this at all through the loyalty of their regular company clerk (a sergeant; Fife was only the forward clerk) an Italian boy from Boston named Dranno (and of course universally known as “Draino”) who being stationed with the personnel section knew about it and came and told them. The entire stock of this new PX consisted of two things, Barbasol shaving cream and Aqua Velva shaving lotion. But this information was enough to cause a run on the store. Inside of seven hours the entire stock of Aqua Velva was sold out, although there was plenty of Barbasol left for those who wanted it. The trouble was that the other company clerks were just as loyal to their outfits as Draino was to C-for-Charlie. Nevertheless, members of the company managed to buy enough bottles of Aqua Velva so that everybody was able to get solidly drunk for one night.

Mixed with canned grapefruit juice from Storm’s kitchen supply, the shaving lotion did not taste at all. Grapefruit juice seemed to cut all the perfume out of it. It made a drink rather like a Tom Collins. Everyone loved it. There was a number of cases of men stumbling into the wrong slit trenches during the raids. There were several sprained wrists and ankles. And there was one bad incident where a drunk dived into the latrine by mistake when the klaxons sounded. But for one night at least, one glorious memorable night, there was relief from the spraying daisycutters. Many men went right on sleeping through every raid. And those who did not didn’t give a damn that night—about air raids or anything else—and trooped out to their slit trenches laughing and sportive.

Meanwhile, life in the daytime went right on. Two days after the Aqua Velva party there occurred the most important thing to happen to C-for-Charlie since their arrival. This was the discovery, in a tent near the airfield, of a cache of Thompson submachineguns which they were able to send a raiding party after and steal. This triumph was largely due to little Charlie Dale, Storm’s belligerent little second cook, who not only found the guns but also—if he did not actually organize the raid—certainly stumped for it and was its sparkplug.

Dale did not like working in the kitchen and never had. A lot of this was due to having to work for Storm whom Dale considered too authoritarian. Dale might ride his shift of KPs overhard, and was noted for this, and secretly was proud of it; but that was only because you couldn’t make them work any other way. But Storm—Storm was in the habit of demanding an instantaneous and unquestioning obedience from his own cook force which not only seemed to imply he didn’t trust their abilities, but also that he did not even trust their motives, their good faith. Dale resented this. Also, for a long time now, he had felt Storm did not like him personally for some reason. Twice Storm had passed over him for promotion to first cook. Both times Dale should have had the job. And yet Storm had not said a word to him. Dale had not forgiven him for this, either.

Like many others Charlie Dale had come into the Army from a career of two years in the CCCs, enlisting as soon as he became eighteen. He had not cooked in the Cs—or anywhere else—beyond frying himself a couple of eggs once in a while. He had come into Storm’s kitchen after six months as a rifle private because on regular duty—contrary to his expectations—he had remained lost in the shuffle and mass of khaki ciphers. If he left the kitchen, he would lose his rating and his authority and go right back to that. And Dale had no intention of getting lost again. He stayed in the kitchen. But he did not have to like it.

Because he didn’t like the kitchen, and because on Guadalcanal cooks naturally were exempt from the unloading details when off shift, Dale had taken to going off by himself on exploring trips whenever he was off duty. It was on one of these trips one hot still afternoon, while wandering along the edge of the dust-blown airfield under that drowse-producing, perpetually midsummer sun, that he found the tent full of guns.

Dale did not at first know what was in it but he was struck by the fact that it was isolated. There was a bivouac perhaps thirty yards away in the cocopalms, deserted and lazy under the heat of the sun. The tent itself had all its flap ropes tied shut. But it wasn’t locked; how could you lock a tent? His curiosity aroused, Dale lifted a loop from one of the wall stakes and slipped inside. It was stifling hot in the tent and in that dim, peculiarly pleasant, lazy-making light of hot sun shining through tentage canvas, rack after wooden rack of guns filled the interior like rows of pews. Seven of these worshippers, all in their own row, were Thompson submachineguns. At the front the altar was a raised platform stacked with drums and clips of .45 ammunition and their canvas carriers. Both clips and carriers bore the Marine Corps stamp.

The rest of the congregation were .30 cal Springfields, and a few of the new .30 cal carbines which had only gotten to C-for-Charlie recently. All mused at their devotions in the dim hot air while Dale stared at them. A closer inspection revealed that the working parts showed no signs of wear. They were all brand new. Yet they had the grease cleaned off them and stood ready for immediate use, freshly oiled. There they were. In the tent, as outside, the hot stillness of Sunday revival meeting reigned.

Dale was overjoyed. Here was any old soldier’s dream of a perfect piece of thievery. It was too good to be true. And from the Marines, yet! One for himself, of course. But what about the other six? And those carbines? Greedily and with chagrin Dale realized he couldn’t possibly carry all of the Thompson guns even. Let alone enough .45 ammo to supply them. It was a shame to waste them.

Then there was another thing. If he took just one—for himself—and some ammo, what would he do with it? The moment he showed it at the company he would be in danger of having it confiscated. And it was then that the idea of not taking any now, but instead coming back on a raid, struck him. With enough guys maybe they could even take some of those delicious carbines.

If he could get any of the officers interested, enough to come along for one themselves, then they wouldn’t dare to confiscate his. At the same time it would be a big boost to the reputation of the guy who found the guns and thought of the idea—namely, Dale. Him. Me. Young Lt Culp of the weapons platoon, who was a former Dartmouth football player and was always laughing and kidding around with the men, would be the one. Or maybe he would go to Welsh. Welsh would always be game for anything like this. In either case, he was not going to say anything to that bastard Storm, who if he wanted a Thompson gun could go and find it for himself.

Having figured it out to his satisfaction, Dale ducked back outside and carefully replaced the wall loop over its stake. But then he stopped. He could not help but feel he was leaving behind an opportunity which was too good to let go. Maybe they had sentries on this place, he would have, and the sentry was just goofing off somewhere asleep. They might come back to find the place guarded, out of reach. And Dale wanted one of those tommy guns so bad it made his hands itch. Especially since Storm had announced publicly that he was going up into the line with the outfit, and would take with him any cooks who wanted to go. Well, when he put it that way, who would dare to say he didn’t want to go? Certainly not Dale. Even though the pit of his stomach felt hollow when he thought of it.

After a minute of standing lost in thought in the hot sunny afternoon with his hand resting on the warm tent seam, Dale loosened the loop, ducked back in, selected one of the Thompsons. With it and all the drums and clips he could cram into two of the canvas carriers, he ducked back out, refastened the loop and walked away into the cocopalms. He headed back toward the bivouac. A few of the men he met stared at him but seemed not to think his equipment odd, even though he was carrying his rifle as well. He did not enter the bivouac but instead turned off toward the jungle where it came closest to the company area. Inside the jungle he left the new gun hidden and went to the bivouac for a shirt, returned and wrapped the gun in it carefully, then hid it and the ammo in a hollow beneath the tall roots of one of the giant trees. Only then did he saunter into the bivouac, whistling innocently with his hands in his pockets, to look for either Welsh or Culp.

It was Culp that he found. And the Lieutenant’s broad fleshy face with its broken pugnose wreathed itself in a happy acquisitive smile, when in his hoarse belligerent voice Dale told him of the find.

“How many are there?”

“Seven. I mean, six.”

“Six Thompson guns,” Culp savored it slowly and gave a low whistle. “And you say all the drums and clips we can carry?” He paused, and appeared to be licking his chops. “This will require thought and planning, Dale. Yes sir. Yes,
sir!
Thought and planning.” Culp rubbed his footballplayer’s hands together. “Three men would be enough, if it was just the guns. But with the ammo—We’re going to need that ammo, Dale,” he said nodding; “we’re going to need it. Every bit of it and every clip we can get. Because can you imagine me going up to Regiment and asking for an issue of .45 ammo for six Thompson guns we ain’t even supposed to have? Yes, sir! Now let me think a minute,” he said but did not pause more than a second. “We’re going to have to take this to Captain Stein, I’m afraid. Yes, I think we’ll have to take it to Captain Stein.”

“Well, will he go along?” Dale said. He stared at Culp stonily out of his flat, narroweyed face. He did not like the idea of bringing Bugger Stein in at all.

“If he gets one for himself out of it?” Culp made a wise smile. “I wouldn’t see why not. I would myself, I know that. Wouldn’t you?”

“I aim to,” Dale said flatly.

Culp nodded, but absently, a faraway greedy look in his eye. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. And anyway, he’d find out soon enough when he saw us sporting those tommyguns around here; and then what? Yes sir, if I had anything to say about it, Dale, you would get the first medal of the war to go to old C-for-Charlie. We need more men like you, Dale.”

Dale flashed him a pleased smile. But he did not relinquish his point. “Well, what about takin Sergeant Welsh in on it, instead?”

“We’ll take him, too. We’ll take him, too. But we’ve got to tell Captain Stein. Don’t you worry. He’ll go along. You just leave it to me. Leave me worry about everything, Dale.” He slapped his big hands down on his knees and pushed himself up. “Come on, Dale. We got things to do, things to do. Now, what do you think? I think mid-afternoon tomorrow. Just the same time you went there, you see. Night’s too dangerous; might get shot. And evening’s bad because that’s when everybody in the outfit’s home for supper.” He was already striding off toward the orderly tent and Dale with his much shorter legs had almost to run to keep up.

In the end they took seven men. Dale could not say exactly how much .45 ammunition there was—except that there was a lot—and Culp wanted to be sure and get it all. As it turned out, they could have taken nine or ten and still not have carried off all of it.

Perhaps Stein would have refused them permission, except for the loud enthusiasm of Culp. Certainly Stein was not very hot on the idea. But there was no stopping Culp. Culp did everything, including convincing Stein. He even thought of borrowing pistols for them so they would not have to carry their rifles and thus could porter back more loot. He waved his bighanded arms around the orderly tent like windmill blades. Dale stood against the wall of the tent in silence, his flat face a careful mask, and let them talk.

Culp and Welsh chose the personnel. Naturally membership did not get very far outside the club. Dale was the only man below staff sergeant in the party. And Dale had the feeling they would not have invited him if they could have found an honorable way out of it. But it was Welsh, not Culp, who suggested taking Storm.

Dale was furious. But he daren’t tell them that the reason he had gone to Culp and Welsh in the first place was in order to keep Storm out. He continued to stand against the tent wall in silence and watched half his own reason for the raid go down the drain. Storm, when called in, said nothing. But he gave his second cook a glance which showed he understood. And Dale knew Storm would not forgive him soon.

So they had their personnel. They were Culp, Welsh, Storm, Dale, MacTae the young draftee supply sergeant, and two of the platoon sergeants: one officer, five sergeants, and Dale.

They were very nearly six sergeants and Dale. Bugger Stein—even after he allowed the raid, and accepted one of the Thompson guns—still did not feel he should allow an officer to go. What if they should get caught? How would that look at Battalion? And at Regiment? An officer leading an organized raid to steal guns! On the other hand Stein had before him the example of what he thought his father the Major would have done in the First War. It was a difficult decision, and Stein took quite a while in making it.

Stein had been confused and rattled by the air raids, too. He did not know whether as an officer and commander he should stay up in the open or get down in his hole like everybody else. It was a constant battle every night, and every raid. It was heroic to walk about and disdain to take shelter as officers had done in Napoleon’s time. And he could have done that. But it was common sense, in this war, to take care of yourself and protect your government’s investment in you, not get yourself killed pointlessly in some air raid. Every raid made an exhausting decision for him before he finally went to his hole, and it was the same sort of thing now with this decision.

In the end he let Culp go. Culp was damn near irrepressible, that was the truth. But it was Stein’s father the Major and his example that finally decided the issue. Stein could remember stories of his father’s about the thieving expeditions they had carried out in France. These were what gave him a mental picture he could follow as a policy. He did not want to look like an old maid, a wet blanket who ruined all the fun with overcautious advice. It was easy for Culp who was young and without responsibilities to go around yelling and enthusiastically waving his arms. Culp did not have this company to run, and to answer for. When Stein looked at Culp he found himself realizing the price he unwittingly had paid for the command of a company which he once had wanted so badly. Brusquely, in a way which he felt effectively covered up his sad, sagging sense of age, he gave his consent.