Authors: Leon Uris
Keats turned to me. “You are the sergeant in charge of communications. Communicate,” he said.
Blow it out, Jack Keats, I thought. “Yes sir,” I said.
Sam Huxley paced the road followed by his puppy dog, Ziltch. “Dammit,” he muttered, “the air cover was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. They can’t get anything straight.”
That is correct, I thought. The sharp blast of a whistle pierced the air.
“Aircraft!” We scattered from the roadside. Five thousand feet above, a squadron of Gruman F4Fs droned in, in elements of threes. They were slow, clumsy little ships, packing little punch as fighters go. But the snubnosed Wildcats were manned by men, the same as those on the ground, who had to do the best they could with what they had and would probably give a good account of themselves.
We could almost see the squadron leader, a grizzly-faced man, shift the cigar stub in his mouth from left to right and come in lower. He spotted the white identification panels laid out on the deck below him. He peeled off and soared down almost to shoetop level, then tipped his wings and barrel-rolled in recognition of friendly troops.
“Headquarters! Hit the road! Off your dead asses and on your dying feet!”
“Fresno White to all companies. Move out. Easy move up and assume the point. George, bring up the rear, over and out.”
Pick them up and lay them down, pick them up and lay them down.
Into a cloud of dust again. A second break and we stole another extra sip of water. A third break and we guzzled two or three swallows.
Huxley kept his Whores moving briskly, blowing at every minor failure along the line of march. Numbness sets in and it starts getting easier…another three miles and it will be just like on a cloud.
Every now and then we passed an exhausted form at the side of the road, hiked into the ground. He’d shake his head sadly with a look of defeat and apology in his eyes. I could read Huxley’s mind as he glared fiercely.
There is no place for stragglers in the Marine Corps. Survey to cooks and bakers—but my cooks and bakers must hike too, by God, or my name isn’t Sam Huxley. This is only the beginning, lad.
Lieutenant Bryce was griping to Doc Kyser about his feet and starting a phony limp. I would have given a night at the slop shute to see again the expression on Huxley’s face when they told him his new officer was an assistant professor at Stanford. Bryce didn’t fit into the picture. He had only been with us a week, but his unpopularity had already spread like wildfire. You can’t teach a bunch of gyrenes the articles of war by quoting Bacon and Ben Jonson. It was different with Sister Mary. He was sincere. Bryce was just using it to show how goddam smart and superior he was. I’ve seen officers come and go in this lash-up and the good ones respected their men, and got respect in return. Guys like Huxley knew that it would be the privates who finally settled this or any other war.
Pick them up and lay them down.
The full sun was on us now. The sweat gushed. I peered anxiously to a grove of trees and a wooded area ahead…about two miles, I judged. Sensing an hour break for chow, the point bore down on the area and in an almost double time surge we hit it before break time.
“Fall out! Chow time! Easy on the water.”
“All right!” I shouted. “Let’s go on that TBX, get in with regiment. Gomez! On that generator!”
The weary crew found a clump of trees, eased the weight, and sank to the deck stretching, bitching, and groaning with relief. We opened our packs and took out chow. Two cans of C-ration. One can contained three hardtack biscuits, two pieces of hard candy, a lump of sugar, and some soluble coffee. The second can had either hash, stew, or pork and beans. The hash was foul; the stew was vile. Only the pork and beans tasted almost edible. Theoretically, every third ration was supposed to be pork and beans, but it seemed that the gods were against us. It was a rare day in June when any man was lucky enough to draw pork and beans.
Spanish Joe rested against a tree. He opened his dungaree shirt and let a small breeze take some heat of his wet body. He opened his can of pork and beans and smiled at us. He always managed.
“Think Highpockets is just a little rough for the first forced march, huh, Mac?” Burnside said, taking a spoon of hash and screwing up his face in pain.
“Maybe he’s got a broad waiting in Rose Canyon,” Seabags offered.
“He’s got plenty more where this came from,” I warned.
“Man, I done thought I was a goner when that damned point started running to the woods. That ass pack near beat me to death.” Seabags rubbed his sides. “Looks like I been beat with a bull whip. I hear say, cousin, they got a newfangled ration in the Army, K-rations, they call them. Come in a wax box. Got ham, cheese and even chewing gum and cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes and gum! Honest to God?” Gomez said.
“Man,” Speedy Gray said, “that Army goes first cabin.”
“That ain’t all,” Seabags added. “Some of them even got lemonade powder.”
“Well, kiss my moneymaking ass. Lemonade! Wonder if General Holcomb ever heard of them there rations?”
“I think we got a warehouse full of C-rations left over from Belleau Wood and the General wants to use them up before he goes pissing the taxpayers’ money away on stuff like lemonade.”
Pharmacist’s Mate Pedro Rojas, the corpsman, moved into our group passing out salt pills. He dropped one on Speedy’s lap. “Give it to the new looey, looks like he can use something the way he’s crying to Doc Kyser.”
“Take the damned thing, Tex, they’re good for what is ailing you.”
“Can’t use your action, Pedro, they make me puke.”
“Suck them slow.”
“They still make me puke.” Pedro took the salt pill back, shrugged and walked away.
“Hey, shanker mechanic!” Speedy called. “I got a couple of crabs for you to pick.”
“You better not let me get too close with my knife. You’re liable to lose a little, and from what I hear, you can’t spare any.”
“You ought to know.”
“Hey, cousin!” Seabags called. “First on blister call tonight.”
“Hokay, Seabags.”
“You know,” Speedy said as the corpsman left, “I like that guy.”
“Best blister man in the outfit and notice how easy and sweet he is with that needle.”
“Yeah, most of them pill rollers act like they’re taking bayonet practice.”
“Damned nice guy for a Mexican,” Speedy said.
“Just a damned nice guy,” I corrected. “He’s a Texan too, you know.”
“Mexicans ain’t the same, Mac….”
I dropped the subject.
We moved out again. What we lost in speed, we more than made up on the trails moving up and down stiff little ridges. The break for chow gave our dogs a good chance to start yapping. Even I, fortified with three pair of socks and good broken-in boondockers, could still feel a blister popping up. Around the turns and drops, the comm cart began giving us trouble. We worked hard to keep the line of march from slowing and at the same time keep in contact with the line outfits.
We hit a clearing and the whistle blew. “Air raid!”
A second squadron acting as the “enemy” droned into earshot. Soon our covering squadron and the enemy were in a mock dogfight. We took off the main road and grouped ourselves in small circles, backs inward, and took a kneeling position. It seemed common logic that under air attack we should find cover. However, the Marine Corps said we had to shoot at them. A plane broke from the pack and dived at us feigning machine gun fire from his wings. We answered him with clicks of empty rifles. He bore down, flashing just over our heads, sending a strong wind through us.
“Crazy bastard! Almost ran into us!”
“Don’t worry none, cousin, I got him right between the eyes!”
Legend has it that a Marine at Pearl Harbor downed a Jap Zero with his rifle and so, ever after, we were supposed to fight back and not hide in a ditch. The planes grew tired of their play and drifted off and we took up the march again.
Pick them up and lay them down.
On and on we moved until the sun’s brightness faded, taking some of its sting from our bodies.
“Rose Canyon!”
“O.K., don’t drop dead! Get the TBX in with regiment! Secure the TBY set. Telephone squad, get wires into the companies! On the double, dammit!” Far from resting, the command post became a beehive of activity. Messages flew and orders were barked.
The chow trucks and bedrolls were fouled up and late. There were slit trenches, foxholes to be dug and shelters to be pitched. My squad laid out their two-man pup tents in the wrong direction and failed to cover them with a protective mound of dirt. I made them set the whole bivouac over.
At long last the field music blew recall and we battened down and lit a final cigarette before taps. It was cold outside. We snuck inside our blankets as close as we could and moved next to our bunkies. Our site was on a rocky deck and the stones dug into us through the thin pads.
“Danny.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I’m thinking, I’m going to see the paratroops tomorrow. Pucchi said they’d O.K. the interview. Fifty per cent more pay. I got almost two hundred saved now. The way I figure, it’s about a hundred and fifty for expenses…and, well, I can make it in a month. I’ll have her here.”
“I think you’ve got rocks in your head trying for paratroops.”
“Yeah, I’d hate to leave this outfit. We sure got a nice bunch of guys. Well, I made up my mind. I got to have the dough. Scuttlebutt says we ain’t gonna be in the States too long…”
A deathly stillness hit the camp. Tired men, too tired to even think about the long walk back, fell into deep slumber. An occasional snore or a whisper from one man to another broke the silence. Andy Hookans moved past a still sentry and picked up the earphones of the radio and made out his log entry.
I like these guys, he thought. It’s a swell outfit…like the guys in the camps, sticking together. I’m in better shape than most, lumberjacking…I’m lucky. We’ll all be tough before the cruise is out. Only, I don’t like San Diego. The women there are like the rest, after a quick buck and a good time. Maybe I shouldn’t ought to think like that. Some of these guys got sweethearts. Maybe some day I’ll meet a broad that I can feel that way about…. Hell, how did I get stuck on this early watch?
The field music stepped into the middle of the command post area. He raised his bugle to his lips. The sound of taps drifted through the still night air and echoed from the walls of the canyon.
“Company, dismissed!”
We took one step backwards, about faced, shouted “Aye, aye, sir,” and disappeared into the barracks.
“All right, let’s go on this goddam gear and get it stashed in the radio shack before you do any daydreaming.”
Forty miles under heavy pack on a forced march was finished and weary bodies flopped on their sacks, trying to work up enough energy to take a shower and clean their filthy equipment. Sergeant Pucchi stepped into the barrack and blew his whistle. “Pay attention. You have one hour to clean up for inspection.”
“Inspection? I thought we was going to knock off inspection because of the hike.”
“You missed field day yesterday, what you want, eggs in your beer?”
“Jesus H. Christ!”
“Sonofabitch Huxley!”
“Also,” added Pucchi, “there will be no liberty call. The Major thinks you guys were skylarking on the hike.”
“I’ll be a dirty bastard.”
“Yeah, Pucchi, Semper Fi, hooray for me and fugg you.”
“Come on,” I snapped, “you heard the sergeant. Get them goddam pieces cleaned, on the double, dammit, on the double. Off your dead asses and on your dying feet.”
SKI WALKED
into the barracks dejectedly, went over to Danny’s bunk and slumped down.
“How’d you make out, Ski?”
“They wouldn’t take me. The paratroopers say I’m too goddam little. I ain’t nothing but a feathermerchant.”
“That’s too bad. Well maybe…aw come on, Ski, I’m glad you flunked out. You can stay here now.”
“Have we had mail call yet?”
“Yes,” Danny answered slowly.
“Anything for me?”
“No.” The Feathermerchant stood and turned away.
“Something’s gone wrong. I know it. I ain’t got a letter in two weeks.”
“Don’t get yourself riled, Ski. It’s probably her old man.”
“He didn’t break her hands, dammit.”
“Take it easy. Better get ready, we got Judo practice.”
Ski walked towards his own bunk. “Where the hell is my sack?”
“They changed around this morning while you were gone. New guys came in from motor transport. I moved your stuff over. You can bunk with me,” Andy Hookans said.
“I had a lower, dammit,” Ski shouted, “and you moved me to an upper! Get your crap off!”
“Hey, Ski, take it easy, you’ll wake the neighbors.” Andy smiled.
“Take your crap off, I said!”
Danny came over quickly. “You can take my bunk, Ski. I’ve got a lower,” Danny said.
“No, I want this one. This sneaky bastard is trying to pull a fast one.”
“What’s biting his ass?” Andy asked.
“He isn’t feeling good,” Danny said.
“You going to take your stuff off or I’m going to clout the piss out of you!” Ski nosed up to the giant lumberjack.
“Aw Jesus, Ski. I ain’t gonna hit you. You’re just a little guy.”
“Yellow bastard!”
“Hey, Danny, make him knock it off. I don’t want to hit him.”
“Behave yourself, Ski,” Danny said, spinning him around. “If you take a punch at Andy, he’ll kill you…besides you’re going to have to whip me too. Now knock it off quick before you get all our asses in a sling.”
The little fellow simmered down and dropped his hands slowly, then extended one to Andy. Andy shook it. “I’m sorry, Andy, I just got…I’m sorry.” He turned and walked from the room.
“Jesus, he sure got a wild hair up him,” Andy said.
“It’s that girl, Andy. He hasn’t heard from her in two weeks. He’s going nuts.”
“Poor little bastard,” Andy muttered. He took his pad and laid it on the deck and moved Ski’s down. “Them broads is all alike…I guess I don’t want a lower nohow.”
Speedy Gray, the Texan, and Seabags Brown, the farmer, wavered precariously on their bar stools. Gray broke into song: