Battle Cry (43 page)

“I count fourteen MGs and two 108s. Looks like a colonel over there…must be the big wheel.”

“Looks like the whole camp is drunk on saki. They must know they’re the chosen ones.” Harper opened his map. Paris made an X on it.

“M-7 on the button. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They slipped back to Ski. “Are you in contact with Mac up there?”

The Feathermerchant nodded.

“How do you talk into this thing?”

“Press the mike button. Let me know when you want to listen.”

“Hello ridge…this is Harper.”

“Hello Harper, this is the ridge…go ahead.”

“Six hundred Japs, fifteen machine guns, dozen or so mortars, two Pistol Petes, rest in small arms, plenty of ammo. Colonel seems to be top cheese. Camp disorganized, wide open for surprise attack. Seem to be crocked. Position is exactly M-7.”

Danny repeated the message and Harper O.K.’d it. “Get that back to Topeka White and stand by to move out. Keep in contact with us till we get back up there.”

It had started to rain, straight down and hard. “Lucky break, gives us cover. O.K., radioman, you go first with that radio.”

Ski crouched as he moved out from behind the rock.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

He rolled over and darted back in. His face was screwed in agony.

“Drop!” Harper ordered. “We’ve been spotted.”

In a minute the Jap camp was alive with wild screams.

“Don’t fire till they’re on top of us.” A line of Japs came charging from the woods, led by a saber-wielding officer.

“Banzai! Banzai!”

The marines sweated and beaded in on the horde. “Blast them!” Harper ordered.

“Banzai!”

A burst of bullets came from behind the rocks, cutting down a wave of Japs. Another wave came on shrieking wildly.

“Make every shot count!”

“BANZAI!”

Another volley and they fell back, cursing.

Pedro Rojas, the corpsman, crawled in beside them. His shoulder was bleeding.

“Take a look at Ski, he got hit.”

Pedro rolled the Feathermerchant over on his back. The rain splattered on his pain-wracked face. Pedro tore up the leg of his dungaree.

“Holy Mother Mary,” he whispered, and crossed himself quickly.

“Where did he get it?”

“Right through the kneecap.”

“This is the ridge…what are you guys doing, playing poker?”

“This is Harper. We’re up the creek. I don’t think they’ll try rushing again though.”

“Ridge talking. We can cover you if you break for it one at a time.”

“This is Harper. We can’t…radioman is hit…sit tight.” He turned to McQuade. “What do you say, Mac?”

“We’ll never get him up that hill. It’s probably like glass now.”

Rackley spoke. “We should better wait for dusk. They ain’t in too good a shootin’ position and they won’t hit us if we lay low.”

Harper’s gum popped wildly. He looked at each man, then at Ski. “Somebody will have to stay and keep a rear guard. BAR man, give me your weapon. I’ll need all the grenades here too.”

“Hold it, Harper. Your job is to get the patrol back. I’m staying,” McQuade said.

“It’s an order and no more talk,” Harper said.

“Look here…”

“Both you guys stop playing Marine and get the hell out,” Ski said from the deck. His face was blood-drained but his eyes were open. He trembled. They turned to Pedro.

Pedro leaned close. “Your knee is busted, Ski.”

“Don’t you think I can feel, you asshole.”

Pedro dropped to all fours, shaking his head.

“What’s the matter, Pedro?”

“I was hit coming down here…just my shoulder…put some sulfa and a pressure bandage on…I be hokay.” McQuade propped him against the rock and went to work.

“The sonofabitches are gettin’ loaded on saki so’s they can get up the guts to Banzai us again,” Rackley said, peering through the rain.

Paris and Harper leaned close to Pedro. “Can Ski hold them?”

“He is in terrible pain…he is very fine boy….”

“Can he hold them?”

“With God’s help,” Pedro said.

The rain gushed. Wild cries beat up from the woods. The trapped men lay close behind their cover and awaited darkness.

Another call came through. “This is the ridge…what is the picture?”

“This is Harper. We’re waiting for dark. We’ll break one by one. The radioman will never make it. He’s going to hold a rear guard.” Harper bit his lip. Ski winked and smiled, feeling the helpless plight of the officer.

The rain quit. A gray shroud of dusk crept over them. They gently moved the Feathermerchant to a point where he could sit and look through a cleft in the big boulder. Harper handed him the BAR, the grenades, and his pistol.

“Know how to shoot this piece, Ski?”

Ski nodded. He felt no pain. Harper smashed a rifle butt into the radio, then buried the piece. It was near dark now. The cries from the woods grew. The Japs had almost whipped themselves into the frenzy to charge again.

“Anything…anything I can do…?”

Ski’s lips parted. “Has…has anybody got a rosary? Mine’s in my pocket. I…can’t…reach it.”

Pedro gave him his, kissing it first.

“Thanks, Pedro…tell Danny not to be pissed at himself. It don’t make no difference to me nohow. Susan…Susan…aw, you guys better shove….”

“Does it hurt, Ski?”

“Naw, I don’t feel nothin’.” He clutched the rosary. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow.

“Pedro, move out,” Harper said.

“I go last. I want to tell him what to do if the pain comes once more.”

Harper nodded to Paris. He slapped Ski on the shoulder, then dropped flat, slid through the mud for a few feet, and sprinted toward the hill. One by one they broke for it—the BAR men, Rackley the rifleman, McQuade.

“They’re about ready to charge,” Harper whispered. “Dammit, I’m not leaving this kid!”

Pedro grabbed the officer. “Ski ain’t scared. Where’s your guts, Harper?”

“Oh, God,” he cried and dashed toward the ridge.

“You comfortable, Ski?” Pedro asked.

“Yeah.”

“I shall pray for your soul each night.”

“Pray for your own ass. I know where I’m going.”

Pedro disappeared into the black night. Ski was alone.

They must all be safe by now, on the ridge, he thought
…
never fired this damned BAR but once…hope I can remember…pain coming back….

His wet finger slipped to the trigger as the grass before him began to stir.
Hail Mary
…
Mother of God…pray for us…now and at the
…
hour…of our death….

“Marine! You die!”

I helped Pedro back in. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Harper said.

“They’re starting to give him the business.”

“Marine! You die!”
The haunted echo drifted up to us.

“I hope they don’t take him alive.”

Danny snatched a BAR and ran to the ridge. I caught him and spun him around. “We can’t leave him down there!” he cried. “What kind of chickenshit outfit is this? I’m going down there!”

I slapped his face till it was white. He fell back sobbing. “He knew it, Danny! He knew he wasn’t coming back. You’re a Marine, Forrester! Act like one,” I said quietly.

“Marine! You die!”

“Let’s shove, boys.”

I turned and looked once more into the blackness below….

PART FOUR

Prologue

IT WAS
all over but the shouting. My squad didn’t feel much like shouting, though. We didn’t have the strength—or the inclination. After Guadalcanal it was never quite the same. They weren’t kids anymore. They’d seen it and taken it, and they knew there was more to come.

Yet the opportunity to take long baths in the sea pumped new vigor into our tired veins. We just lay there luxuriously and let the surf beat off layer after layer of filth and grime—and the rest did the same for our brains. We washed our ragged dungarees, brushed our teeth, and “borrowed” some clothes from an Army quartermaster. But it was only when we got steaming hot cups of coffee that we knew it was really over.

The men of the battalion adored Sam Huxley. That is, until one day when he canceled the transportation sent by the Army and ordered them to hike the seventeen miles back to their camp. But they did it, under the scorching sun, and even managed to look smart when they passed the Army camps. It was anger that did it, anger at Sam Huxley, and the determination not to go down as long as that bastard was still standing and marching himself….

I fell on all fours once, trying to fight off the dizziness that was near blacking me out. I panted and looked at the shade on the other side of the road and tried to crawl over there on all fours—me, Mac, the old gyrene!

Danny took the pack off me and propped me against a tree and wiped my face. We sat there gasping and trying to muster energy to reach for our canteens. There was no cursing—we didn’t have the breath.

When we were back in camp, Huxley returned us to full military discipline. Idle Marines make for trouble. We dug ditches, picked up butts, held inspections, practiced code, and did anything we could to keep occupied. We had lived like pigs while we had to, but we didn’t have to now.

There was never-ending scuttlebutt, a hundred wild rumors a day. We heard the Sixth was due to hit another island up the Solomons, although common sense told me we were in no condition to fight yet awhile. We hadn’t relished the idea of cleaning up the mess made by the First Division and the Second and Eighth Marines. We felt we ought to have our own island to take, and let them clean up
our
mess. We knew, too, that other outfits would never let the Sixth live it down that we hadn’t yet made a landing.

Finally came February 19th and one working party I didn’t have to dig my squad out for. All hands turned to. The Unholy Four were lying at anchor in Skylark Channel ready to take us off the Canal. We boarded and shook hands with old friends and heard the wonderful word of hot fresh-water showers below for all troops, to be followed by a big special chow, with all the trimmings.

Then the bosun sounded his pipe. “Now hear this, now hear this…the Captain shall read a message to all Marines….” The Skipper read a flock of “good job well done” communiqués from a cross-section of the generals and admirals who wished to express their appreciation to their chore boys.

“Gee, we really that good?”

“Yeah, makes the piss drizzle down my leg.”

There was a rumble on the ship, and an excited stir as the
Jackson
weighed anchor. Blinkers on the signal deck flashed to the other ships of the convoy. A little destroyer zigged in front of us weaving her crazy course. (I wonder if a tin can sailor ever sailed a straight line?) There was a tremble and a lurch and the
Jackson
glided into position in the convoy.

My boys lined the rail for a last look at Guadalcanal. She was calm and peaceful, like the day we first found her. Like an exotic Hollywood scene. But she had the body of a goddess and the soul of a witch.

Good-by, you dirty bastard, I thought.

Just then the speakers started up again. “Now hear this, now hear this…the Captain wishes to relay the following message: Our destination is Wellington, New Zealand.”

Wellington!
A roar of cheers. There was a lot of handshaking and back-slapping. We were going back to the land we adored. I couldn’t help feeling soft about it, even after so many years traveling from pillar to post in the Corps.

I walked up to Andy and put my arm about his shoulder. He looked to the sea, his eyes narrowed, and he was deep in thought. The cool night air came dancing in as we picked up speed. “Just what the doctor ordered,” I said.

“Getting chilly, Mac,” he answered. “I think I’d better get below.”

CHAPTER 1

AGAIN
we rushed to the rail like a bunch of excited school kids on an outing and saw her come up on the horizon—New Zealand! Her soft green hills, and the quaint colored houses that graced them, looked just the same. Again, she looked like she did that morning the Sixth had seen her from the
Bobo,
as the most beautiful land in the world. The harbor and the surrounding hills reminded us somewhat of San Francisco—not quite, but somewhat. The convoy slipped into Oriental Bay toward the docks, and strains of music drifted out in greeting. The Division Band blared out with “Semper Fidelis.”

Honor guards from the Second, Eighth, Tenth, and Eighteenth Regiments stood stiffly to attention as the rope hit the pier. Then the band played “The Marine’s Hymn.” Most of the men had heard it a thousand times and it never failed to send shivers up the spine clear to the stacking swivel. Then the joshing started.

Dock:
Well, well, what took you so long? You guys run into a sniper?

Ship:
You guys can secure the watch and go back to camp, the Maimas are back.

Dock:
I hear the Sixth is going to get a special citation. A box of pogey bait for every man.

Ship:
Took a fighting outfit to finish what the Hollywood Marines started.

Dock:
’Fraid all the women are taken, fellows…sorry. You boys better dash off to camp and get your new pogey bait whistles.

We, in the Sixth Marines, had an inferiority complex. We still wore our identification, the
fourragère,
defiantly about our left shoulders, but the Second and Eighth Regiments had seen many more grueling months of combat than we had. We, of course, knew in our hearts that our Sixth was the finest of the three—and of the entire Marine Corps. We didn’t accept the ribbing lightly. Many were the lost teeth over the catcall “Hey, pogey bait!” To worsen matters, the other regiments told the citizens that our
fourragère
was really a V.D. braid.

The Second Marines had taken over Camp McKay, our old billet about two miles past Paekakaraki. The Eighth Regiment was stationed right at Paekak, while the Eighteenth Engineers and the Tenth Artillery Regiments were in closer to Wellington, at Titahi Bay and Plimmerton.