Battle Cry (55 page)

The trucks with our bedrolls and field kitchens roared out ahead of us toward the first bivouac. This was a full dress affair. All equipment that would be used in combat was along.

It began to drizzle as we hit the camp gate and wheeled left onto the concrete highway heading north. There was a mad scramble as each man broke out the poncho of the man in front of him and helped him into it. The big rubber sheets with clumsy snaps cramped our gear intolerably. As the rain thickened they threw a hot blanket over our bodies and made us sweat. Under the rain capes the long line of marchers looked like hunchbacks, their packs jutting out in a weird pattern.

We had gone only a mile when the sky opened up for fair. Huxley fumed and sputtered at the rain and ordered the point to quicken the pace. A stiff wind blew the water headlong into our faces in sharp, blinding sheets. The ponchos flapped against our bodies and their bottoms, ending at shoetop level, made perfect funnels for the water running down into our boondockers. The morning became almost a night in gray but we plodded on.

The water squished from my shoes, drenching my heavy New Zealand wool socks in a matter of minutes. This was bad. Wet feet and concrete don’t mix. The men picked them up and laid them down as water and wind swept the road in increasing fury.

One break, then another miserable one. There was hardly any use in breaking. The cold wet was better controlled with movement than stillness. We couldn’t even light a cigarette in the downpour.

Under the poncho it was nearly impossible to make minor adjustments to ease the sore spots that pack straps and pistol belts were cutting into us. We slogged on up and down stiff little hills and the concrete highway was becoming harder and harder with every step. I found myself repeating a little nursery rhyme about rain, rain, go away….

A break for chow. The squad huddled in a small grove of trees off the highway. We labored out of our packs, trying to keep our remaining clothes dry, stacking and covering them with shelter halves. Soggy and too miserable to bitch, we ate the foul hash and stew ration. It was impossible to heat the coffee so we mixed and drank it cold. It kicked us back to life.

Kyser crammed beneath a shelter half that Ziltch and another Marine held up over Huxley’s head as he studied the field map. The doctor took off his helmet and shook the water from his hair and face. In a second he was doused again. “Colonel,” he said, “we’d better call it off and head back to camp.”

“We’re a mile up on Cherokee’s time already,” Huxley beamed, not even hearing the doctor’s shout against the wind.

“I said,” the doctor repeated, “malaria will be dynamite if we don’t quit.”

Huxley looked up from the map. “What did you say, Doc? I didn’t hear you.”

“I didn’t say a goddam thing.”

The meal was hardly filling and few wanted to relieve themselves for fear of getting drenched clear through while doffing the ponchos. Our feet were on the way to collecting some juicy blisters even though we all had calloused layers on the soles of our feet now, leathered by miles of hiking.

We staggered back to the hard road again and stepped into the deluge. The short rest had brought out the aches cut in during the first hours of the junket.

A cold, wet numbness set in. We all became void of any feeling except the comforting thought that Hell couldn’t be any worse when we’d finally reach it. It was hard to do more than glue our eyes to the man marching ahead, and try to think about the States. As the road cut close to train tracks, a train sped by. We could see the passengers rush to the windows to catch sight of the walking circus, and even saw them shake their heads. We could almost hear them talking: “Crazy jokers, wot? Don’t know enough to come in out of the rain.”

I thought the day would never end. Mile after mile fell under the squishing boondockers of Huxley’s Whores…one hill…another.
Pick them up and lay them down.
Dark and wet and cold. A long line of marchers trudged on and on…an eerie outline of a helmet and hunched back and a crazy jutting where the rifle poked into the poncho.

The new little SCR radios went out. We couldn’t blame them. At least they’d get into the comm cart which slid along the slippery highway under the puffing groans of human oxen. We took a short break and one by one rode in the TCS jeep long enough to convert into ass packs and make room for sixty more pounds of weight on our backs. The extra displacement threw the poncho out of shape, and protection from the wet went out of the window. We got drenched through and through.

More miles fell. Our feeling of blankness gave way to a feeling for blood: Huxley’s blood. He just kept glancing at his watch and speeding the pace. I wanted to quit badly. It was the same old game over again…I’d have to stay if Huxley did, and he knew it.

The slow grim column slushed through Paraparaumu, Waikanai, and on to Te Horo. The citizens poked their heads through the windows to gawk and the dogs huddled back in the shelter of buildings and thought What fools these gyrenes be. Even our mascot, Halftrack, had had enough common sense to turn back at the camp gate and lie down by a potbellied stove.

Men began dropping. The jeep ambulance raced up and down the line of march sending a stream of water from its tires into our faces. Blubbering hulks sat in the mud on the shoulder of the road, too glassy-eyed and dazed to understand what had happened to them.

We called a halt in a meadow near Otaki. There was work to do. “Get that radio in with regiment…run telephone lines to the line companies…pitch the shelters…dig the one-two-threes.” We tried to find our own bedrolls on the trucks. It was a mess. Our area was boondocker deep in water and getting deeper as the rain pounded down. Near the road was dryer ground. We struggled against the lashing gale to pitch shelters. They leaked like sieves. The holding pegs tore out as fast as we pounded them into the soft turf. Mac arranged radio watches and guard details to see to it that no one made for the bridge over the river and a nice dry pub in Otaki.

We slogged over the meadow to the chow trucks. The chow was cold. There wasn’t any use trying to eat anyway because the rain filled the mess kits and turned the chow into a soggy mash. The kits couldn’t be cleaned as it was impossible to keep fires for boiling water going. Dysentery would follow this meal.

I made the last rounds in a stupor. Miraculously, no one in the platoon had fallen out yet. I crawled into my shelter and buttoned down. The semi-dryness was a relief. I pulled the water-logged shoes and socks off and checked the stuff in my pack. The extra clothes were fairly dry. I wiped my feet and for the first time felt a sharp pain. The blisters were there for good. I was too goddam tired and pissed-off to cut them now. The deck was damp. A streamlet of water had already found its way in. Burnside and me had staked the shelter so the wind hit the middle instead of running over it lengthwise. I felt the whole thing would blow out any time. I fought into partially dry clothes and bundled down as close to Burnside as I could, and fell asleep dead exhausted. Burny was already snoring.

Huxley slogged up to the aid station. Doc Kyser was on duty. He was stripped and wringing out his dungarees when Huxley entered. He put on dry clothes and sat on the deck by the bulky aid packs that the corpsmen had deposited for the night. “Hello, Sam.”

“Hello, Doc.” Huxley shook the wet from him like a puppy. “How many did we lose?”

“Six men.”

Huxley smiled. “We’ll beat them in that department, too.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Most of them are too numb to know whether they’re sick or not. If it’s still raining tomorrow, you’re liable to be hiking up there by yourself. I’ll have business before the night is out. Those tents are going to go if the wind keeps up.”

“Dammit,” Huxley said, “we’re getting nothing but rough breaks. Quartermaster issued new shoes last week. They aren’t properly broken in yet. How did blister call go?”

“Like I said, they’re too numb to know.” Huxley turned to leave. “Incidentally, Sam, your orderly is running a fever.”

The lanky man tried to act unconcerned as he buttoned up to head into the storm. “Malaria?” he asked casually.

“I didn’t ask. He refused to turn in.”

“I’ll make him ride the transportation jeep tomorrow. He’ll make it.”

“Sure, he’ll make it,” Kyser spat. “They’ll follow you to hell, Sam, and you know it.” Huxley left.

I thought I’d never see the sun again. After the storm I vowed I’d hike to Auckland if it would only stop raining. Seven hours of sleep and the hot rays filtering down through a clear bright sky next morning made us feel like new men. In lieu of morning chow we were issued D-ration candy bars to nibble on the march. Huxley wanted a fast start and didn’t want to waste time on such luxuries as food. We broke communications double time, rolled our bedding, threw them aboard the trucks and fell in.

By 0700 Fox Company was on the road, taking the point of march toward the bridge. It wasn’t till I hit the road that I almost crumpled. The pains in my feet were sharp. A Marine has one item that can’t be neglected. His feet. They are his wheels, his mechanized warfare. I had babied mine and they had never let me down. I was always careful to keep them powdered and clean and I hiked in broken-in boondockers. Yesterday’s rain had brought on blisters, though, that would give me bad trouble before the rest of the thirty-five miles was conquered. Lucky, I thought, that I didn’t have new shoes like some of them.

We crossed the bridge of the Otaki River and hit the town as it was awakening. Quickly through, we were on open highway again. The warmth of the sun lessened the discomfort of the men’s feet and within a few breaks the clothes were dry, except for the shoes, which were still creaky, stiff, and damp.

After the third break I tried the little SCR radios on a hunch and they went back in as suddenly as they had gone out yesterday. We put the heavy TBYs back in the carts again, gladly.

As the day wore on I could see that Highpockets was really out for a kill. He raced the point so fast the rear company had to run to keep the line from spreading. He pushed us to our peak of endurance. Yesterday’s wet was replaced with today’s sweat. Fortunately, the mild winter sun played in our favor. Miles fell away. The pace, for a march of this length, was the fastest I had ever seen. With every break I dropped to the roadside for a gulp of water and a quick smoke and eased the heavy pack for a few minutes. It was my feet, though, that worried me. With each break the pain became sharper. When we hit the road it was agony for the first ten minutes. Then the pavement pounded them into numbness. By noon chow I felt like I was walking on a bed of hot coals.

We gulped the hard biscuits and hash and realized for the first time that we were hungry. We made a fire and heated the coffee. It felt grand going down. I did a quick patch up job on my feet; the two heel blisters were as big as quarters and ready to pop. I cut around them and let the water run off and swabbed them down with iodine, then ripped a pair of skivvy drawers and folded them into small patches to pad and sponge the area, I taped them tight so the pad wouldn’t slip, and put on three pairs of dry socks and laced the shoes on tight.

For twenty minutes after the chow break the entire column limped. It was especially noticeable in Sam Huxley. He was a big man and it was twice as hard on him. His feet hurt; I knew it; and it made me happy. Huxley tried to disguise the limp for our benefit by stepping up the pace immediately.

The men cursed and fumed the miles away. Up and down they beat a tattoo on the never ending road. My foot trouble made me less aware of the other pains that were shooting all over my back and hips and neck. Soon they caught up with my feet. I felt like a hunk of raw liver going through a meat-grinder. Another mile…another…and another. I got short-winded, a thing that rarely happened to me when hiking on level ground. I closed my eyes and prayed. I couldn’t quit! What would my boys think? Some were worse off than me and they hung on…I’ve got to hold…I’ve got to, I thought.

Every step became unbearable. I felt like screaming for a halt. After each break I was afraid to stand up. The history of my life came before me. How the hell did I ever get into this mess? They wanted to send me to Communications School as an instructor. Why did I turn it down?…I’m an asshole! One more mile gone…another…Manakau…Oahu…thank God!

We swung off the road into a big field.

I wanted to drop on the spot but there was work to do. A communicator’s work never ends. We had hiked so well that Huxley pulled us in early for a long night’s sleep before the final day’s push. None of the platoon had fallen out yet but they were a mighty beat-up bunch. It was an effort to cram down chow and set up for the night. The air was calm and the evening mild and peace settled on the shelter halves in the meadow.

An hour and we were rested enough to sit around and bat the breeze and enjoy a late smoke before taps. As we talked I cut blisters and mended feet. The sick bay was overcrowded and I was a blister artist in my own right. I laid out the wet clothes in my pack to dry and buttoned up for some much needed sleep before the big push.

Speedy, on the way to taking over early watch on the TCS, came over to me. “Er, Mac…”

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“I think that goddamyankee is out of his head. Glad we got only one more day of this.”

“Well,” I said, “when it is all over we’ll be pretty proud of ourselves.”

“Tell me, Mac, and be honest. Did you guys ever take a forced march in the old Corps like this one?”

“Lots of times, Speedy, but I guess the one you are on seems like the hardest. I don’t think I’ll forget this one for a while.”

“Look, Mac, I got a few minutes before I take over the watch. Could I tell you something confidential?”

“Sure, I got my chaplain’s badge.”

“I don’t want it out that I said this but I saw Levin pull off his boondockers. His feet are bloody. Maybe you ought to take a look at them.”

“He’ll come around to sick bay if he needs help,” I said.

“Look, Mac,” Speedy continued uncomfortably, “I asked Pedro. He didn’t check in. Maybe you’d better let him ride the jeep tomorrow. He can have my turn.”