Battle Cry (64 page)

“Should be educational,” Marion said.

“I wonder if them broads go to the post?”

“I see,” Marion said, going to Levin’s assistance, “that the conversation is beginning to hit its usual high intellectual level. Excuse me.”

“Hey, Mary, wait a minute. Give us the word on the gooks?”

“Yeah, what about these Gilbertese?”

“According to the Encyclopedia…” Marion began.

“Listen at him, would you, listen at him,” Levin said in awe.

“According to the Encyclopedia,” Marion continued, unruffled, “we are in Micronesia. It is one of the three major groups of island people in the Pacific Ocean. The other two are Melanesia and Polynesia.”

“Owi, is he clugg.”

“Skip all the crap, Mary, how about the women?”

“The Gilbertese are great fishermen. The sea and the palm trees are practically their only means of survival. They have a few chickens and pigs for festive occasions, but, as you can see, the soil is very unfertile.”

“Don’t much look like Black Hawk County,” Seabags spat from his chaw.

“Shaddup, I’m getting enlightened.”

“The atoll has been under British control for many years. They export copra and cocoanut oil in exchange for cloth, cooking utensils and other items.”

“For Chrisake, Mary. Do the broads go or don’t they?”

“Many of the younger generation speak English due to missionary work. They have rigid tribal systems and their own language and customs. Life is simple and remote from Western culture. Few white men…”

“Mary, all I asked was a simple question. Do the broads…aw, the hell with it.”

“Come on, we’d better shag ass,” I said, busting up the geography lesson.

“Hey, lookit. Here comes Captain Whistler with a bunch of gooks.”

We formed a circle at a polite distance from the skipper and the staff. Whistler and some of his boys had come in with four natives. They were a cross between the light skinned Polynesians like the Maoris and the black Melanesians of Guadalcanal. The young lads hovered on the brink of black. They were handsome men; strikingly so by comparison with other natives I had seen all over the Orient. They stood about five foot nine inches, and were stocky, with well-tapered figures slim in the waist and broad in the shoulders. Fish and copra must have agreed with them. Their clothing consisted of brightly colored cloths wrapped tightly at the waist and falling nearly to their knees.

“I found these boys snooping around camp this morning, sir,” Captain Whistler said.

“They are quite friendly,” Wellman said, lighting his pipe and joining the group. “Any of you boys speak English?”

“Oh, yes,” one said, as he gazed about in childish awe. “My name Lancelot, my good Catholic Christian. Silent night, holy night…you want hear my sing?”

“Not just now, Lancelot,” Huxley said. “We are more interested in finding Japs. Do you know where they are?”

“Japs bad fellows, very bad fellows are.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“They run when you British come.” He pointed north, up the chain of islands. The other three natives nodded and pointed north, jabbering.

“How many Japs run?” Wellman asked.

“We no like Japs. They bad fellows. Take chicken.”

“How many?”

Lancelot turned puzzled to his friends. They argued for several moments in the confusing native tongue.

“Say again please?”

“How many? Numbers…one, two, three, four…how many Japs?”

“Oh…many thousand.”

Wellman coughed.

“Don’t get excited, Wellman, they aren’t much help.”

“Very glad British back,” Lancelot said.

“We aren’t British, Lancelot. We’re Americans.”

“No British?” the youth said, becoming long-faced.

“No British?” the other three echoed.

“We good friends of British…American…British friends,” Huxley said, shaking his hands together.

“Like hell we are,” Whistler whispered under his breath.

“God save King, no?” Lancelot asked for reassurance.

“God save King, God save King,” Huxley repeated. The four smiled.

“We come along no, yes? Help find bad Jap.”

Huxley drew Wellman aside. “What do you think, Major?”

“I suppose it is all right. They seem to be O.K. boys.”

“All right,” Huxley said, “I make you scouts for us. But you must be good boys or I send you home to village. Do you understand?”

“We get coconut for ’Merican. We carry boxes. Jap bad fellow.”

“In fact,” Wellman said, “they’ll probably be quite a help in tricky brush or tides.”

“Just be good boys,” Huxley said again.

“Oh yes…we Catholic…Hail Mary, no?”

They eagerly turned about, smiling and nodding to us. We took to them right off the bat. I was glad we were going to toss the Japs off their atoll.

“All right, fall in, goddammit. On the double…hit the road.”

Without Jasco doing our reconnaissance now, it was necessary to send a platoon from the point company well in advance of the main body. We had moved a few hundred yards when Captain Shapiro and his sidekick, Gunner McQuade, came storming up to Huxley. He literally yanked Highpockets off the side of the road.

“Hey, Colonel,” Shapiro stormed, “what’s the scoop? Yesterday you had Harper’s Company on the point, today Whistler’s. Are you saving Fox for the burial detail?”

“Don’t get your crap hot, Max.”

“My boys are getting pissed, Colonel.”

“By my calculations, Max, this hike will last three days before we hit the last island—Cora. It will be your turn to take the point tomorrow.” He winked at Shapiro.

“Whistler better not find any Japs today then.”

“Don’t worry. I think there’ll be plenty to go around.”

“Well, don’t forget it. We get the point tomorrow.”

Huxley smiled as the big plump sergeant and the little plump captain stood fast waiting for their rearguard company to reach them. Huxley was confident that Fox Company would be the one to contact the enemy. He had maneuvered the march so it would turn out that way. His gamble on that hothead Shapiro would then pay off, he hoped. The little skipper had the finest and toughest hundred and sixty men he had ever seen, outside of the Raiders. Shapiro turned to him once more.

“Colonel, you got to do me a favor.”

“I’m listening.”

“Be a good guy and leave that candy-assed Looey, Bryce, in the CP when the action starts or send him to Bairiki for supplies.”

“Not so loud, Max.”

“I’ve been a good sport, Colonel, haven’t I? I know you palmed the bastard off as my exec just for kicks…but be a good guy.”

“I’ll talk to you tonight about it.”

CHAPTER 6

THE SCENERY
was much the same as on the first day, only we found more evidence of Jap flight. Every several hundred yards a group of abandoned huts was spotted in clearings near the path. We didn’t stop to inspect them this time. Highpockets was pulling off a Huxley special. The sweat started coming as we turned from east to northwest around the corner of Karen Island. From out of nowhere, more of Lancelot’s buddies began appearing at the roadside and joining the march. Alone and in small groups they came until we had over fifty eager beavers prancing up and down the line making friendly chatter, gleeful about the big adventure. With the natives came stray dogs. They looked lean and hungry; their ribs poked against their skins. They soon had themselves a field day with tidbits from softhearted Marines who dug into rations to feed them during the breaks.

Although we weren’t burdened with packs, we carried two canteens of water, a first aid kit, a machete, a G.I. knife, a trenching shovel, a poncho, a compass, and two hundred rounds of ammunition and four grenades. Somehow, I just couldn’t get the stuff to ride right. We were also burdened with the extra weight of the radios and we switched off the load every fifteen minutes to keep up maximum speed.

We got a lucky break when the natives began insisting on taking a turn in carrying the radios and heavy gear. We were grateful although they couldn’t handle the canvas straps on bare skin and Huxley’s pace for more than a few minutes at a time. The tempo of their life was much slower than the tempo of Highpockets on the march.

At last we came to an exhausted halt as Captain Whistler raced back to us. We fell to the roadside, gasping, and shared a few gulps of water and cigarettes with the Gilbertese. Jubilant at their reward, they were soon scaling some of the nearby palm trees and slinging down green husked fruit. When the deck was piled high, they cut the tops open with amazing dexterity. The whitish juice was sugary and cool in the natural refrigeration of layers of soft rind. It tasted wonderful.

Whistler, Huxley, Wellman, and Marlin wiped their sweat-soaked faces, doffed their helmets and lit up. “Better come up and take a look, skipper.” the beetle-browed Captain of Easy Company said. “We’re at the end of the island and there’s about sixty yards of water to the next one.”

“Did you send any of your boys across?”

“No, sir, we pulled up. I didn’t want to commit them without permission.”

“I hope it isn’t too deep. We’re running into a whole string of crossings from here on out. Most of these islands won’t run more than a mile. We have to make fifteen of them today. Let’s take a look.” Huxley turned to the native boy. “Hey, Lancelot! You come with me.”

“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” Lancelot answered. He was followed jealously by Ziltch who was only waiting for the proper moment to inform the native that he, Ziltch, was number one boy.

They stood looking at the channel that ran between Karen and Lulu. Huxley surveyed the situation. The water was too muddy to see bottom. The book said it wouldn’t be too deep but Huxley only trusted the book part way. If any Japs lurked in the thick brush on the opposite bank, his men would make a beautiful target going over. He turned to Lancelot.

“How deep?”

The native went into conference with some others and one pointed to Huxley’s chest.

“Close to six feet,” Huxley muttered. He unsnapped his pistol belt and looped it around his neck. He took his wallet from his pocket and put it in his helmet.

“Don’t you think you’d better send someone else across?” Marlin said.

Highpockets didn’t honor the question. He nodded for Lancelot to come with him and point out the best possible route. The natives cut several long pole markers from the brush.

“When I hit the other side, send one platoon over. I’ll move them forward and string them across the island for a covering force. If we hit deep water, send a call for all men over six feet to form a chain over the channel and pass the radios, machine guns, mortars and telephone gear across. All others hold their gear in one hand and swim it with the other. Any boy that can’t swim will hang on to the tall boys. We reassemble at once on the other side…any questions?”

“How about waiting for the alligator to reach us and take the heavy gear over, sir?”

“Can’t depend on it. If we run into Japs we’d better have it ready. Besides, this damned tide is slowing us enough as it is. The alligator may not reach us till late evening. I don’t want to give the Japs a chance to dig in too deep. Got to keep them running.”

Huxley took Lancelot’s hand and stepped into the water. Within several yards he was up to his waist. Two machine guns sat ready to fire on the opposite shore. Huxley plodded about slowly, feeling each step before him. He sank the long poles into the bottom every few yards to mark the shallowest course. At one point he went down to his chin and floundered. Lancelot was ordered to swim back to our side.

Huxley’s drenched body began rising. He hit the opposite shore and ran quickly to the cover of a tree, then scanned the brush up ahead. He returned to the water line and signaled to us.

“First Platoon, move over on the double—leave your machine guns.”

The riflemen were in the water moving to the first marker. The short men began the torturing one-armed swim, holding their rifles and gear aloft with the other. After several moments they emerged and dashed ashore as Huxley moved them up to disperse a protection picket.

“All men, six feet,” Whistler ordered, “follow the channel markers.”

The human chain in midstream grunted under the weight they passed over their heads. Around them, platoon after platoon waded in. A grenade broke loose from a belt held aloft and fell into the water, sending up a muffled spout. No one was hurt. Several boys ran out of gas and had to be towed over by alert men on the other side who had doffed their gear and organized a lifesaving party.

I hit neck-deep water and cursed a blue streak, remembering I had left my cigarettes in my dungaree pockets. I held my carbine and belt up with my left hand and pulled hard against the tugging tide. I was cautious of dropping my feet even by the pole markers. Finally I hit the other shore almost dizzy with exhaustion.

It was a rough go. Each man dragged himself ashore shaking water like a puppy, alternately cold from the dousing and hot from the strain and the sun.

After nearly an hour the wet battalion was squishing uncomfortably down the seemingly never ending trail by the lagoon. The islands ran short now, breaking up into quick sequence. Each hour, or less, found us repeating the water crossing procedure until six more had been made.

High noon found us dripping, exhausted and miserable. The blisters were wearing on at a record pace. Huxley believed that the smaller Japanese must be having a much rougher time of it and he didn’t want us to slacken. Our pursuit must not give them a rest or an opportunity to prepare defenses.

“Hey! What town is this!”

The road took a turn from the lagoon to the center of the island and there, straddling it, was the first inhabited village. Our first look at the women started us drooling. It had been a month since we had seen a female of any kind and we little anticipated the luscious sight before us. They were as tall as their men, big hipped and heavy legged, and like the men they wore only bright-colored cloths about their waists. They edged curiously to the road as we passed through. All eyes in the column were glued on them. I had never seen such an array of bare bosoms, all ample, firm and blossoming like tropical fruit.