Battle Cry (42 page)

Down the beach he thought he spotted a moving form. He swung the gun around and strained his eyes. There was something moving! He threw the bolt twice, readying the piece for firing. The form moved slowly and unevenly through the sand. The setting sun made it hard to distinguish. Speedy squinted and waited. It came closer.

“Halt, who goes there?” he barked. No answer. “I said halt, who goes there?”

“Marine, dammit,” a hoarse voice croaked from down the beach.

“What’s the password?”

“Stop playing dogface, Speedy—it’s yer ole cousin Seabags.”

“Seabags!”
Speedy raced faster than he had ever moved in his life. “Seabags, you old fart knocker—we thought you was dead.” He took the unconscious body of Red Cassidy from Brown, threw it over his shoulders, and pumped Seabags’ hand.

“Pardon my steel grip,” Seabags whispered, pitching to his knees, exhausted. Gray assisted him to his feet and half dragged him into the CP, screaming at the top of his lungs: “The farmer’s back—ole Seabags made it!”

“Call up the jeep ambulance on the double.”

“Doc, Doc…get Kyser here quick.”

“Seabags!” We clambered all over him.

“Stop kissing me, you goldarn slobbering bastards.”

“Seabags is back!”

“You shoulda seen the souvenirs I had to toss away.” They laid the two on stretchers. Speedy held Seabags’ hand….

“O.K., stand back, stand back dammit, give them air.”

“I’m plumb tuckered.”

“I told you he’d make it.”

Doc Kyser and Sam Huxley leaned close to Brown, whose voice was fading. Kyser studied his exhausted bloodshot eyes and swollen face.

“Water,” Seabags whispered.

“Not too much, son…just wet your lips.”

“Anybody got a chaw?”

“Here, Seabags.”

“Hey, Doc…I’m O.K. Better take a look at Cassidy. I had to coldcock him. He went loco on me…I been carrying him for two days…his leg is in a bad way.”

Kyser looked at Red’s swollen and discolored limb. “Hurry up with that ambulance,” he cried. “Phone up base hospital to prepare for surgery…hurry, dammit!” The doctor looked up at Sam Huxley. Huxley’s eyes asked the question. Kyser shook his head.

“Too bad,” Highpockets whispered.

CHAPTER 10

January 28, 1943

THE
battalion jeep screeched to a stop. Huxley jumped out and dashed into the CP tent. “Get those men up here on the double.” he called to Ziltch.

Paris, Gunnery Sergeant McQuade from Fox Company, Pedro Rojas, and I converged on the tent at the same time.

“Where the hell is that candy-ass Burnside?” McQuade barked.

“In the aid tent,” I answered. “Got the bug in a bad way.”

“Aw hell, I wanted to hike his ass into the deck,” the red-faced gunner moaned.

“Looks like you lost your beer gut, Mac,” I said to him.

“Been on a diet, Mac,” he answered.

“We’d better report,” Paris said. “Highpockets seemed like he was in a real big hurry.”

“What’s the rush, we been sitting here for four days.”

We entered the tent and reported.

“Reporting for the patrol, Sam,” McQuade gruffed.

Huxley looked up from his field map. “I told Keats, Kyser, and LeForce to send me four men, not the squad chiefs!”

“I know, Sam,” I said, “but my boys are kind of corked out and…”

“Er,” Paris took it up, “my men are a little beat too….”

“What’s the matter with you people? Playing hero? Want me to lose all my squad leaders at once? This patrol too dangerous for your little lambs? Never mind, I haven’t time to change now. Who else have you got, Mac?”

“Forrester and Zvonski, the Feathermerchant.”

He looked at McQuade.

“A BAR team. Rackley for scouting, two men to help with the radios and a couple riflemen…Hawk and Kalberg there.”

“Bring them all in. Where’s Harper? He’s holding up the parade.”

“He was taking a crap,” McQuade said, just as the hefty little Southerner entered along with the others. Lieutenant Harper of Fox Company reported, a wad of gum bouncing around nervously in his mouth.

“Get rid of that gum,” Huxley said.

Lieutenant Harper placed it behind his ear and we gathered about the map. “Here’s the scoop,” Huxley said. “The Army has a ring around the base of the mountains up to Esperance. Our present position is here.” He pointed to a spot about six miles from Tassafaronga Point. “The Japs have all their men concentrated in this area. They are pulling them out by submarine every night.”

“I thought we were moving too slow to catch them,” Harper said.

“That wasn’t our fault,” Huxley snapped. “We’ve got to get in there fast and bottle them before the whole gang gets away. We have a good idea where they are hiding, but we are in the dark as to their strength and armor. You men are to get up there and reconnoiter the area. Pinpoint their position, find out how many and what they’ve got—especially the heavy stuff.”

Harper and Paris nodded. “Look these over,” Huxley said, shoving some aerial recon photos at us. “Mac.”

“Yo.”

“When the patrol nears the Jap area, split into two groups. One stays back and sets up the big radio. The other goes in for observation. Use the walkie-talkies to get the information back to the first group. Transmit it back to us and get the hell out of there. We jump tomorrow.”

I nodded.

“All you men, remember: we need this information to set up our air and artillery strikes. Get your asses out of there and don’t get into any scraps if you can avoid it. Come back down the beach. We’ll be looking for you. The password will be Laughing Luke…any questions? All right then. You can deposit any valuables here. Take off all rings, buckles, and any other shiny objects. Report to quartermaster and draw camouflage gear, extra canteens, ammo—and get your faces blacked. You jump in forty minutes. Good luck.” We checked in our valuables and left.

“Ziltch!”

“Yes, sir—I mean yes, Sam.”

“Get Bryce over here on the double.”

“Yes, sir—I mean, Sam.”

Lieutenant Bryce entered the tent. “You wanted me, Sam?”

“Yes, Harper is taking a patrol out in forty minutes. I want you to go along.”

The blood rushed from Bryce’s face. He was very pale. “But the CP, Sam—I’ve been working like the devil to set up—”

“Sit down, Bryce,” he said. “Cigarette?” Huxley offered. “Tell me something Bryce, do you know the difference between a Jersey, a Guernsey, a Holstein, and an Ayrshire?”

“No.”

“Seabags Brown does.”

“I don’t see what that has to do…”

“What do you know about Gaelic history?”

“Not much.”

“Then why don’t you sit down some day with Gunner McQuade. He is an expert. Speaks the language, too.”

“I don’t…”

“What do you know about astronomy?”

“A little.”

“Discuss it with Wellman, he held a fellowship.”

“This is most puzzling.”

“What about Homer, ever read Homer?”

Bryce beamed. “Of course I’ve read Homer.”

“In the original Greek?”

“No.”

“Then chat with Pfc. Hodgkiss. Loves to read the ancient Greek.”

“Would you kindly get to the point?”

“The point is this, Bryce. What makes you think you’re so goddam superior? Who gave you the bright idea that you had a corner on the world’s knowledge? There are privates in this battalion who can piss more brains down a slit trench than you’ll ever have.”

“This is hardly the proper time—”

“It’s damn well proper. You’re the most pretentious, egotistical individual I’ve ever encountered. Your superiority complex reeks. I’ve seen the way you treat men, like a big strutting peacock. Why, you’ve had them do everything but wipe your ass.”

“Major Huxley!”

“Shut up, I haven’t finished. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that a Headquarters Company commander is the most useless command we can find for an officer. You’re deadweight, Bryce, deadweight.”

“I’ve done my best,” he whined.

“Bryce, we are proud of our officers in the Corps. Our men came up the hard way, through the ranks or Annapolis. I put in eight years of study at Ohio State and Navy to get my bars. It’s taken ten years for me to make Major. I’d be a captain yet if we weren’t fighting a war. Unfortunately our qualifications had to be lowered due to situations we can’t control. Since the outbreak of hostilities we’ve accepted hundreds of men, such as yourself, and given them commissions. Thank God the vast majority of these people have accepted their tasks, and more, they’ve found out the spirit that is the life blood of the Marine Corps. They’ll make damn fine officers. And the same goes for the thousands of enlisted people. They’ve all learned there is a price to pay for wearing a green uniform—tell me, Bryce why did you join the Corps?”

“I’d rather not answer that, Huxley.”

“Maybe you liked the blue uniform, big social doings—passport to notoriety?”

Bryce puffed jerkily on his cigarette. “I’d like a transfer out of this battalion, Huxley.”

“Nothing on God’s earth would give me greater pleasure. But who am I going to pawn you off on? What are you good for? Tanks? Artillery? Air? Amphibians? Or maybe a nice soft seat in public relations? Let this sink in. There is no soft touch in the Marine Corps. No matter if you’re a company clerk, field music, a cook or what, you are one thing first, last, and always—a rifleman. Shoot and march, Bryce. Our artillery doesn’t run when their guns are in danger, they dig in and protect them like any mud Marine. Our tanks are protected by the infantry and not vice versa. Any man in the battalion is capable of leading a platoon of rifles. Why, even our musicians bear stretchers in battle. Shoot and march, and the belief that you are invincible—that’s what they call fighting spirit. You wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I wouldn’t understand,” Bryce shouted. “Blood, glory, whisky and women. That’s the Marine battle cry. The deeper they wade in blood the better. Socially, spiritually, morally, you are nothing but professional killers—against every concept of democratic ideals.”

“Bryce, ideals are a great thing. No doubt every man here has some ideals. However, and unfortunately, this war and this island and the next day’s objective aren’t ideals. They are very real. Killing Japs is real and we are going to kill them and save our ideals for future reference. When we get off this island, Bryce, I’m going to assign you to a platoon of riflemen. You’d better become a good officer. Now, report to Harper at once and join that patrol!”

We fell panting into some brush. The scout, a skinny wiry Tennesseean, held us up. We lay sweat-drenched and gasping for air. Although we were traveling light, the trek through solid jungle had been exhausting. We had steered clear of any paths. The day was broiling and our thick black makeup made it seem hotter. The tension of keeping quiet became greater as we found signs of a Jap bivouac area. We had passed the radios from shoulder to shoulder every few minutes to keep going at top speed.

Even Bryce didn’t object when we called on him for a turn. I wet my lips and looked about. No enemy yet. Each step from here on would be filled with anticipation of being cut down by a sniper. The gum-chewing Harper and his scout had chosen their course well. So far we had avoided trouble.

Rackley the scout, three bandoleers of ammo draped over his scrawny shoulders, appeared again. He signaled us to assemble about him. We sank to our knees over Harper’s map. The scout whispered, “Thar’s a ridge about two hunnert yards up, slopes down to tall grass. Thar’s an open field and big field rocks in it. Past it is a woods and cave area, lousy with Japs.”

“Can you see them from the ridge?”

“Naw, can’t count ’em nohow. We’ll have to cross the field and lay in close behind some of them thar rocks.”

The gum in Harper’s mouth popped as he thought fast. “We’ll move to the top of the ridge and split into two parties. Paris, McQuade, a BAR team, and one of the walkie-talkies will go down with me. We’ll radio it back up to the ridge, soon as we get our information. Mac, set up the big radio and relay to Topeka White.”

“Roger.”

“Any suggestions? O.K., let’s move up to the ridge.” Rackley grabbed his rifle and moved out in front of us, leading the way. We moved forward in a creep. From the ridge top we looked over the field to the woods where the remaining Japs on Guadalcanal were holed up. The slope down the ridge was slick and would be tricky to negotiate. We took position by quiet and quick hand signals. I set up the big radio aways back and then they unzipped the walkie-talkies, screwed on more antennae, and gave each other hushed test calls. I ordered Danny to go down with the observation party, and Ski to stay back with me to relay information.

Rackley crouched low, then went over the top. He lost his footing immediately and slid and rolled over, halfway down the drop. We saw him reach bottom and zigzag through the field from boulder to boulder until he was almost at the Jap camp. He raised his hand and signaled.

Harper lay in the grass. He looked down. “O.K., radioman over the top.” Danny crawled on all fours to the rim. Ski grabbed and held him fast. I went to them quickly to see what the trouble was. Ski, without a word, looked into my eyes. Then he spoke. “Keep Danny up here,” he whispered, “I’m shoving,” and he dove down the ridge.

“Chrisake, Mac, you assigned me to go down,” Danny said.

“It’s better this way, he wants it,” I said. “Keep in contact with him.”

One by one the observation party made the clearing to the edge of the woods. Harper went over last. He called me to him before he went. “If anything happens to us down there, you are in command, Mac.” Bryce didn’t argue, he was too petrified. “If we get trapped, you get the information back to Topeka White first and then stand by. Don’t send anybody down unless you get orders from me.” I patted him on the back and he went down.

Harper, Paris, McQuade, and Rackley lay in behind a huge rock.

“Tell the radioman to get his antennae down.” Rackley moved back to Ski quickly.

“How many do you see there, Paris?”

“I’d say about six hundred—huh, McQuade?”

“Yeah, crawling with them.”