Battle Cry (53 page)

Seabags walked over to Levin and slapped his feet hard across the soles. “Come on, Levin, get your ass in gear.”

The homely boy looked up, smiled feebly, and said nothing.

“For Chrisake, Levin, hurry up,” echoed L.Q.

“I…wasn’t invited,” he sputtered.

“What do you mean you wasn’t invited?”

“Nobody told me I was.”

“What the hell you want—a fur-lined pisspot? All the squad was invited.”

“Nobody told me.”

Burnside grasped the situation and almost barked an order. “You’re in the squad aren’t you? Better hustle.”

“Yeah, Andy will have a hemorrhage if you don’t show up.”

“But…but I got mess duty.”

“I already got a guy from telephone to relieve you,” Burnside said.

“My greens are messed up.”

“You can get them pressed in Wellington.”

Levin sat up and looked across the tent to Speedy Gray. Gray turned half away from him. “Better hurry, Levin,” he said, “or we’ll miss the train.”

They found overnight accommodations in a servicemen’s hostel, dumped their gear, and headed for the Cecil Hotel. Spanish Joe was sent out to round up bootleg liquor. It was reported that Masterton was dry and Andy could hardly have a dry wedding. Sister Mary escorted Joe to hold the money until a transaction could be made, and then to escort the liquor back to the hostel. He was the only man who could be trusted with a full bottle and was therefore elected as the guardian.

The Cecil Hotel was leased by the American Red Cross for a servicemen’s club. The airy old building was across from the train depot. It had been redecorated and converted into one of the finest clubs in the Pacific. A crew of American field workers directed the many activities of the place. The finest thing about it, though, was the lack of that atmosphere of sorrow and self-pity that infested most of these clubs during the war. This place was filled with happy men and a full quota of hostesses. It was a beehive of activity. Physically, it had the same facilities as most USO clubs—lunchcounters, gymnasium dance floor, hobby rooms, and showers—but it was the mental attitude of the Marine divisions that made it somewhat unique.

The special feature of the Cecil was its restaurant. Here a Marine or sailor could get a plate of ham and eggs and real American coffee for a nominal sum. It was a little corner of America and it was cherished.

The American girls were mostly of the homely variety and were generally bypassed in favor of younger and more comely New Zealand models. It was, however, a ritual to have a word or two with the directors, who spoke a refreshingly unaccented lingo.

The squad entered the Cecil.

“I don’t care what they say about the Red Cross,” L.Q. said, “they can always come to me for a couple of bucks.”

“Yeah, but did we get anything when we were on the lines?”

“Cassidy sure got a lot of blood from them.”

“Talk to some guys from the Second and Eighth and see what they got to say about the Red Cross.”

“He’s right. They ain’t no good. One year when we had a flood back in Iowa…”

“So what? So they got plenty of faults. If it helps some poor bastard get a free cup of coffee, I say what does it hurt to toss in a couple of bucks?”

They entered the lobby and automatically went to the bulletin board. Their mouths fell open in unison.

“Do you see what I see!”

“Oh,
no!
”

“Gawd!”

“Mother, I’ve come home to die.”

On the board were tacked pictures of the newly formed Women Marines.

“Jesus H. Christ. Women in the Marines!”

“The Corps is shot to hell.”

“Just the same, their uniforms look kind of pretty.”

“But,
women!
”

“You gotta admit they look better than them Wacs and Waves.”

“Naturally, but just the same.”

It was a bitter pill. They walked away sadly. Of course they agreed that the uniforms weren’t too bad and the girls were most likely a select group and of course superior to the other females in the services. But it was still a bitter pill.

Danny Forrester was asleep in an overstuffed chair in one of the reading rooms. He was quickly hotfooted, and bounced up with joy at seeing the squad after a two-week absence in Silverstream due to a severe case of malaria.

“Cousin, what the hell you doing here?”

“We thought you was going to get a survey to the States when they packed you out.”

“Big Dan,” Danny answered, “has returned to the living.”

“Then you coming back to camp?”

“I’m finished with the bug. I got a four-day leave.”

“That is double peachy. Andy is getting hitched and we’re going up to Masterton tomorrow.”

“What a break. I got two days left.”

“Come on, men. Thar’s a dance floor full of women awaiting my charms.”

They returned to the hostel a few minutes before the midnight curfew. The squad had rented one of the rooms for themselves in the converted mansion. Marion lay on a comfortable bed as the rest entered. He was in his most familiar position—reading.

“Get any stuff?” L.Q. asked.

“Three bottles of gin, three Scotch, and one rum.”

“Yeah!” Seabags said. “Let’s see them.”

“They are under the bed and they’re staying there,” Marion answered.

“Can’t we just look at them, Mary?”

“You can look but no touch…see?”

They drooled and fondled the bootleg booze. Under Marion’s stern gaze the bottles were handed back to him.

“Where is Spanish Joe?”

“I think he pulled one off on me,” Marion said. “After he got a bootlegger he asked me for five pounds. I think he made a deal to meet him later and get a rebate. At any rate he hasn’t returned and I doubt that he will.”

“We’ll never see him with a three-day pass.”

“Hey, Mary, couldn’t we just have a nightcap? Maybe a little rum.”

“No. It’s for the reception. We decided that beforehand.”

“Where did you get rum?”

“From a British sailor.”

“Probably watered. Better taste it.”

“No!”

They undressed and went to sleep, thirsty.

The train ride to Masterton was slow and tiresome. The squad commandeered two double seats across the aisle from each other and each foursome rigged up a makeshift table to enable them to indulge in some poker to kill time. As the morning wore on, more and more glances were cast in the direction of the liquor which Marion was guarding.

“Come to think of it,” Seabags said in the course of shuffling the cards, “that bootleg stuff might be poison.”

“Correct,” L.Q. said. “You can go blind from it.”

“Sure might be something wrong with it easy enough,” chimed in Burnside.

Marion continued to be enraptured with the scenery and didn’t honor their prying leads. Several miles passed.

“There’s going to be an awful big reception.”

“Hundreds, I hear say, cousin.”

“Sure would be terrible if we was responsible for getting everybody poisoned.”

“Yeah, I’d feel right bad about that.”

“If Spanish Joe got it, there must be something wrong with it.”

“Gawd, it’s a long trip.”

“Yep.”

“Never forgive myself if somebody died from it.”

Several more miles passed.

“I wonder, Mary, if’n we couldn’t just sort of open a bottle and sort of smell it. Just to make sure it’s all right?”

“Seriously, Mary,” Danny said earnestly, “we’d better check.”

With the idea of poisoned whisky preying on his mind for over an hour, Marion conceded that a spot check might be in order. He uncorked a bottle of gin and a bottle of Scotch as the squad huddled about him. The bottle passed from hand to hand. Each man sniffed and nodded warily. “What’s the matter?” Marion asked.

“Don’t smell right, cousin, just don’t smell right. Where did Joe round this up?”

“What’s the matter?” Marion asked anxiously.

“Don’t smell right to me,” the Injun said, shaking his head.

“’Fraid we’ll make a lot of trouble if we bring this in.”

“Better throw it away,” L.Q. said.

“Maybe I’d better sip it—I mean, just for a double check.”

“Well…” Marion pondered.

“Think we’d better all take one and get a conclusive result,” Burnside said seriously.

The bottle was up before Marion could register a strong protest. It passed from lip to smacking lip.

“Can’t tell much from one swig…better try another.”

The gin went around for the second time, followed by the Scotch.

“Is it all right or isn’t it?” Marion demanded.

“Just a minute, Marion, while I offer a drink to these fellows,” Danny said, nodding to four Kiwi airmen behind him. “I don’t want them to think we’re unfriendly.”

“Better sample that rum.”

“Yeah, I got some British Navy rum and had the G.I. craps for a week.”

The rum bottle was grabbed by Speedy as the Injun diverted Marion to some passing scenery. Marion lost control of the situation by trying to look in ten places at the same time. Only by direct threats did he manage to salvage three of the original seven bottles.

It was a jolly crew I met pouring from the train at Masterton. I hustled them into two waiting cabs and headed for the Red Cross club to clean them up before the ceremony.

As we entered, they were singing at the top of their lungs. Even pie-eyed their harmony was good, but I questioned the choice of lyrics in this public place. The effect of the jump whisky was hitting home and after I got their faces washed and their greens squared away I herded them into the canteen for a sobering cup or two of coffee.

Andy entered. I had managed to keep him calm but his composure had shattered when I left him and went to meet the squad. Andy was trembling so badly he couldn’t light up his cigarette. The sweat was rolling over his face and he could hardly talk. I led him to the counter and patted his back.

“Hey, Andy, you look awful,” L.Q. said.

“I feel awful,” he moaned. “The whole church is filled up.”

“Buck up, old buddy. We’re with you.”

“What you scared for, cousin?”

“I…dunno…I’d rather be hitting a beach.”

“Shucks, ain’t nothing but a wedding. I seen lots of them.”

“Got the ring, Mac, got the ring? Sure you got the ring?”

“Yes,” I answered for the hundredth time.

“Hey, Andy, you better have a bracer.”

“Yeah, I sure need one.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” killjoy Marion said. “I’ll order a cup of tea for you. That will be better.”

“I need something. I sure need something…oh, hello, Danny. I’m sure glad you could make it.”

“Had to be in for the kill,” Danny answered. That shattered what was left of the Swede’s nerves.

As the cup of tea was placed on the counter the Injun deftly replaced nine-tenths of the contents with gin. Andy, under great duress, managed to get the cup to his lips and downed the drink. He sighed and asked for another cup.

“I told you that was what you needed,” Marion said smugly.

Two cups later and Andy felt no pain. He clapped his big hands together and his eyes began twisting crazily. I checked the time. “We’d better get to the church,” I said. “You guys be there in a half-hour.”

Andy turned somberly and faced the squad. One by one he shook each man’s hand. As he came to L.Q., L.Q. broke down. “Good-by, old buddy,” he said with tears streaming down his cheeks. Andy threw his arms around L.Q. and they both began to cry. I pulled them apart and dragged Andy to the door before he was given any more “tea” to drink.

“And, Burnside,” I yelled. “I’m holding you responsible for getting them there.”

“Leave it to me,” the sergeant answered.

As the cab pulled away from the curb a mood of silent sadness fell over them. “Poor ole Andy….”

“Yeah, he used to be a good man.”

“It’ll never be the same.”

“Time for one quick toast,” Burnside said. “For our old pal Andy.”

Three rounds later they poured into the cabs and, in a mood of sullen despair over what had befallen their brother, they left for the ceremony. They debarked before St. Peter’s Church and mingled with the crowd.

A jeep raced madly up the street and pulled to a stop near them. From it erupted the Gunner, Chaplain Peterson, Banks, Paris, Pedro, Wellman, Doc Kyser, and the driver, Sam Huxley. They had completed a mad dash over the mountains to get there.

Huxley ran to Burnside excitedly. “Did we make it in time?” His hair was windblown and his uniform disheveled from the drive. As Burnside opened his mouth to answer, Huxley fell back under the impact of a powerful whisky burp.

“They must like the sight of blood,” L.Q. groaned sadly.

The squad, on the verge of tears, entered the packed church and filled the last pew. Rogers and MacPhersons of all sizes were there. They turned and nodded and smiled at the new arrivals. Speedy lunged for the Injun’s overseas cap and yanked it from his head. “Ain’t you ever been in a church before, you renegade?”

A hush fell as the choir took their places. The organist seated himself and the vicar took his place before the altar. Great chords from the organ filled the old stone church and fell sharply into the pits of the stomachs of the drunken members of the radio squad. L.Q., more emotional than the rest, let out a muffled but audible sob as Pat Rogers came slowly down the aisle.

She wore blue and was veiled in ancient lace of the Rogers family. She looked very beautiful indeed. Behind her paraded a half dozen plump little Rogers and MacPhersons. Enoch looked lost in his ancient cutaway. As they passed his wife and as the music swelled and echoed, Mrs. Rogers joined L.Q. in sobs. Next Danny broke down and then the Injun and Speedy. They sniffled and choked with tears as I placed the golden band on the velvet cushion. Andy was feeling no pain. He had a cocky grin on his face and tried to make for Pat and kiss her. I had to yank him back to his place.

The ceremony began. Muffled whispers came from the rear of St. Peter’s.

“Poor ole Andy….”

“Poor, poor ole Andy.”

I held my breath and cursed them. Andy started to waver like a pendulum as the Anglican vicar babbled on and on. I was glad when he finally got around to asking me for the ring. I took it from the cushion and gave it to Andy, who sighted in on Pat’s finger, but saw too many fingers. He closed his eyes and lunged. The ring slipped from his hand and rolled behind the altar. Andy gallantly went down on his hands and knees, crawling after it. Cries from the rear of the church became louder. Andy braced himself and finally found the mark on the third finger, left hand.