Battle Cry (44 page)

Our new camp, Camp Russell, was directly across the tracks from Camp McKay. Whereas McKay was on high ground, we were in the flatlands near the ocean. We debarked from the train to find that work was still going on at a feverish pace to complete Camp Russell. Winter and antarctic winds and rains would soon be on us. But the new camp was neatly laid out, tailored for the Regiment.

There was much work to do and all hands turned to unloading the tracks which poured gear in from the
Jackson.
Our seabags were brought in from the warehouse. It was like greeting old friends. Anxious hands unlocked them and there were smiles as long-forgotten items popped out. We pitched tents, drew cots, pads, and extra blankets and squabbled over placement in the tents.

Chow, a breath of clean air, a smoke and a shower. The wonderful feeling of solid earth beneath your feet in a place you almost called home.

The heads weren’t covered yet. As we visited them, trucks of the New Zealand builders raced up and down the road. Many of them were driven by women. We waved to them from the sitting position and they waved back.

We gathered up firewood from lumber scraps. The officers lost no time in placing a guard around the only fuel dump in the battalion. Combat was over and officers were called Sir again.

Taps were blown in the still disorganized, but weary and happy camp. We fell asleep to dream sweetly of open arms in Wellington waiting to greet us.

Andy opened the door into the lobby of the Salvation Army Hotel for Women. He was greeted warmly by an Army lass in uniform at the desk.

“Mister Andy! Welcome back.”

“Hello, Mrs. Cozzman,” he said.

“We’re all excited having our Sixth Marines back. How are you?”

“Fine, ma’am.”

“Praise to God that you are all right. Goodness, those other Marines we have here now are a gang of rowdies.”

“They’ve been away from folks for a long time, they’ll settle down.”

“It seems to me more of them should turn to God instead of whisky.”

“Yes, ma’am…is Mrs. Rogers in?”

“Oh, Mrs. Rogers—she moved out last week.”

Andy paled.

“She took a flat on Dumbark Street. Right up in the hills near Aota Bay. Only a few minutes’ tram ride from here. Let me see, what did I do with the address? Ah, here it is.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cozzman.”

“God bless you, Andy. Come and see us.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will…good night.”

The walk up the hill winded Andy. He caught his breath and plodded toward a big brown-shingled house. He paused for a moment and scanned the row of mailboxes: Mrs. Patricia Rogers No. 3. He felt shaky all over. He opened the door and soon reached Apartment 3. He rapped softly and the door opened. A young New Zealand sailor stood before him. For a moment the two stared at each other. Andy’s face flushed in a quick surge of anger and he turned to leave.

“Andy Hookans!” the sailor called.

He spun around to find a hand extended to him. “’Ow now, of course you don’t recognize me in this get up…in the King’s Navy now, you know.”

“I…”

“Henry Rogers, Pat’s cousin. Met you last summer at the farm. I’m in on a weekend, last one before action…. Well, come in, joker. Don’t stand in the blooming hall.”

They shook hands. Andy felt very foolish. He entered the flat.

Pat arose from her chair as he entered the room. She caught herself by grasping a lamp table. Her face was mixed with anguish, a muffled smile, a verge of tears, and a long, unbelieving stare. Andy lowered his eyes to the floor. “Hello, Pat,” he said softly.

“Andy,” she whispered.

“Just in from the Canal, eh?” the sailor said. “Bet you jokers had a ruddy time for yourselves….” He cut himself short in the awkward silence of Pat and Andy. “Well, I’d better be pushing off, know you don’t need me here.” He winked at Andy.

“No…don’t go,” Andy said. “Don’t let me chase you out.”

“
Tsk, tsk.
Got to see the mates at the pub. Late now. Thanks, old girl, for the feed. Glad to see you back, Andy.”

“Give me a phone if you can get leave again, Henry.”

“I’ll do that, Patty girl. Ta ta.”

“Ta ta.”

“See you around, Henry, sorry to bust up your…”

“Just stay there—I know the way.” He winked at Andy again and left.

“Won’t you sit down, Andy?” Pat said. He slipped onto the edge of an overstuffed chair uneasily.

“Nice place you got here, Pat.”

“Belonged to a girl friend who lived in Masterton. Her husband was billeted here. He went overseas and she returned home.”

“Sure, nice to…”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Thanks.”

“How did you fare?”

“Ski got killed, Red Cassidy lost his leg.”

“Oh….”

“I did O.K.”

“You look as though you’ve lost a bit of weight.”

“I’ll be all right in a couple of weeks. Heat and all that stuff.”

Pat poured the teacup to the brim. He placed it in his lap. As he lifted the cup his hand trembled and the tea spilled on him. “Dammit!”

“Oh, Andy, did you burn yourself? I shouldn’t have filled it so full.”

“No, I’m just a little shaky. I’ll be all right in a few days.”

He put the cup aside. They looked at each other, not knowing how to ease the tension. “Let’s take a walk or go to a movie or something,” he said.

“I’ll get my coat.”

Once settled, ten-day furloughs were granted in three shifts with permission to travel anywhere in the country. We were warned to conduct ourselves as ambassadors of good will.

Gunnery Sergeant McQuade, Staff Sergeant Burnside, and Private Joe Gomez leaned over a bar in Levin, New Zealand. Their stance had changed little in six days. Seven other Marines, accompanied by girls, paraded in and took a large booth. The three buddies eyed each other’s ale glasses, lest they fall behind in the ten-day race.

An exceptionally burly Marine among the new entrants looked toward the bar and noted the
fourragères
on Gomez, Burnside and McQuade. He winked to his buddies. “Say! Anybody got a bar of pogey bait?” he roared.

“How many of them are there?” McQuade mumbled, peering into the mirror on the back bar.

“Seven,” Burnside counted. “And they got women with them.”

“Say, there’s some guys with pogey bait whistles…maybe they’ll blow us a tune,” another in the booth called, referring to the metal ornament on the tip of the braid.

“Sounds like the Hollywood Eighth Marines,” Burnside whispered.

“Shall I do the honors?” McQuade asked.

“Aw, lay off them,” Spanish Joe said. “We got them outnumbered…besides, the poor boys got mumu on Samoa.”

The main troublemaker at the booth poured his ale glass full and arose. “I propose a toast to the Sixth Marines. Now all together, boys.” And they sang:

“I’m a pogey bait Sixth Marine,

I can’t keep my rifle clean,

I don’t want a BAR,

I just want a candy bar.”

“That did it,” Spanish Joe hissed. He gulped down the remainder of his beer, lest Burnside and McQuade filch it. The two sergeants nonchalantly refilled and continued drinking.

“Call us if you run into any trouble,” McQuade said.

The seven Marines snickered as Spanish Joe cruised over to the booth. He drew up a chair and leaned on the table with his elbows. “Hi fellows,” he said, flashing his big white teeth.

“Shove off, pogey bait.”

Spanish Joe reached over to the burly one and straightened his field scarf. “Don’t they teach you guys no neatness?” Joe cooed.

“We ain’t got no pretty
fourragères,
” the Marine answered.

“Aw gee, boys, don’t feel that way. You guys are almost the same as allies.”

“Look, buddy, we was just having a little fun. We don’t want any trouble. We got our girls here, see.”

“Oh,” Joe said. “All shacked up, huh?”

“Take it easy…these are nice girls.”

“Ohhhh,” Joe said, “nice girls. They do it for you?”

The brawl was on! Spanish Joe landed the first blow. In fact, the first three. He bowled them over quick and cornered the remaining four in the end of the booth where they were unable to unscramble from the screaming girls. It wasn’t till a chair fell on Joe’s head that Burnside and McQuade finished up the others in quick order. They dragged Joe over the seven prostrate bodies toward the door.

“Jesus, old Spanish Joe is getting soft,” McQuade said.

“Yeah, the Canal took something out of that boy.”

“Hell, first real fun we’ve had on furlough.”

“Let’s bring him to. We got four more days left.”

Speedy Gray, Seabags, and the Injun raced from the camp as Gomez, McQuade, and Burnside staggered in.

Speedy propped his back on the end of the aged bed and let an empty bottle fall to the floor. It clinked against another. Seabags was doubled up in a wooden chair, rocking. He let a wad of tobacco juice skitter over the sill of the half-open window. The sill was brown with missed shots.

“Pig,” Speedy said.

“Aw, shaddup, cousin, I’ll clean it off before the furlough is up.”

The basement room of the large boardinghouse in Wellington was jammed with empty bottles. The bed had been unmade for three days, the men were unshaven. The establishment was “home” for some twenty girls doing war work in the capital. Seabags, through a combination of infallible connections and a winning manner, had been able to promote the basement room for the ten-day leave. They had rented two rooms, the other directly across the hall. It was reserved, however, for after-hours pleasure with one or more of the occupants of the home.

“Sure is a wonderful leave,” Speedy said, closing his eyes.

“Yep.”

“Hope the Injun gets here with them bottles. We just finished the last one. I’ll have to shave and go out after some if they don’t come back.”

“Yep.”

“The Injun said he’d come back before he shoved off for Otaki. I promised old Meg I’d get her an Injun. She’ll be mighty disappointed if he shoves.”

“Yep.” Spit.

“Ya pig.”

“Fine girl that Meg, fine girl. Made of iron.”

There was a rap on the door.

“Enter our humble domicile.”

Shining Lighttower entered, bogged under a burden of bottles. Speedy lifted himself very slowly from the bed and studied the room for a place to set the reinforcements. As he placed the bottles in the sink he read the labels…“Bistro’s Joyjuice, Manhattan Cocktail…is that all you could get? I’m sick of that crap.”

“Best we could do.”

“Drag up the floor, cousins, and set a spell.” Speedy dropped to the bed again.

“Where’s the broad, where’s the broad?” the Injun asked anxiously.

“Ain’t home from work yet. Just take it easy, there’s plenty for all.”

Lighttower unscrewed a bottle, took a swig, and passed it on. “If she ain’t here I got to shove off for Otaki,” he said. “I got a squaw all shacked up for the rest of the leave.”

“Aw, you just got to stay,” Speedy moaned. “I promised old Meg an Injun, she never been laid by an Injun.”

“Had just about everything else though, cousin.”

“Yeah, but she wants an Injun.”

“O.K.,” Lighttower said. “For you fellows, I’ll do it.”

“Now, that’s a real buddy for you.”

“What time does she get in?”

“Now for Chrisake, will you take it easy?”

“Any chance of getting the clap?”

“Damned fine chance.”

“Hell, I don’t want to go to the clap shack.”

“Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“Meg’s going to be right happy tonight I got her an Injun…” The half-emptied bottle went to Speedy’s lips and he closed his eyes.

Danny, Marion, and L.Q. raced from camp as Speedy and Seabags staggered in.

Their trip north along the Tararua and Ruahine ranges was full of breathtaking sights. In order to make the most of their time, they cancelled their proposed tour to South Island and headed for a place where the trout season was still open. Mile-deep fjords, rushing streams, green mountains, deep-dropping gullies met their eye as the dinky little train labored toward Hawke Bay. The good Lord had obviously left too much of nature’s artwork in New Zealand and too little in some other parts of the world. Sunk in the deep leather chairs of first-class accommodations, they sat with their eyes glued to the panorama of color and shape and splendor that passed by them.

At each stop—Featherton, Carterton, Masterton, Eketahuma, Pahiatua, Woodville, Dannevirke—they rushed from the train, as did the natives of the land, onto the long concrete platforms of the depots. There, lined up along the counter, sat cups of steaming tea and plates of pastry awaiting the arrival of the train. A quick snatch, a sixpence on the counter, and they dashed back to the train. At the next stop the empty cups were returned and fresh ones taken from the waiting counters. It was a refreshing and leisurely custom to travel with tea and sip it in along with the scenery.

They came to Waipukurau, a small town near where the rivers Wiapawa, Makaretu, Tukituki and Mangaonuku flowed. Their streams bulged with brown and rainbow trout and the nearby hills were filled with red deer, fallow, wapiti, virginian, sambur and Himalayan tahr, and chamois. And the game birds in the lagoons and marshes: mallard, shoveller duck, teal, black swan, Canadian geese, Californian quail, pukeko, and chukor. It was March and the air was cool and fresh and sweet.

They put on their packs, shouldered their rifles and, with newly purchased light angling equipment, stepped from the train.

Their accommodation was a small lodge in the hills several miles outside Waipukurau. It was rugged but luxurious and blended with the hills about it. A huge fireplace and a log-paneled wall with a display of mounted heads of fourteen pointers, large quilted comforters over the beds and knitted circular rugs—it was the room of an old hunter’s dream.