Authors: Leon Uris
“What’s on your mind?” I asked. I handed Pedro a smoke and lit it with the tip of my own. Pedro crouched forward, his eyes narrowed.
“You are two fine men. You understand more deeply than most.”
“Come on, out with it. You got a broad you want to swap?”
“Nothing as simple as that, Mac.” He lowered his head. “Have you ever been to San Antone, Mac?” His face was sad and sullen as his mind drifted back over six thousand miles. “Have you ever been to the Mexican quarters around the city dumps?” He shook his head at us and spoke softly. “Yes, I am sad because I find this country. Do you know this is the first time I have ever been able to walk into a restaurant or a bar with a white man? Oh yes, even in San Diego they look at me like I was a leper. People here, they smile and they say, ‘Hello, Yank.’ And when I say I am from Texas—well, this is very first time a person he call me a Texan. I am drunk. To hell with it.” He squashed out his cigarette and emptied his glass.
“You know what happen tonight? Pedro will tell you. I went to a dance at the Allied Service Club and some colored sailors from a ship come in and the girls, they just dance with them and treat them like anybody else. And then some goddam Texans they go to the hostess and demand the colored boys leave the club. Instead, all the girls refuse to dance with Marines at all and they walk out. I like it here in New Zealand.”
Of course there was little or nothing that Marion and I could do. His tongue was loosened now. “Water,” he said bitterly to Marion. “Sergeant Mac is always telling you not to drink too much water. I cannot drink it without feeling like a thief. I have been on a water ration since the day I was born. You know, we pay thirty cents for a barrel of water to drink in Las Colonias shacktown. They tell us we are dirty Mexicans. Oh yes, they will pipe us water if every shack pay forty dollar. We got no forty dollar. And, my very good friends, all my life I never see a bathroom…my family share a hole with eight other families. A fine way to live, no?”
He clenched his fists. “A man have to pay a thousand dollar for a shack of cardboard and burlap or a chicken coop. For this, he pay twenty per cent interest. And the big coyote, the white fixer, make us pay. He fix a knife fight…he fix up the jobs…when there is no fixing he make trouble or a riot so he can fix it and take our money.
“Once a year my people get their only work, stoop labor in the white man’s field at two bits an hour. And the ranchers, they let thousands of wetbacks from old Mexico cross the border now and they say to us, ‘You must work for twenty cent an hour or we get wetbacks for less.’…And the poor wetback, he take his money at the end of the season to go home but the coyotes wait for him and kill and rob him. Each year the Rio Grande, she run red with their blood. And many wetback never go back…they stay in Texas where there is already no room for them. But the coyote fix it so the immigration people will not send them away.” He paused for a swig of the ale.
“My people have much sickness. The babies die of TB and the dysentery and diphtheria. They die like flies. And the coyote fix the funeral. A woman must become a whore to live…the coyote fix her up in a house. And the men come like Spanish Joe. Yes, we are nothing but dirty, ignorant, thieving Latinos…we live in filth!”
“Get ahold of yourself, Pedro.”
“The old people, they have no hope left. The young ones live as the white man say…but what Pedro cannot stand…is to see the little ones waste away and die. This, he cannot take. Papa Morales, he is one fine man. He is great doctor. He do much to help the little ones. And my dearest Luisa, she is a nurse. She have a very hard time to learn to be nurse. They did not let her in the Navy. Papa Morales tell her not to feel bad. He say we have our own war to fight in Las Colonias. I tell him I go in the Navy and I learn much medicine and I come back to help him to keep the children well. I ask for the Marine Corps so I can learn many things and my good friend, Doctor Kyser, he let me read his books. They tell great things. Then Pedro come to New Zealand and he does not want to go back to Texas. He wants his Luisa to come here to a land where there is no dirty spik.” He guzzled more ale down and shook his reeling head. “I shall never come back here…the Holy Mother want me to go to Texas to Las Colonias and make the little ones well.” Pedro clutched my arm tightly. “Remember, Mac, I no fight war for democracy. Pedro, he only fight to learn medicine….”
PAWNEE
was the new code name of the Sixth Marines. Pawnee red, white, and blue indicated the First, Second, and Third Battalions. On the field problems outside camp, sometimes they laid twenty miles of wire in a single day. The wire was marked in colored stripes of the owning battalion for identification and for reclaiming the next day. Sergeant Barry, the telephone chief, was always moaning about the shortage of wire. Our allotment was divided between the heavy and bulky old type and the new light reels of rubberized combat wire.
Gunner Keats turned his back as they laid down the heavy stuff and sent out raiding parties to reclaim light wire of the other battalions. It was all the same regiment, they reckoned, and they did leave some for the others.
Spanish Joe, needless to say, was the best wire thief in the Second Division. One morning he and Andy were out before daybreak reeling up Third Battalion combat wire. They came to a fence. Joe pulled the barbed strands apart as Andy labored through with two stolen reels. They both looked up and into the eyes of ten communicators from the Third Bat.
“Hello, fellows.” Joe smiled sickly.
“So you’re the bastards that have been swiping our wire. We should have known it was Mac’s crew.”
“Plenty for all,” Spanish Joe said meekly.
“There oughta be,” the sergeant from Third Bat bellowed, “we laid ten miles of it yesterday.”
Joe turned to Andy. “Shall we let them have it?”
“Yeah,” Andy answered. “It ain’t fair sides. There’s only ten of them. Besides, they’ll probably turn us in.” They trudged from the scene dejectedly.
“Jesus,” Joe moaned, “Ole Mac is sure going to be pissed off at us for getting caught.”
Captain Tompkins, the Regimental Communications Officer, stormed across the mess area heading directly for the battalion command shack. Gunner Keats paced behind him. “But Captain, sir, are you sure it wasn’t a mistake?” the Gunner asked.
“Mistake, my ass. I’ve been suspecting your men for a long time. I got them red-handed this time.”
“But, Captain, I’ll warn them.”
“Nothing doing, Mr. Keats. I’m going to take this up with Huxley.” He flung the door open and headed directly for Huxley’s office and gave an impatient rap.
“Come in.”
“I’d like to speak with the Colonel, sir!” Tompkins roared.
“I can explain,” Keats said.
“Take it easy, Gunner. What can I do for you, Captain?”
“The regimental net today, sir. I’d like you to read some of the messages transmitted.” He threw a sheaf of message pads on the desk.
Huxley read:
E
NEMY ATTACKING POSITION
K-3
IN PLATOON STRENGTH.
H
AVE WEAPONS BRING UP 37MM’S WITH CANNISTERS.
37
MM’S BUSY WITH COUNTERATTACK AT POSITION
K-5. S
ENDING FOUR FIFTY-CALIBER MACHINE GUNS AT ONCE.
Huxley read several more and shrugged. “I don’t see anything wrong with these messages, Captain Tompkins.”
“Nothing is wrong with them, sir. They were transmitted by the First and Third Battalions. Kindly look at the messages that your men sent.”
Huxley read again:
T
HERE WAS A YOUNG MAN FROM
B
OSTON,
W
HO BOUGHT HIMSELF A NEW
A
USTIN
T
HERE WAS ROOM FOR HIS ASS AND A GALLON OF GAS,
B
UT THE REST HUNG OUT AND HE LOST ’EM.
“See what I mean, Colonel Huxley? Your men are always sending stuff like that over the air. Thank God, it’s in code.”
“I see,” Huxley said seriously. “I’ll take proper measures to see that there is no recurrence of this.”
“Thank you, sir. I’d hate to have to report this to Division.”
“It won’t happen again, Captain.”
“May I be excused, sir?”
“Yes, and thanks for calling my attention to this.”
Tompkins left, slamming the door behind him.
“Phew,”
Keats sighed.
Huxley fiddled with the message pad for several moments and carefully read the contents. “Dammit, Keats, this is serious.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’ve got to cut this out. It is lucky that Tompkins didn’t report this to Division.”
“Yes, sir.”
Huxley looked at the messages again and up at the red-faced and stiff Gunner. They broke into laughter simultaneously.
“Say, this is a good one, Gunner…I mean, for Chrisake warn them to cut it out.”
“O.K., Colonel,” Keats said, smiling.
“Give them a crap detail, digging ditches or else take away their shore leave.”
“Er…take away shore leave, Colonel?”
“Well, don’t bother. Just rant and rave. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, sir,” Keats said, heading for the door.
“And for Chrisake, Gunner, tell them to lay off the Third Bat’s wire. Colonel Norman jumped me about it yesterday.”
Keats opened the door and turned. “They’re a fine bunch, sir.”
“Yes,” Huxley agreed, “the very best.”
Seabags and L.Q. laid their meager resources on the cot. L.Q. counted. “Only four shillings. We can’t go ashore with that.”
“Pretty sad, cousin, pretty sad.”
“Did you try Burnside?”
“Yep, he’s broke. Got cleaned in a poker game at the NCO club.”
“How about you, Marion? Could you spare a bob or two till pay call?”
Marion flipped a half crown over to them. “That’s the sum total.”
“Jesus, we just got to get finances. A couple of nice broads lined up and everybody suffering from pecuniary strangulation.”
“Come again on that last one.”
“Everybody’s ass is busted, you ignorant farmer.”
“Pecuniary strangulation. That’s a good one.”
“Hey,” L.Q. beamed, “I got a sensational idea.”
“Well you better give out. The liberty train goes in an hour.”
L.Q. walked to Levin’s cot and sat beside him. “Levin, old buddy.”
“I told you birds I’m broke.”
He put an arm about Levin. “Understand, Levin, I wouldn’t ask this of you but this is a dire emergency. How about cutting a couple heads of hair and floating us a small loan?”
“Aw, L.Q., I got blisters all over my feet.”
“We’ll fix you up a nice comfortable chair, old buddy.”
“Well, I don t know…”
“The way I figure,” L.Q. calculated rapidly, “we’ll give a bargain price of a shilling a haircut.”
“But…”
“That’s the only way we can round up anybody this time of the month.”
“Yeah, Levin, if we charge two shillings we won’t get no customers.”
“I ain’t looking for none.”
“If you was a buddy you’d do it without a second thought.”
“Well, cousin, what the hell you expect of a draftee?”
“Fugg you guys and save six for pallbearers,” Levin shouted.
“Yep, if he was a Canal buddy it would be different. We’ll just have to call off our dates.”
“Don’t take it so hard, Seabags. We’ll see them again. Pay call is in a week. But by then they’ll probably be shacked up with Eighth Marines.”
“Aw, for Chrisake,” Levin said, “get some guys, I’ll cut their hair.”
“Now that’s a real buddy,” Seabags said.
“Yeah. Just twenty guys is all we’ll need. We’ll be able to swing it if we don’t have to take them to chow.”
“
Twenty haircuts!
Nuttin doin’, besides, I can’t get them done in an hour.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll get them lined up for you, Levin, and we’ll collect in advance and shove off. All you got to do is cut their hair.”
“Twenty! I’ll be cutting to taps.”
L.Q. was already on the catwalk running up and down yelling, “Haircuts, a shilling a cut! Nothing on the cuff. Over at the radio shack! Last chance!” The bargain-seekers poured from their tents.
They were indulging in their favorite pastime—trying to give Levin the red ass. Seabags, Danny, Speedy, Mary and me were on our sacks polishing and cleaning as usual.
“Lend me some skin bracer, Levin.”
He reached into his handmade locker and passed it over. “Don’t forget where you got it.”
“Hey, Levin. How about a shirt?” another asked.
“I only got two clean ones left.”
“All I want is one.”
“Here, and wash and iron it before you return it.”
“Hey, I hear the Dodgers lost again yesterday.”
“They don’t belong in the league.”
“They stink.”
Levin’s face reddened.
“Hey, Levin. Got any Kiwi polish? I’m plumb out.”
“You guys is always out of everything.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, here is the goddam polish!”
“You don’t have to yell, Levin, I ain’t deaf. While you’re at it lend me your Blitz cloth.”
“Did you hear what Noel Coward said about Brooklyn guys?”
“Naw, what’d he say?”
Levin turned purple.
“Can’t remember. Hey, Levin, what’d Noel Coward say about Brooklyn?”
“Eat it,” Levin spat.
“Hey, Levin, got an extra pair of socks?”
Levin threw open the top of his seabag and dumped it over, the contents strewn all over the deck. “Take it! Take it all!” He stomped towards the tent flap, leaving us laughing.
“Don’t go away mad, Jew boy,” Speedy said.
Levin spun and started for Speedy. He cut short and walked from the tent.
“What the hell you have to say that for?” Danny asked.
“Don’t look at me,” Speedy said. “You guys started it.”
“We was just trying to have us a little fun, cousin. You shouldn’t of said that,” Seabags said.
“What’s the difference? I don’t like kikes.”
Marion put his rifle aside. “I think we’d better have a little talk, Speedy.”
“What’s biting your ass?”
“What has Levin ever done to you?”