Battle Cry (19 page)

After inspection, an hour of close order drill. More, if the inspection was bad. Then, weekend liberty.

In a book I had once read, by a dogface, he wrote that the Marines spent all week shining up for a ten-hour liberty, or something to that effect. Looking back over the years, I felt his observation was an understatement. How they looked going out and how they looked coming back in, of course, were two different matters.

I always got that good feeling when I passed a Marine in town. He had that sharp shine and gait, like he was something special and knew it. Lots of times I felt sick looking at some of the dogfaces. There is a certain dignity, I think, that comes with a uniform and it must be rotten to belong to an outfit that doesn’t have enough pride to keep that dignity up. I hated to see a man slouching, cap cocked back, in need of a haircut, shoes unshined…maybe it was because the price of Marine greens came so high to a man that he never let himself get that way.

“O.K., men! Off your dead asses and on your dying feet! Hit the road!”

They dragged themselves up, cursing the day they entered the Corps. The first twenty-mile hike was always rough. I watched the sweat pouring into their eyes and soaking their dungarees as they strained at the handles of the equipment cart. Their rifles hung from the gun sling like lead weights. The two-pound helmets shot unbearable aches down the neck, the tongues were swollen with thirst under water discipline, the pack straps cut into the armpits like machete knives, the ammo belts hung like ropes pulling them into the deck.

L.Q. Jones pulled alongside Danny. “I walked into this here recruiting station. Drunk, mind you,” he puffed. “The sergeant is measuring me with a tailor’s tape and calling out my measurements to a corporal, who is writing all this down.” Seabags Brown and Andy Hookans crossed the road and joined them. “Yes sir, this bastard says, when you get to San Diego, Mr. Jones, your dress blues will be waiting for you. I’ll telegraph your measurements tonight. Just tell them who you are when you get there…now MISTER Jones, just sign here.” You just had to laugh when L.Q. told a story. “I tell you men, if I ever get my meathooks on that bastard I’ll rip him open from asshole to appetite. I’ll give him a G.I. bath. Dress blues. Ha, I’m laughing.”

“All right, you guys,” I barked. “Knock off the skylarking and file up those ranks!”

L.Q. Jones began singing:

“Oh, the sergeant, the sergeant,

The bastard of them all,

He gets you up in the morning,

Before the bugle call,

Squads right, squads left,

Front face in that line,

And then the dirty son of a bitch,

Will give you double time.”

The whole platoon joined in the chorus:

“Oh, hidy tidy, Christ almighty,

Who in the hell are we,

Zim, zam, GOD DAMN,

The fighting Sixth Marines!”

I hated to admit it, but this gang of kids was beginning to shape up. It was a damned good thing that the earth was two thirds water, I thought, because before Highpockets Huxley got through with them, there weren’t many routes they’d miss.

“Straighten up that line,” I yelled, “and knock off the singing!”

Marion hadn’t taken his eyes off Rae all evening. They had been riding back and forth nearly five hours. The first struggling rays of daylight fought their way up on the horizon. He hummed a tune, softly. “That’s how it ends, Gilda had taken the Duke’s place and was stabbed. The old hunchback bends over, holding her in his arms as he cries that the curse has been fulfilled, and the curtain falls.”

“Just like a man,” Rae sighed. “It’s a beautiful opera and so many pretty songs. I didn’t know one person could write so many.” She looked at him lazily. “It’s almost daybreak, Marion; don’t you have to be back in camp?”

“I have a little time,” he answered. “It’s Friday—that means field day. Clean up for Saturday inspection. Old Man Huxley inspects the barracks with white gloves on.”

“Sam Huxley?”

“That’s right, how did you know?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Rae.”

“Yes, Marion.”

“Well—look, Rae, couldn’t we meet in San Diego next liberty and you and I go to dinner and a show or something?”

The redhead bit her lip. “I like it here on the boat, same as you do. Couldn’t we just go on meeting and…oh, now I’ve hurt your feelings.”

“I thought that…well, it’s been over a month and I kind of felt you liked me.”

“Marion, I do like you. I like you a lot.”

“I’m just a nice kid, is that it?”

“Golly, fellow, do you think I’d sit here with you till five in the morning if…well, honestly, Marion, you said yourself you hated the city. Couldn’t we just go on meeting here?”

“If you want to make it a big mystery.”

“I want to see you, I really do. I like it here with you.” The boat creaked against the wharf. The weary hands roped her up.

“I’d better shove off.”

“Will I see you Saturday night?” she called after him.

He looked over his shoulder. “Maybe.”

I marched my squad past the last barracks in camp into the sand dunes towards the practice landing nets. The rig-up consisted of a sheer wooden wall thirty-five feet high representing the side of a ship. From the top platform hung a heavy cargo net ending in a Higgins boat, nestled in the sand below. The men struggled over the sand with the communications cart bogging down under the weight of a full load of radios.

“If we got to do mules’ work, they could at least give us mules’ rating. I hear them animals are at least corporals. I think I’ll bang ears for a transfer.”

“Come on, jackass, turn off the air and pull.”

“O.K., you meatheads, take off your packs and stand at ease,” I ordered. “If you don’t learn anything else in this lash-up, for Chrisake learn how to get up and down these nets and in and out of the assault boats.” They were looking up thirty-five feet to the top of the platform, unhappily. “This is simple. Wait till you hit the bow net of a live ship on a choppy sea.”

“I want to go back to the reservation, me no like white man’s war.”

“I ought to run him up one of them sixty-foot redwoods,” Andy, the lumberjack, ribbed.

“Mother, I’ve come home to die.”

“Teamwork is essential. Fubar on the nets and you can louse up an entire landing team.” I jumped into the boat. “We’ll start the problem backwards. Andy, knock off the grab ass and pay attention!” They gathered about. “To get out of this contraption, you place your hands on the guardrail and spring away from the boat, like this.” I shot myself clear, tumbling over and chewing up a mouthful of sand. They roared.

“Encore,” L.Q. said.

“It isn’t funny egghead. It isn’t going to hurt to get your panties wet, but it’s sure as hell going to hurt if you don’t clear the boat and it bounces back on one of your legs…besides, I hear they’ve got new LCTs with drop ramps in the front. Load the gear and cart and we’ll practice hitting shore and charging up the beach.” I drilled them till their fannies dragged. “Move, you bastards! We got no place for stragglers in the Marine Corps! Come on, Andy, not head first! Grab that battery case, hang on to it…hit the deck, Injun! When going up the net, use your legs and not your arms or you’ll be bearing too much weight. Let your legs carry the load. Keep your eyes on your hands at all times…four abreast, up the net, let’s go.”

They tried it. Then I went on, “If you are on the bow net of the ship, you’ll have no support from the side of the ship. The net will be swinging free and your pack and gear will pull you upside down. If you feel like you’re going to fall, lock your arms in the net and call for help.” I led them to the top, climbed the rail to the platform and watched them struggle up, shouting out corrections. Even Andy, an old-timer in the timber, didn’t find clumsy rope to his liking.

The squad fidgeted uncomfortably on the platform. “O.K. fellows, here we are, on the poop of the U.S.S.
Tuscarora.
All we have to do is get down into the boat with our radios.” There was a feeble ripple of laughter. I showed them how to tie and lash guide lines on the heavy gear.

“Line up four abreast at the rail and go over right leg first. That’s important because it will set you all in the same position. Unstrap your helmets, put your rifle muzzles down, unfasten your ammo belt and if you fall, dump your gear the way we practiced in the pool. Unless you throw it off, the weight is going to pull you under faster than a stripe-assed gazelle.” I went to the rail. “Always keep your hands on the vertical rope so they won’t be stepped on by the man above you.”

“What’s the vertical?” Lighttower queried.

“The rope going this way.”

“Oh, that’s vertical?”

I climbed back onto the platform. “Finally, and the most important phase, is getting from the net into the landing craft. On open water the boat is going to be bouncing around like a cork. You approach to a point near the boat and wait until it rises on a swell and then jump in. There will be swabbies to hold the nets as rigid as possible. If you go down too low and the boat rises suddenly and slams the side of the ship with you in the middle, you are apt to get a survey out of this outfit—feet first. On your feet. Andy, Mary, Joe, Tex, hit the side. When you get into the boat grab the nets and hold them fast. Next two men take the guide lines as we lower the gear.”

They paused a second and then went over the rail, promptly kicking each other’s fannies.

“Right leg first, dammit!”

I watched them descend. “Let that goddam helmet drop—we’ll buy you another one.”

Brown screamed. “Keep those hands on the vertical and they won’t get stomped on. Jump into the boat…grab the net, Andy…lower the guide lines…lash the ropes on the rail so the radio won’t go down on their heads…. Over the side, the rest of you.”

I hit the net last and scampered down a free side ahead of the last relay. L.Q. Jones almost came on top of me with a loud thud. The puffing squad ran over and helped him to his feet.

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

“My foot got tangled, so I reached down to loosen it,” he groaned.

“With which hand?”

“With both hands.” He smiled meekly.

“Give me strength. O.K., girls, back up to the platform.”

Corporal Hodgkiss circled anxiously around the promenade deck of the Coronado ferry. He spotted her sipping a lonely cup of coffee at the snack counter.

“Hi, Rae.” The redhead turned quickly at his voice, smiled, then looked away from him.

“I ought not to talk to you. You stood me up.”

“I know.” He grabbed her by the arm and led her outside. “It’s been two weeks, Marion, don’t you think…”

“I want to show you something.” He half dragged her to a deck chair and sat her down and strutted about in front of her.

“Golly, fellow, what is it?”

“Look.”

“What is it?”

“Go on, open it up to the first page, what do you see?”

Her slim fingers unwound the cord about the flap of a large Manila envelope. She opened it and read slowly, almost spelling out the words in the dim light. “
Mister Branshly’s Retreat, a short story by Corporal Marion Hodgkiss, USMCR…
oh, Marion!”

He sprang down beside her. “I didn’t want to see you till I finished it. It’s about San Diego, the city gone mad…about a banker who had retired and come to San Diego to roll over and die in the sun. And then the war comes along and upsets his pretty palm trees and his serene static existence…and he finally wakes up and…”

“Darling, it sounds wonderful.”

“Rae, you called me…” He grabbed his cap from his head and wrung it around. “When I left you the last time, Rae, I was angry. Then all of a sudden…”

“Marion, don’t…”

“Please let me say it, Rae. I don’t get this brave very often. All the things that were tied up seemed to come out. I began writing. I realized that it was being able to just talk to you, like I never have to anyone before…someone who listened and was interested in the way I feel.” He slapped his cap against his knee. “Well, you know what I mean.” He brought his eyes up to meet hers.

“I almost wish you hadn’t of come back,” she whispered. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“You aren’t happy about it? What is it, Rae, tell me…please.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Yes, I’m happy, really happy. Read it to me, Marion.”

He loosened his field scarf, took off his belt and ran it through a shoulder strap.
“Mister Branshly’s Retreat, a short story by Corporal Marion Hodgkiss, USMCR.”

CHAPTER 3

I RETURNED
to the barrack after morning chow. Feverish preparations were on, preceding the first overnight hike. Danny Forrester approached me.

“The comm cart’s all loaded and ready to go, Mac,” he said.

“Did you tell the telephone squad to load their crap in the number two cart? That damned switchboard and wires unbalance our load.”

“All taken care of. They tried to slip a spool of heavy wire in on us, but I dumped it.”

I walked over to my squad and inspected their packs. I opened up Spanish Joe’s. “Just like I thought, Gomez. You got it filled with cardboard. Let me see your ammunition clips.”