Battle Cry (29 page)

We all felt that something special was in store for the Sixth Marines. After all, we were a stalwart outfit; our name had been synonymous with trouble for many decades.

With full complement of troops aboard and all gear issued, we began crating up. On each box a white square was stenciled with the figures 2/6 on it, to identify our battalion. (White was always used for the second battalion.) On the piles of crates, too, we stenciled the two mysterious words
Spooner
and
Bobo. Spooner
would be our destination and
Bobo,
our ship.

Soon the camp was a mountain of boxes labeled
Spooner Bobo,
and for the other battalions of the Sixth,
Spooner Lolo
and
Spooner Mumu.
Then the loading and dock parties started.

In true Marine tradition, I found my platoon were first class goof-offs. To flush them out of hiding for the working parties was a full time job. They could find the damnedest excuses and the meanest hiding places that could be conceived. In this respect they matched the old Corps to a T. The platoon was doubly irked when they had to carry the load for the entire Headquarters Company. The corpsmen did no loading, the cooks none; the other sections, very little.

Burnside and me were pissed to the point of blowing our gaskets. Every time a truck pulled in to be loaded we had to go on a safari for the men. At last we commandeered an eight-man tent and put the whole squad in it and either Burnside or me stood watch on them all the time. As the pace picked up, the working parties ran around the clock.

Spanish Joe Gomez, a past master at goldbricking, got out of camp somehow and in San Diego purchased and brought back twenty gallons of Dago Red in a “borrowed” jeep. For three days and nights the squad staggered back and forth between loading details. When the wine ran out, Joe got into town again, and in spite of the scrutiny of the camp guards, returned with more of the two-bit-a-gallon poison. They drank themselves into terrible shape. Only Sister Mary remained sober enough to organize a working party.

Throughout the night, awaiting another truck to come for the gear, they lay on unmade cots in the working party tent and guzzled Dago Red. They didn’t even bother to eat. Mornings found the deck spotted with pale crimson vomit. A night of wine drinking and they were burning with thirst in the morning. One drink of water to quench the thirst and they were drunk again. I was glad to see the last crate aboard the last truck and heading for the docks. We moved back to the barracks, packed our personal gear, and waited.

A pay call came in the nick of time. We were given liberty and a chance to say farewell in good Marine style. The battalion went out and got plastered.

Then we staggered back to camp and waited. We did not move out. Another liberty—another wait—another liberty. Each nervewracking day we stood by to move out and each night found us in San Diego toasting eternal friendships.

At the end of the week there was no money left to go ashore on. Not a loose nickel in the battalion. Then we began wiring home for money to buy “essentials”—meaning, of course, for one last fling.

Almost as anticlimax, we boarded buses and trucks and moved into the city to the docks. All the crates marked
Spooner Bobo
were there to greet us. They had to be loaded aboard the ship. It meant another few days, and the trouble with working parties started all over. Only here they had more room to hide.

Then I set foot on the
Bobo.
If ever a gyrene wanted to drown his sorrows, I did. I had been in this Corps for more hitches than I cared to mention; I’d been on a lot of troop transports in my time. None of them were luxury liners…but the
Bobo
was the filthiest, grimiest, stinkingest pigboat that ever hauled bananas or cows to Havana. I prayed the trip would be a short run. I tried to conceal my displeasure at this floating coffin manned by the merchant marine, but it wasn’t easy. Although we had been hitting the bottle heavy for over a week, when we saw her we were ready to go and really get drunk.

Andy, Speedy, L.Q., Seabags, and Danny hit the first bar on Broadway, determined to drink their way, slop shute by slop shute, to the other end of the long street. I wanted to keep an eye on them but got caught in the middle of a Burnside vs. McQuade bout and I was in a mood to put them both under the table. So I lost contact with the squad in the second bar, and just hoped that morning would find them all aboard ship.

The warriors in forest green sat, bleary eyed, around a table in a cocktail lounge in Crescent City, on the outskirts of San Diego. None of them could coherently tell how they had arrived there. A subdued light played soft shadows on the walls of the place. On a platform, a sleepy-eyed organist trickled her fingers to fill the room with soothing melody.

“Too bad old Mary ain’t here.”

“Yeah, too bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s drink to old Mary.”

“Good idea.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Andy—you still keep track, cousin?”

“Yeah, this is the twenty-third round for me. The eighteenth for the rest of you cherries.”

“Hey, L.Q.—you gonna start crying again?”

“I don’t want to cry…but I just gotta…I can’t help it….”

“Aw, gee, L.Q., if you cry, I’m gonna cry. Don’t cry, buddy.” Andy wept too.

“L.Q., Danny, ole’ cousins. I ain’t gonna let no Jap get you. You the best cousins I ever had. We stick together, we do.”

“You ain’t got to cry, just cause we’re crying, Seabags.”

“Can’t help myself…I love you so much.”

“Hey, Andy, why you crying?”

“Ain’t no law that says I can’t.”

Heads turned, some in disgust, some in pity, some laughing at the five husky Marines bawling at the table.

The drinks arrived.

“Who the hell was we gonna toast?”

“Ole Mac.”

“Naw, we was gonna toast our pal Lootenant Bryce.”

“Fugg Bryce.”

“Let’s all toast our beautiful love.”

“Yeah.”

“Here, L.Q., take my hanky and blow yer nose.”

“Thanks, old buddy.”

“Hurry, L.Q., we’re already done.”

“How many does that make, Andy?”

“Eighty-six for me…eighty twenty-three for you cherries.”

“Phew.”

“Burp.”

“Anybody here still read the clock?”

“We got fifteen minutes more. Hey waitress, survey!”

Andy wended a wary course to the organist and chatted and staggered back to the table.

In a moment “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You” blared out. They looked at Speedy. He sucked in a deep breath and fought to his feet and stood at attention. The others arose and wavered until the song was done.

Then the girl at the organ played “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” and their eyes turned to Danny. He lowered his head, a tear trickled down his cheek. He felt four sympathetic hands on his shoulders, slapping them knowingly. “Andy, ole buddy…that was nice, seeing as you hate women.”

“Buck up, Danny ole cousin…ain’t no Jap gonna get you, buddy buddy.”

“Thata mose beautiful thing I ever heard in my life.”

It was three in the morning when I found them again. They were doing close order drill right up the middle of Broadway. Fortunately the Shore Patrol wasn’t around. Speedy Gray sat on the curbstone blurting out commands and the other four staggered back and forth over the car tracks, resembling a drill team in their first day of boot camp. They were taking off in every direction.

“Hup two, hup two, reah po, reah po,” stuttered the waylaid Texan.

“For Chrisake you guys, get off the street,” I called.

“Hi, Mac. Lep right lep…lep flank…po.”

“Dammit, you guys get in here before the Shore Patrol brigs you all.”

A crowd of late watchers began to gather to observe the precision drill. A civilian standing next to me decided to give me a hand.

“Why don’t you fellows do like your sergeant says?” he shouted.

“Never mind,” I answered angrily, “if they want to drill, they can drill.”

“I was only trying to help you,” the civvy said.

“This is strictly an affair of the military, see?”

Speedy had gotten to his feet with the aid of a handy lamppost, and he leaned against the civilian. “Ain’t no goddam civvy going to tell us what to do,” he said, flipping the man’s silk tie up with his finger. He flipped it again and giggled, apparently amused.

“Don’t do that again,” the man snarled.

Speedy reached up and shoved the man’s hat down over his eyes and spun him about. Andy, who had sneaked up from the rear, clouted him and knocked him into my arms. He was out cold. I laid the poor fellow tenderly down on the sidewalk.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

We ran for several blocks, then were slowed by having to drag Seabags, who decided he did not wish to go any further. A few more moments found us catching our breath in the lobby of the plush Lincoln Hotel.

“What you hit that civvy for?” I demanded of Andy.

“Aw, gee, Mac, a guy can’t have no fun when you’re around.” He pouted.

“Come on, let’s go out and wreck a bar,” Speedy suggested. “Aw, L.Q., now stop crying.”

“The bars are closed,” I said. “I’m taking you guys back to the ship.”

They groaned. Danny arose and looked across the lobby. An all-night long distance operator was on duty at a counter beside a row of phone booths.

“Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute, men. I’m…I’m gonna phone Kathy. Come on, fellows, I want you all to meet my kitten.” He staggered to the counter. “Hey, lady,” he said, “I want to talk to Kathy.”

“Do you know the number, Marine?”

“Kathy, in Baltimore….”

“Kathy who?”

“Kathy Walker…I mean Forrester. The phone is Liberty 6056 or 5065. Her old man’s name is Marvin. Isn’t that a hot one—Marvin, Marvin Walker.”

“Do you know the street, sir?”

“What do you mean
sir?
I’m just a buck-assed private, lady.” He reached in his wallet, it was empty. “Reverse the charges, Marvin is a buddy of mine.”

“Hello,” a drowsy voice grunted.

“I have a long distance call from San Diego. Will you accept charges?”

“Who in the hell would be calling at five in the—San Diego, yes, of course.”

“Here is your party, sir.”

“All right you guys, stop shoving. Hello, Marvin!”

“Danny!”

“Hi, Marvin, old pal. Let me speak with my spouse.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Correct.”

“Dad, who is it?”

“It’s your husband, that’s who it is! He’s cockeyed drunk and it sounds like he has the whole Marine Corps in the phone booth with him.”

“Danny! Danny darling.”

“Hi.”

“Danny…Danny!”

“Hey look, honey. You know all the guys I wrote you about? Most of them are here. Old Mary is reading the Bible so you can’t meet him. I want you to meet—stop shoving, dammit.”

“Hi, cousin, my name is Seabags.”

“Hello, Seabags.”

“One at a time.”

“Hello, Kathy, I look at you all’s picture all the time. You sure are pretty.”

“Which one are you?”

“I’m Speedy, mam.”

“Oh, hello, Tex.”

“Come on, Andy, say something.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Honey, old Andy hates broads and L.Q. is crying. You wouldn’t want to talk to L.Q. when he’s crying.”

I shoved them all out of the booth and closed the door. “Hello, Kathy, this is Mac, Danny’s sergeant.”

“Hello, Mac.” Two words and I could understand the hunger that was inside Danny’s heart. It sounded like an angel’s voice.

“Look, honey…the boys are a little…tight. I tried to talk them out of doing this.”

“I understand.”

“Kathy.”

“Yes, Mac.”

“You’ve got a nice boy, we all like him.”

“Are…are you leaving soon?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Look, Kathy…don’t worry.”

“Keep an eye on him, will you?”

“I’ll do my best.”

I shoved Danny into the booth again and whispered into his ear, “Say something nice, you bastard.” A dim sobriety seemed to cut through his alcoholic fog.

“Kitten, you’re not sore at me?”

“No, darling, of course not.”

“Kathy, Kathy. I…I love you.”

“I love you too, my darling.”

“Good…good-by, Kathy.”

“Good-by, Danny…good luck to all of you.”

PART THREE

Prologue

TROOPSHIPS
are not designed for comfort, unless you happen to be an officer. I’ve been on plenty of them but never found worse than the
Bobo.
Whoever converted this freighter must have thrown the drawing board away. Sadists had designed the quarters. There were four holes, two forward and two aft. Each was two decks deep. We were at the bottom of the well. Canvas cots six and seven high, spaced just about as far apart as flapjacks on a platter. You had to lay on your back or stomach, flat. A roll sideways and you’d hit the cot over you.

Lighting was almost nil. The ventilation was a laugh—if you could call it funny. Space between the tiers of cots was so narrow you were forced to walk sideways, over crammed aisles of seabags and packs, to your miserable piece of canvas. The covered section of each hold was massed with crates. It was terrible, even for an old-timer like me.

At long last we saw green hills looming over the horizon one morning. The horrible journey was over. The hated
Bobo
slipped into the bay and we looked, in awe, at the rolling hills, the quaint, brightly colored houses and the still, beautiful calm of the land. We had reached Spooner, New Zealand!

There were about four thousand of us in New Zealand and the land was ours. Our chow was beefsteak, eggs, ice cream, and all the milk a man could hold. And the people opened their homes to us.

That was one of the wonderful things about being a Marine. The feel of a new land under your feet. As you marched down Lambdon Quay in step with a buddy, your greens sharp and your leather shiny, you saw them turn and smile. The strange smell of foreign cooking and the new and wonderful odors of ale and tobacco; the funny way of talking and the funny money, and the honest merchants who gave baffled Marines a square shake. The beauty of the rolling hills and the gentle summer and the quaintness of the Victorian buildings, matching the slow, uneventful way of life. We were happy in New Zealand. As happy as a man can be six thousand miles away from his home. And my boys were tough and ready. Huxley’s Whores—the whole Sixth Marines were like nails.