Battle Cry (34 page)

“You people are bigger and stronger and faster than them Jap bastards. Use your football training, play rough, gouge his eyes, kick his nuts, deck him and finish him.”

We were encouraged to attack each other, just for the fun of it. Little fellows like Ski and Lighttower learned their business and overcame, with speed and knowledge of weak spots, their lack of brawn.

We were conscious, at all times, of sneak attack….

DECEMBER 18, 1942: CAMP MCKAY TO ALL
BATTALION COMMANDERS

Inasmuch as the Sixth Regiment will be moving into the field in the near future, the regimental purchasing officer wishes to call attention to the following: several thousand cases of American beer will be surplus at warehouse six, Wellington Docks. It is suggested that said beer be released to the officers and men at cost and that no limit on purchases be made. It is desired that no beer be left when the regiment departs….

You could hardly walk into our tent for the stacks of beer cases. We had utilized every square inch of space, until space and money ran out. We sat about, sipping our brews, and discussed the things that men discuss when they are drinking: women—and women.

Marion entered the tent and deftly dodged and twisted his way to his sack, threw down his manuscript and picked up his Reising gun to clean it.

L.Q. Jones winked at Speedy Gray and Andy, who had already seated themselves alongside Marion.

“Us fellows was having a little talk,” Speedy said.

“Couldn’t have been anything constructive,” Marion countered as he eyed the bore of his gun and ran a thong through it.

“I wouldn’t let them talk about you that way, I stick up for your good name,” L.Q. said. “I went and bet my last shilling I was going on liberty with you.”

“Me and Speedy bet with L.Q. that you couldn’t drink a bottle of beer,” Andy announced.

“Pay off, L.Q.,” Marion said, “you know I don’t drink.”

I stopped my letter writing as L.Q. went into his act. He pleaded and begged as Andy and Speedy gibed from the background. Marion stood fast. L.Q. fell to his knees and began licking Marion’s shoes and at last took his fair leather belt and demanded that Marion hang him from the tent top rather than betray their “friendship.”

“Pay us off, L.Q.” Speedy winked. “The man’s worthless as tits on a boar hog.”

L.Q. dug for his wallet with a great show of dismay. We all gathered about, needling Marion into the trap. “Bastard forgets the night he was catting around in Dago and old L.Q. stuck his neck out at rollcall. Bastard forgets that,” he moaned, handing a ten-shilling note over to Andy. “Now Olga is going to think I stood her up.”

“From what I’ve heard of Olga, I think it far better this way,” Marion said.

“That’s the final insult,” Jones wept, “our friendship has just gone
pfffft! Pfffft,
do you hear?” He slumped to his sack, muttering.

Marion stopped wiping his gun and sighed. “Give me a darned bottle.”

“Old buddy, old bunkmate!”

“I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, L.Q. I hope you are happy.”

I snatched a bottle, capped it with my belt buckle and thrust it in Marion’s face. He had a very sour look. We gathered about, almost falling on top of him as he lifted the bottle to his lips. He took a short sip, his face screwed up in pain.

“He’ll never make it.”

“Money in the bank.”

“Come on, Mary, you can do it.”

Marion gulped two swallows and almost choked. He held his breath, closed his eyes and tilted the bottle back. Half of it ran out of his mouth and down the front of his shirt. L.Q. let out a victory whoop as the bottle drained. Marion flung it to the deck, coughing madly. He returned to his Reising gun. Andy and Speedy made an alleged transfer of money to L.Q.

“Now look here, L.Q., only a rattlesnake wouldn’t give a man a chance to get his money back,” Speedy drawled.

“Never let it be said that L.Q. Jones is a snake. A pound sterling on the corporal, my dearest buddy.”

I shoved another bottle under Marion’s nose before he could protest. “You guys are in cahoots!” he cried as L.Q. shoved the bottle into his mouth. He finished the second one with considerably less torture and smacked his lips, looked at the dead soldier with smug satisfaction and flipped it cockily to the deck.

“Tell you what I’m going to do,” L.Q. said. “I’m going to give you men a chance. I wager the full winnings that Mary can’t chugalug one down.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Marion whooped. We all relaxed with great satisfaction. At long last we were going to get Marion drunk. The next four bottles went quickly and Marion was soon embarked on the vivid adventures of Dangerous Dan McGrew in the Yukon.

“Tenshun!” Andy barked as Major Huxley lowered his shoulders to fit through our tent flap. We all snapped up, except Danny, who caught Huxley as he tripped over a beer case. Marion staggered over to Sam Huxley before I could shove him under a cot. He was stinking.

“Well, if it isn’t my old buddy, Highpockets…what ya doing, slumming?” Huxley nearly fell out of the tent. He caught his bearings and glared down at the wavering genius.

“Now don’t give me that goddam holier than thou look…you’re a man and I’m a man and I got a few little gripes to discuss with you, see?” He emitted a long, loud belch in Huxley’s face.

“Hodgkiss, you’re drunk!”

“Don’t tell me you made Major with such sharp observations.” He placed his hands on Huxley’s shoulders. “Seriously, old bean,” he mumbled, bleary eyed. “You’re hiking these men too hard…seriously, old bean. Know what they call this outfit? Huxley’s Whores—that’s a hell of a name.” He fell against the Major, who straightened him up at arm’s length.

“Looks like this man is the victim of a conspiracy,” Huxley said.

“To be truthful, sir, you might say we did uncap a bottle or so for him,” Speedy said.

“Hummmmm.”

“I’ll write a book exposing this goddam outfit!” Marion proclaimed dangling from Huxley’s arms with an up-pointed finger. Suddenly he slumped to the deck in a peaceful heap.

Huxley tilted his head back and roared, “Sister Mary!” Then he cut us down with a stern look. “If this ever leaves this tent I’ll bust you all to privates and ship you to field music and I’ll have this guy on piss and punk for the rest of the cruise!”

“Not a word from us,” Andy vowed.

“Us guys are all men of honor,” Speedy added with reverence.

“Amen, deacon,” Huxley said, “and when he gets sobered up, send him to my quarters. Public relations wants him to write a story on the qualities of leadership.”

We burped with relief as Highpockets stamped from the tent.

Andy and Seabags lifted the prostrate body and dumped it on his sack.

“Out like a light.”

“Well, Sister Mary finally got his cherry busted.”

“Hey, Mac, he’s puking.”

“So what you want me to do? Let him puke.”

“But he’s puking on his sack.”

“So I’ll spray him with cologne later.”

We sat about, uncorked bottle after bottle with our trusty belts, and after two cases had diminished, entered a thick-tongued 3.2 glow. Speedy, the squad ballad singer, broke into song and we joined in.

“I’ve got sixpence, a jolly jolly sixpence,

I’ve got sixpence, to last me all my life,

I’ve got tuppence to spend and tuppence to lend,

And tuppence to send home to my wife…DEAR WIFE,

I’ve got no friends to grieve me,

No pretty little girls to deceive meeeeee,

Happy as the day the Marine Corps gets its pay,

As we go rolling rolling home…DEAD DRUNK….”

“L.Q., why don’t you keep your fool mouth shut, you was off key again.”

“Why bless yo’ cotton-picking ass, Speedy.”

“No sass, Yankee, or you and me is going to the deck…. We’ll snap assholes for fair.”

“Have another beer and don’t talk so much.”

“You’re a hell of a nice guy, L.Q.”

Shining Lighttower began a slow sway on his cot. Ordinarily a man of calm habit, as sweet and gentle an individual as you’d care to meet, he was a human dynamo when crocked. Luckily, he usually gave us a minute’s advance warning by swaying and mumbling some ancient Indian chants. Then all hell would break loose. Andy spotted him first.

“The Injun is winding up.” Lighttower’s chant became louder.

“Oh-oh.” The squad backed away toward the tent flap.

“We can’t jump ship with Mary out cold there. That red-man will have his scalp for sure—besides, he’s liable to bust some beer bottles.”

“I got it, let’s tie the Injun up on his sack.”

“A good idea, there’s some rope in my pack.”

“Hurry, get it.”

We fidgeted as Lighttower lifted his head and cast bleary eyes in our direction.

“Andy,” Danny ordered, “you go up and coldcock him.”

“Like hell, I seen him drunk before.”

“Chicken?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, well, that makes two of us.”

L.Q., who was a little drunker than the rest of us, came up with a foolhardy plan.

“I’ll attract his attention. Danny, you’re a football player. You tackle him from the rear. Speedy, have that rope ready.”

“Good idea,” said Seabags, who was omitted from the plan.

We shoved L.Q. to the center of the tent before he could change his mind. He looked at the Injun, then turned and shook each our hands.

“Semper Fidelis,” Seabags said. “You’ll get the Navy Cross for this, L.Q.”

He gritted his teeth and advanced. “On your feet, Injun!” Lighttower sprung up and shrieked like his ancestors as they headed away from a powwow into battle. Danny ran across the deck and took a flying leap. He missed the Indian completely and tackled L.Q. and the pair went flying into a sack, smashing it to smithereens.

“Ya damned fool, you tackled the wrong one,” Seabags cried, as Lighttower came out on the warpath full blast after them.

“Quick,” Andy yelled, “the rope…the rope!”

Speedy cut Andy short by slipping the rope over him and yanking him to the deck. “Not me, not me,
get that Injun!
”

Lighttower came at me. He howled like a coyote. He sensed the blood of a white man; he was going to avenge the tribe. This called for quick action. I reached down and quickly grabbed a bottle.

“Have a beer,” I said.

“Gee, thanks, Mac,” the Injun said. He uncapped it and raised it to his lips. By this time, the commandos had untangled and jumped him en masse. The one mouthful of beer he had taken was sprayed all over me. After fifteen minutes of powerful hand-to-hand combat we had him lashed to his bunk. We turned his head, the only movable part of his body, and placed a bottle of beer between his lips.

“When you finish, just sing, old pal,” Andy said.

Lighttower smiled and thanked us for our consideration and gurgled away, snug in his bonds.

Next Burnside stumbled into the tent, roaring, “I beat McQuade! Ya hear! I whipped that candy-assed gyrene twenty-eight bottles to twenty-three….” We lifted him carefully from where he had dropped and threw him on his sack.

“Ya know somepin’, men,” I said, “this is the finest outfit in the Corps. You boys are just like my own kids…seeeee!”

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,”
the Injun sang.

“Andy, give Lighttower another bottle of beer, he’s singing.”

“We oughta land right on Truk with this outfit, right in the middle of the Imperial Fleet.”

“Or Wake.”

“Or Frisco.”

“Get me another bottle.”

“Too right for a bloody quid, matey.”

“You guys know something?” L.Q. stuttered. “We ought to stick together, even after we win the war.”

“Yeah, we oughta stick together.”

“I agree.”

“Let’s make a pact to meet after the war.”

“How about it, Mac?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s put it in writing, L.Q., and the man who breaks the pact is a dirty bastard.”

“Yeah.”

“How about you, Mac?”

“Count me in, even if I got to go over the hill to meet you.” L.Q. took a piece of paper from his folio and sat on his sack. We gathered about him, armed with beer. His bunk groaned under the weight.

“Somebody bring the lantern over here so’s I can see.”

“When we gonna meet?”

“One year after the war ends—one year to the day.”

“Okay with you guys?”

“Yeah.”

“I got it,” L.Q. said. “We’ll all meet in L.A., in Pershing Square, dressed up like fairies.”

“Great.”

“Yeah.” L.Q. took the paper and pen, and began to write. We crouched over him and belched.

DECEMBER 22, 1942. This here is a holy agreement. We are the dit happy armpit smelling bastards of Huxley’s Whores. We hereby agree that one year after the end of the war we will meet in the City of….

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

“Give the Injun another beer.” L.Q. wrote on, stating that each man was to bring a representative animal from his state to the reunion. An Iowa hog, a Maryland terrapin, a coyote, a longhorn, a cougar, a bull for Spanish Joe, and a goat for Burnside because he was a mountain goat. I was to bring a Marine bulldog but we became stymied on Ski because we couldn’t think what animal inhabited Philadelphia. Finally we decided on a skunk in memory of the officers.

The document further ordered everyone to dress in the costume of their country. The Injun was to be in war paint, and L.Q. had to wear a beret and dark glasses. I was given dispensation to stay in uniform. L.Q. then concluded the pact with these words:
If any guy gets killed and can’t make it, we’ll get drunk in his beloved memory. Any guy that breaks this pact is a dirty bastard, on his word of honor.

We all wrote out our copies and passed them around for signatures.

“Now,” L.Q. said, “let’s seal the pact in blood.” We borrowed Spanish Joe’s stilleto and pricked our fingers and put the blood by our signatures. With tears streaming down our faces, we shook hands, vowed everlasting comradeship in this hallowed moment—and, still belching, opened another round of beers.