Authors: Leon Uris
OUR TENT
flap opened. First Sergeant Pucchi entered followed by a homely, medium-sized Marine. “You check in to Mac, there. He’s in charge of communications,” Pucchi said. “Mac, this is your new radioman.”
I got up and the fellow dropped his seabag. The squad, sitting about, beating their gums and shining gear, looked up. There was a hush. Then the replacement introduced himself loudly.
“Levin’s the name, Jake Levin. So this is the accommodations, huh?”
“My name is Mac.”
“Glad to meet ya, Sarge.” His voice rang with familiarity. “Got a fart sack for me?” He was trying out his Marine lingo to show us how salty he was.
“You can have mine,” Speedy said. “I’m going to live with the telephone squad.” He left the tent.
Levin shrugged and introduced himself around. Only Marion gave him a warm welcome and handshake. “Welcome to the outfit, Levin.”
“Thanks, buster.” The new boy sat on Speedy’s cot and chattered on loudly.
“Where you from, cousin?”
“Brooklyn.”
“I thought so.”
“Had a rough trip over. Terrible boat…I mean ship. What the hell, I says, make the best of it.”
“How long you been out of boot camp?”
“Two months. Like I says,” he continued, “I think I’ll get along. At least I didn’t volunteer into this lash up, so I got my beef all right.”
“What do you mean, cousin?”
“I was drafted, that’s what, drafted.”
“Something stinks in here,” Seabags said.
“I got my shoes on,” Lightower said as he headed for the catwalk. The others walked out. I followed them.
“Holy Christ, Mac, we got to take that loudmouth bastard?”
“Take it easy,” I said. “All replacements make a lot of noise at first. They’re just trying to make an impression. They feel uneasy.”
“Yeah, but a goddam draftee in the Marine Corps.”
“War is hell,” I moaned.
“I don’t like that Jew boy,” Speedy spat.
“I don’t like that talk, Speedy,” I warned. “The kid might be all right. Don’t hang him before he gets one foot in the tent.”
“Let’s go to the PX, cousin. Got your ration card?”
“Yeah, let’s go. I’m sick.”
I returned to the tent. Levin stood up from his unpacking. “What’s the matter with them guys? It ain’t polite they should all take a hike.”
“Levin,” I said, “this outfit has been together quite a while. Some of the fellows for ten or more years. It’s like a private club.”
“I don’t get ya.”
“Wait a minute, Levin,” I said. “I know you hear a lot of Marines bitch. But you’ve got to earn that right. We like being Marines.”
“It ain’t my fault I was drafted.”
“You’re going to make it a lot easier on yourself if you make up your mind not to go around feeling sorry for yourself. I’ll give you some gratis advice, Levin. These guys have earned their battle spurs and you’ve got a lot of proving to do. They’re a good bunch of fellows and they’re big leaguers and you’re just a busher.”
Levin clammed up and bowed his head. “I was just trying to be friendly. I ain’t no pop off. I was trying to be one of the guys.”
“Don’t go advertising that you were drafted into the Corps or you’ll make your life miserable. I don’t like to see you start on the wrong foot,” I went on.
“I’ll cut the buck,” he said.
“I hope so. We’re going to work your ass till it drags. If you put out every minute of the day you’re going to have one friend in this outfit. If you don’t put out, you’ll rue the day your mother gave birth to you.” I left.
“Jesus,” Levin whistled, “I thought I was out of boot camp. What the hell did I get myself into?”
“Don’t let Mac scare you, Levin,” Marion said. “Besides, you’ve got one friend already.”
“Thanks, Corporal.”
“Come on now, snap out of it. It’s only that we are jealous. You see, the boy you are replacing was a pretty swell head. He saved a patrol on Guadalcanal.”
“Jees,” Levin whispered.
“They are sending a Navy Cross home to his sister.”
“God.”
“Come on, I’ll show you around the camp.”
“You’re a nice guy, Corporal.”
They walked from the tent. “Tell me, have you ever studied any of the classics?” Marion asked.
“Levin!”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“I got you posted for the midnight watch on the switchboard.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“And don’t think you can bunk in late. You fall out at reveille for a special detail on a field problem, carrying the generator. And I want you cranking the generator every time it goes into operation for the next two weeks.”
“Levin!”
“Yes, Corporal?”
“We got a working party, digging new heads today.”
“Yes,” he said, heading for the tool shed.
Seabags held a bucket of creosol and a can of lye. He tucked a chaw in his teeth and sat down leisurely. It was an alleged two-man detail. “Let’s go,” Seabags said, “step on it. You’ll never get them there heads clean.”
“We’d be finished if you’d help me.”
“See this stripe? What does it mean?”
“You’re a Pfc.”
“Correct. Get busy.”
“O.K., Seabags.”
“Got a man for a garbage shoveling detail, Mac?”
“Got just the man you want.”
At two in the morning a weary private nodded his head on guard over the officer’s woodpile.
“Pssst!”
“Halt! Who goes there?”
“L.Q. and the Injun.”
“What you guys want?”
“We are going to borrow a couple of logs for the stove.”
“They’ll pull a check and I’ll be up the creek without a paddle.”
“Nice guy.”
“What you expect for a draftee?”
“From Brooklyn, no less.”
“Aw, O.K. But hurry before the sergeant of the guard makes a round.”
I was determined to work him till his ass dragged, but Levin stood the gaff. After the initial shock was over, the squad accepted him one by one. Spanish Joe’s price for friendship was Levin’s beer ration card. When I finally let him at a radio, I found him to be an exceptional operator and, of course, we took him in with open arms when we discovered that he was also a first-class barber. Banks, of message center, had been butchering our hair for over a year—and at two bits a crack, yet. As members of the squad, we were entitled to free cuts with a shampoo and shave occasionally thrown in, I explained to Levin.
L.Q. was the first to take Levin to his heart. Levin had been potwalloping on mess duty for almost a month, and they had given him an extended engagement.
“Hey, Levin, you want to get off mess duty?” L.Q. asked.
“I got to do my time.”
“Yeah, but they gave you an extra two weeks, just out of spite. I heard the cook say you work so hard he’s going to try to keep you there forever.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Tell you what to do. Know that soap they use for the officers’ mess gear?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, just put a scratch or two on your hand and dip them into a solution—makes your hand get infected and they got to take you off.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“You can leave soapsuds on the officers’ dishes. They’ll all get the trots that way.”
“Thanks, anyhow….”
The clincher was when Levin won the Regimental softball championship for Headquarters Company in an epic battle with K Company of the Third Battalion. Three of our guys had folded with malaria, two others were injured, and three were thrown out of the game for calling the umps, Huxley and Chaplain Peterson, dirty names in close decisions in which we were clearly robbed. Levin carried upon his shoulders the honor of Huxley’s Whores, to say nothing of the beer we had bet. He pitched us to victory and himself into our hearts.
Only Speedy Gray, the Texan, remained aloof after the game. He went out of his way to be nasty to Levin. But bigotry was something that, unlike the colors of a salamander, couldn’t be changed overnight.
L.Q. lay on his sack before reveille. The morning was cold. It was in those last few precious minutes before we fell in for roll call that we hated the Corps most. In the first chill of being awake and trying to be asleep for that extra minute, nature demanded a duty call. L.Q. cursed to himself. It was no use fighting. He staggered from the cot and lit the stove, a job generally saved for Levin. Levin was on guard duty on this particular day, and L.Q. was the first up.
With his eyes half shut he wended a weary way down the catwalk through the still dark tents toward the heads. Half frozen and mumbling at his fate he seated himself and nodded his eyes shut. He happened to glance to his left. A shudder of horror passed through him! Seated next to him, almost shoulder to shoulder, he saw a golden bar. He looked to the right—there were the two silver bars of a captain. In the dark he had gone to the officers’ head.
The two officers looked at the Pfc occupying the center seat and stared arrogantly and coldly. L.Q. grinned and squirmed uncomfortably. The captain tapped his foot restlessly and the lieutenant sighed in disgust. L.Q.’s face reddened with shame. All morning he worried, but the officers chose not to report him for entering their sacred realm.
Sergeant Herman, the quartermaster, bled. All depleted clothing was to be replaced and a complete new issue given. As we drew the new gear we stepped down in a line to a table where two officers checked in our old weapons. They checked off the recorded number of our Reisings. Mac stepped up, turned his in and drew a new carbine rifle, clips, rounds of thirty-caliber shorts and a pistol belt.
Seabags handed the officers Garand rifles.
“Where did you get this weapon, Brown?”
“Lost my Reising in combat, sir.”
“All right, next.”
Spanish Joe laid a Thompson submachine gun on the table.
“Where is your Reising gun, Private?”
“Lost it in combat, sir.”
Danny laid a BAR on the table…
“Where is your—don’t tell me, you lost it in combat.”
“Yes, sir.”
The squad fondled the new light carbines. They were beauties. Just the type that had been needed for a long time. Accurate up to two hundred yards, semi-automatic, light and well constructed. A far cry from their infamous predecessor, the Reising. There was a price for the new rifles, however. Huxley decided that too many Reisings had been lost in combat, and all those who had dumped them were charged $64, one third out on each pay call.
Divito, the jeep driver, ran into our tent. “It’s here!” he yelled.
We poured out and
then,
we saw her. Our eyes were filled with disbelief as we approached her. Our new TCS radio jeep had arrived. Built into the rear seat of the jeep was a beautiful radio.
“Gawd! Look at that radio.”
“Andy!” I shouted, “keep your meathooks off the hood. Do you want to get it dirty?”
We circled the jeep several times, noting that the tires were all right and the paint job was on neat. No one dared to look in at the transmitter and receiver. We feared it would vanish like a mirage. At last we peeked in. My hand was trembling as I reached to set the dials…. “Some job…some job.”
“Jesus, just like the doggies got.”
I seated myself, like a king on a throne, in the operator’s seat.
“How about this? The transmitter is generated right off the motor.”
“Who gets first crack at it, Mac?”
“Er…er…we go by time in the Corps,” I said.
“Dirty poker!”
“Well…I got to see if it works. Come on, set up the TBX and get in contact with this baby.” I lit a cigar, which I always saved for special occasions, and relaxed. “Take her for a spin, Divito…want to give her a test,” I said.
Dear Marion,
I’m glad you got the package all right. There is another on the way. You’re not the only genius. The store was so pleased with my selling that I’ve been promoted to assistant department manager. It’s really a lot better than standing behind the counter for eight hours and I’ve got lots more responsibilities…AND, a five dollar raise.
I tried to read the book you told me about, but honest, maybe I’m plain stupid, but I guess it’s not the same without you explaining all the things I don’t understand. I wish so much that you were here to read to me. I’ve played all your records and lots of them a second time around. I like the Romeo and Juliet Overture best by Tschaikowsky (probably spelled it wrong). Only we’re not going to have a sad ending like they did….
THE GREEN
of our forest greens blended with the green of the meadow. Three thousand men of the Sixth Marines fell in and came to attention. We presented arms as the color guard, followed by the Division band, marched sharply past and took position. We snapped to attention with a ruffle of drums and a flourish of music as Major General Bryant, the division commander, Brigadier Snipes, his assistant, and Colonel Malcolm, the commander of the Sixth, and their staffs took center place before the line of fifteen heroes.
In files of threes, pressed and shiny Marines strung out in rank that ran as straight as an arrow across the field. And there was our Regimental Flag with a silver ring on the staff from each expedition. The rings climbed nearly the length of the pole: Dominican Republic, Shanghai, Haiti, Iceland…. The flag was fringed in gold tassel, and red and gold cords fell from its peak. In the center, on a red background, was the golden globe, anchor, and eagle and the words:
SIXTH REGIMENT, USMC.
From the golden eagle on the top of the staff fell the battle streamers: Nicaragua, Belleau Wood, Chateau Thierry, Guantanamo Bay and a new one, Guadalcanal. They told quite a history, those pieces of cloth and wood.
“Parade, rest!”
In unison we came to the command position. One by one the staff officers of the Second Marine Division stood before her official heroes. The adjutant read the citation of gallantry and General Bryant pinned the medal on with handshake and salute.
“Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Huxley, USMC. With courageous leadership of a battalion of riflemen, against enemy forces on Guadalcanal, British Solomon Islands, he’s showed, in many instances, ingenuity and gallantry above and beyond the call of duty….