Battle Cry (20 page)

“Aw Jesus, Mac,” he whined. I snapped open one of the pockets on his ammo belt. It was empty.

“This stuff too heavy for you, Gomez?”

“I must have forgot to load them up when I cleaned the clips for inspection, Mac.”

“You didn’t do a very good job of cleaning them. Load them up on the double. What the hell you think this is, a church outing?” I ripped open the top of his seabag, grabbed the forty-five slugs hidden there and threw them on his sack. “And load up that pack.”

As I walked away, another item occurred to me. “Let me see your canteen.”

“My what?”

“Stand up.” He did. I unsnapped the clip, withdrew one, and unscrewed the top. “Dago red!”

“Pardon?”

“Dago red,” I repeated, pouring the wine down the front of his shirt. “In five miles you’ll be begging water off the squad.”

“It must be a trick, Mac, I just filled them with water.”

“Gomez, you march directly in front of me. You’re going to pull the communications cart from here to Rose Canyon and back and you’d better not ask for a relief, because you aren’t getting one. And every time the TBX goes into operation you crank the generator, and furthermore, don’t forget you’re going to have a four-hour watch on the regimental net. Got it?”

“You’re picking on me!” he cried. “Wait till I get my hands on the craphead that filled my canteens with Dago red.”

I passed on down the squad. Seabags Brown was struggling with his ass pack. The ass pack is a weird innovation for the radiomen. They have to carry the large and cumbersome TBY, the walkie-talkie, plus their normal field gear. In order to handle both, the combat pack is rigged so it hangs from suspenders on a level with a man’s backside, thus leaving room on his back for the radio. As he walks, the pack slaps against his rear end. On a march with TBY communications, a two-man team was necessary. One to carry the set, the other to walk behind and operate it.

Andy Hookans was dumping a can of footpowder into his boondockers. “You better get over to How Company on the double.” I sent the other walkie-talkie men to their infantry companies and went outside to check the cart again.

Marion Hodgkiss and the Feathermerchant, working the command post TBY, waddled out to the company street. Ski was all but lost under the quantity of gear: steel helmet, Reising gun, radio, two canteens of water, machete knife, first-aid pack, two hundred and twenty rounds of ammunition. His ass pack sagged nearly to the ground and was topped by a trenching tool, poncho, and shelter half. He looked sad.

I checked the time. “O.K., Marion, check in with the line outfits, channel fifty-four.” He turned the Feathermerchant around, unsnapped the cover of the radio, and twisted the controls. He donned the earphones and mike and plugged them into the set.

“Fresno White to Easy, Fresno White to Easy…how do you read me?”

“Easy to Fresno White, five and five…over,” Speedy Gray drawled from the E Company station.

“Fox to Fresno White, five and five, over,” Danny Forrester said.

“George to Fresno White, five and five, over. At the sound of the chimes you shall hear the golden voice of Lament Quincy Jones, the Sinatra of the Corps, who shall render for you…”

“Fresno White to Jones. One of these days somebody is going to be listening to your military procedure and you’re going to be pot walloping the rest of the cruise.”

I walked over to Marion. “Fat boy Jones cutting up again?”

“No, just giving him a test count,” he lied. He test counted Andy in from How Company. Andy’s set was on the bum and the reading was poor, but the best that could be gotten.

A sharp blast of First Sergeant Pucchi’s whistle sent the Marines of Headquarters tumbling from the barrack into the street. “Fall in!”

Lieutenant Bryce, the new company commander, rounded the barracks.

“Tenshun!” barked Pucchi. A sharp pop of heels. Pucchi saluted Bryce. Bryce saluted Pucchi.

“Report!” ordered Bryce.

Again a salute and about face to us.

“Comm platoon present and accounted for,” I said, cutting away my salute.

“Two Section present and accounted for,” Sergeant Paris of Bn 2 barked as he saluted.

“Corpsman present and accounted for,” Pharmacist Mate Pedro Rojas said, giving the usual tired sailor’s salute.

“Bn 4 and utilities present and accounted for,” Sergeant Herman, the quartermaster and most popular man of the outfit, said.

The first sergeant about faced to Lieutenant Bryce. “All present and accounted for, sir.” They saluted each other.

“At ease.” We shifted about trying to ease the weight…and there we stood waiting for fifteen minutes.

“Goddammit,” the Feathermerchant moaned, lowering the radio from his back, “didn’t anybody kiss Huxley and wake him up?”

“There’s a right way and a Marine way.”

“Me no like um white man’s war. Injuns travel light.”

“Fresno White from George. My goddam radio is getting heavy…tell that goddam Major to start the goddam hike before my goddam back breaks.”

“Fresno White from How…ditto.”

Another fifteen minutes passed. Then the jeeps came flying up the main street and pulled to a sudden stop before us.

“Ah, we can start the war. The brass has arrived.”

Major Sam Huxley and his staff debarked from the jeeps. The parade of gold and silver in the morning sun reflected against our eyes: Marine Gunner Keats, the communications officer; Captain Marlin, operations and training; Doc Kyser, the battalion surgeon; Major Wellman, the exec officer; the intelligence officer; and the one and only Major Sam Huxley.

They arrayed themselves before us. Well…as long as we have to have officers to fight a war, I thought, the Marine officers were the best of the lot.

We once again went through the procedure of reporting and saluting. Keats then marched over to Marion. “Message center,” he called. Corporal Banks trotted over and handed him a message pad. Gunner Keats wrote out a message and handed it to Sister Mary.

“All companies from Fresno White. Stand by to move out. George Company assume the point of march, over.”

“Roger…and it’s about time…out.”

In a moment the Marines of George Company moved past us, cut left to the boondocks and the skipper barked an order. “Second platoon, take the advance party…first squad take the point!” The men of the second platoon double timed ahead of the rest of the company and fanned out. Far out in front, the battalion scout held up his rifle for them to halt as the advance party took up its position, forming an arrowhead around the battalion. The scout turned and dropped his right arm in the signal ‘Forward’ and George Company moved out.

“Fox from Fresno White…move out, over.”

“Fresno White from Fox, roger, out.”

In open route formation, Fox moved past us, led by the skipper, the exec and the first sergeant. Then came the officer of the platoon, pack swinging on his back and his automatic on his hip; beside him, the platoon sergeant, armed with the Reising gun. Then the corporals of each squad of riflemen. Their raw, gaunt muscles leaned them forward to catch the cadence of the march. They were young men, these riflemen, boys of eighteen, nineteen, and twenty. They were the Marines of the Second World War.

Heavy Weapons passed, How Company. This was the bush league artillery support that each battalion carried. Eighty-millimeter mortars, wicked-looking .50-caliber machine guns, a communications cart filled with telephone equipment to link a line between mortars and the battalion command. These were larger boys. They had to be—to bear the weight of the machine gun barrels, the bandoliers and boxes of ammunition, the mortar plates and barrels.

Major Huxley nodded to Bryce.

“Left face.” We turned. “Forward harch!” And we fell in line and moved over the boondocks.

“Easy from Fresno White,” Marion called, “bring up the rear, over.”

“Roger, out.”

“All companies from Fresno White, throw out flank guards.”

The feet of eight hundred men, Huxley’s Whores, shuffled a slow cadence toward the gate that led them to the highway. The gate swung open, the advance party passed through. M.P.s stopped the flow of vehicles on the highway as the long line of double-filed men passed through. We took up place on either side of the road and as the rear guard closed the gate, the march was on.

Spanish Joe looked at me hopefully as I called for the first relief on the carts. No dice. He was going to get a gut full this trip, if never again.

We turned off the highway onto a dirt road that had led ten thousand Marines before us on a grind that would end twenty miles away in the wooden canyon. We were soon enshrouded in a cloud of dust. Then came the sweat, the eternal sweat which entices the heavy clay dust to stick to our faces. The first goddam mile is always the worst. That’s the mile when you’re fresh and alert and can feel the weight and the pain, before the numbness sets in.

Time check. Forty-six minutes down, fourteen to go. We were moving about two and a half miles an hour. A pretty good clip for full battalion in heavy marching order. Huxley must be out to find who are the sickbay soldiers and who are the Marines. I felt sorry for the rear guard; probably double timing to keep up.

I looked at Ziltch, the Major’s orderly. It was funny to watch the five-foot six-inch puppy taking three steps to his six-foot three-inch master’s one. He worshipped Huxley—he could have chosen a worse idol. The strange relation that existed between this man and this boy seemed something more than that of major to private—more like father and son. Huxley didn’t have any kids of his own. When he was a first looey in Iceland he had once told me of the feeling he had when he entered the ward of the crippled children’s hospital in San Francisco. He was playing in the Shrine East-West Game. The little kids were pretty swell, even with warped bones and casted bodies. Huxley told about his adopted girl friend, who waved an Ohio State pennant. She had given her hero a large red handkerchief on which she had embroidered the name: Sam Huxley, Ohio State. It wasn’t a very good job, but the best her crippled hands could do….

Huxley checked his watch. He took out his large red handkerchief, his good luck piece, and wiped some of the grime from his face.

Marion took the TBY from the Feathermerchant and put it on his own back. Ski almost left the ground when he lost the fifty pounds. Marion wavered a moment and fell into step again. Ski took the earphones, wiped out Marion’s sweat and put them on his own dripping face.

Sister Mary was a damned good man. We had the best walkie-talkie combination in the regiment. The ancient and dilapidated and nearly unworkable radios seemed to come alive under his hand and somehow, when he was on the command radio, every company was in touch with the other.

Corporal Banks of message center handed him a message. Ski read out the glad tidings. “Fresno White to all companies, take ten.”

“Fall out!” I ordered. “Communications…Burnside, set up the TBX and get in with regiment! Hodgkiss, help me lay out the panels for air identification! Let’s go! Gomez, get on that generator!”

As they flopped to the roadside a crescendo of cursing and bitching arose. Marion and I laid out the panels and I advanced towards the party of officers kneeling around Huxley. Ski came up to me.

“Hey, Mac. How is gone. He’s using set number fifty-two. It’s on the blink.”

“Dammit anyhow!”

There was shouting up and down the line. “Easy on the rain-juice! All men crapping, get away from the area and cover it up with your trenching tool!”

I saluted Marine Gunner Keats, the comm officer. “Panels out, sir, for aircraft. The walkie-talkie to How Company is shot.”

“Did you try them on CW?”

“No, sir, but I don’t think the key will work either.”

“O.K.,” Keats moaned, “use the alternate set.”

“The alternate set is no good either.”

“Aw piss.” Keats turned to Huxley. “Major, the radio to How is out of operation.”

“Can you use semaphore?”

“Not very well while we’re marching, sir.”

“Well, have message center keep two runners working,” he said angrily.

“Major Huxley,” Keats said, “those TBYs aren’t worth the crap they’re made of. They were designed by some goddam sailor for use over water. Every time we pass a good-sized tree it blocks reception. I think we should jam them up the Navy’s ass sideways…sir.”

Huxley arose and faced the fiery warrant officer. Keats, an old mustang from the ranks, generally expressed his thoughts in plain English, which the Major admired—at times.

“Mister Keats,” he said, “do you feel you are incapable of operation with the present equipment?”

“Major Huxley, sir. My switchboard was outdated in the Civil War. My men are rolling hundred-pound reels of motheaten wire while the Army has ten-pound spools of combat wire. My coding machine was discarded by General Pershing and my goddam radios couldn’t have helped Custer at the Little Big Horn.”

The rest of the officers stood back at a safe distance. I was washing out my mouth, trying to pick up as much grit as possible. I spit a swig out, drank a swallow, snuck another, replaced my canteen, and edged in closer.

“Mister Keats! The United States Army also carries Garand rifles and we carry 03s from World War I. The Army flies P-38s and we fly F4Fs. I’m not going to read the roster of combat gear at this time. However, Mister Keats, keep this in mind at all future outbursts: the Marine Corps has managed to get by, and damned well, on the crap we buy with leftover Navy appropriations. Until such time as we can execute this war on the grandiose scale of the Army we shall develop men in such manner that their personal conduct and training will overcome any fault in equipment. We will get a hundred per cent efficiency out of every last piece of gear we have. Is that clear, Mister Keats?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are the communications officer—start communicating!”

“Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant Bryce, the company commander, stepped up. “Begging the Major’s pardon, could I advance the Major a suggestion?”

“No!”

“Beg your pardon, sir.”

Huxley brushed past him in a huff.