Battle Cry (49 page)

“The…the guys won’t like that. Me working the jeep radio.”

“Look, Levin,” I said, “if it will make you feel any better I know what the Indian pulled today. Those guys have been getting captured for years. Nobody is griping about your work. You might even get a stripe in a couple of months.”

“But…but Lighttower and Joe ain’t got one yet.”

“They probably never will and if they do they’ll lose it the first liberty they go on.”

He sucked deeply and silent on his cigarette.

“Look, Levin. I know you’ve been busting your ass to prove yourself. You can ease up. You’ve made the grade.”

“No I ain’t. I ain’t made it till I been in combat like them. I’ll never make it till then.”

“In their minds or yours?”

“Just leave me alone, Mac.”

“Levin, why are you trying so hard? Is it because you are a Jew?”

He turned pale. I went over to him and put my arm around his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to knife you. I guess you can read a guy’s mind after a while. Has Speedy been riding you?”

“I don’t know why he don’t like me. I done everything to make friends. I don’t want no trouble, Mac, but honest to God I’m going to clout him if he don’t lay off. I don’t care if they court-martial me. I know the rest of the guys are just kidding, but not Speedy.”

“Speedy isn’t a bad guy. Maybe one of these days he’ll see the light.”

“He says we’re fighting the war because of Jews. He says Jews are yellow…I’m going to clout him, Mac…I only been taking it because I don’t want no trouble.”

“Levin, you can’t beat a thing like that out of a man. Come on, let’s go to the clubroom.”

We sat in the middle of the bay and fumed. Morning, noon and night we scampered up and down the nets teaching the swabbies how to run an invasion. Three times a day we charged out of the landing craft into the surf and up the beach. We had a queer feeling that Huxley asked for this detail.

Beyond the narrow beach was a five-foot seawall and past it a street of the town of Petone. On our first landings, we charged up the beach, over the wall and straight for the pubs. We grabbed a fast beer and put in apologetic phone calls to our girls and charged back to the beach again. The natives got a big bang out of us playing like invaders. By the second day the seawall was lined with housewives, children, and a general gathering of kibitzers who shouted and cheered and applauded as we plunged from the boats into hip-deep water and zigzagged up the sand.

“Thumbs up, Yanks!”

“Up your ass,” we whispered under our breath.

Also awaiting us on the second day was a solid line of M.P.s to keep our invasions limited to the beach. When Marines on liberty came to gawk, it was downright humiliating.

“Hey, ain’t that a fine-looking outfit?”

“Fine-looking, fine-looking.”

“Hey, how come you guys ain’t wearing your pogey bait whistles?”

“Got a number, pogey bait? I’ll keep her warm tonight.”

That put the M.P.s into action to keep us from going up after them.

We’d reboard the ship, change our wet and sandy clothes and before a poker game could get going or we could chalk up a few minutes sack drill the intercom would blast general quarters and we were at it again. “Now hear this: Marines, man your debarkation stations.”

On the fourth day we tried night landing and rang up a dozen casualties. Three made the grade for Silverstream Hospital. A few others were lucky enough to get malaria and were hauled off. The rest of us went up and down the nets and into the beach with clocklike monotony.

The grand finale on the U.S.S.
Feland
was a full-scale fubard mess. All we had taught the swabbies for a week they forgot. I guess we forgot a little too, for the thought of getting rid of each other for a night in Wellington was what really messed up the landing.

Danny had been packing a heavy walkie-talkie for hours, keeping in communication with Beach Control. He didn’t get a chance to lift it off for a single minute to give his back a rest as the officers worked his radio continuously to unscramble the mess on the beach. Landing boats were way off time and course, equipment piled up in the wrong places, and the Heavy Weapons Company landed ahead of the assault troops. The engineers attached to us who were to clear alleged obstacles came in two hours late and the artillery was blowing up our own command post. Air support was shooting the transport in the bay, naval gunfire was hitting a hospital instead of the objectives. C-ration came instead of blood plasma, and the wounded were dumped in the water instead of empty oilcans. This was typical of a Marine maneuver. Anyhow, the Japs would never outguess us.

Exhausted and constantly on the move, Danny felt his radio cut into his shoulders until they were numb. At last the LCTs and other landing craft made for the long pier a mile down the beach and loaded us up to reboard the ship. Danny sat with the staff officers keeping in communication until the entire battalion loaded up in groups of sixties and sped back to the
Feland.

The radio had not been off his back for six hours. He had no feeling in the upper reaches of his body. Finally he boarded the last craft still in communication with Sister Mary on the ship. The boat bounced over the choppy waves and pulled up under the bow net. The hated bow net, which was hanging from the highest point of the deck, offered no support as it fell free. The coxswain gunned his boat as Danny, last out, hit the net. The boat pulled out from under him as he started the long climb to deck. He was weak all over. He pushed up a few strands and then made the mistake of looking down to the water. He saw that the boat was gone.

He braced and worked up a few more steps. The weight on his shoulders began pulling him backwards till his body was nearly horizontal. He quickly threw his helmet and ammunition into the bay and pressed every muscle to straighten up.

He broke into a cold sweat as his foot and then a hand slipped. His arms locked in the net and he froze. He looked at the water again and gritted his teeth and shuddered as he realized that his strength was completely gone. It seemed as though the water was rising up to meet him. In desperation he looked up to the deck and screamed, “I’m ditching the radio…can’t hold!”

“Hang on!” I shouted. “Lock in and don’t look at the water!” I raced down one side of the net and Sam Huxley tore down the other. We caught the straps of the radio just as Danny began to slip away. We lifted the weight from him.

“Can you make it now?” Huxley asked.

“I think so. The goddam radio was pulling me backwards.”

Huxley and I took the radio and Danny slowly worked up to the deck. As they pulled him aboard he sighed.

“You used your head, son,” Huxley said. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, sir, just tired.” He caught his breath and looked over the side of the ship once more. Then he turned pale and began shaking all over as he stared into the cold green water far below.

Huxley laughed. “Delayed action. Take him to sick bay, Mac, and get him a double shot of brandy.”

Spanish Joe turned his back to the mahogany bar, propped himself up on an elbow and bellowed, “I ain’t so tough, even Joe Louis can lick me.” He spun about, slamming a large ale mug down. “Survey this!”

New Zealanders about the pub gathered in close around him. Gomez flashed a smile, displaying a mouthful of ivory-white teeth in contrast to his sultry skin.

“Look at the bloke’s ribbons, would you,” a New Zealander said squinting at Joe’s blouse. Gomez thrust out his burly chest to give his admirers a better view of the decorations he had recently purchased at Mulvaney’s Army and Navy Store on Lambden Quay.

“Must have seen a lot of action, aye, Marine?”

The spotlight shone on Spanish Joe Gomez. He casually glanced at his fingernails, flicked a small spot of dust from one. “This boy’s been around, cobber. Worn out more seabags than you have socks.” His fierce eyes cut the enveloping haze of flat-smelling British tobacco smoke and the sharp odor of nine per cent ale. He reached out and clutched an onlooker by the collar. “See this one here, Kiwi?”

“Yes.”

“Silver Star for gallantry in action—Guadalcanal.”

“Looks bloody impressive.”

Joe uncorked a pack of cigarettes and flipped them on the bar. “Have a decent coffin nail, gents.” The pack was devoured. “I was on a patrol, see, over the Kokumbona River near Tassafaronga Point, five miles behind Jap lines,” Joe said. “They used me as a scout on account of, if I got to say so myself, in all due modesty, I’m a pretty savvy guy.”

I was at the other end of the bar and, having heard Joe’s routine a hundred times, looked around for Marion. I spotted him alone in a booth and moseyed over. “What’s the scoop, Mary?” I asked, dropping anchor opposite him. Marion lay down his book, took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.

“
War and Peace,
by Tolstoy. Very interesting.”

“Looks like Joe is really wound up.”

“Lost from the patrol five miles behind enemy lines. What a situation. A lesser man would have cracked up right there. But not old Spanish Joe…”

Marion smiled. “He’s on the way. Been a pretty good guy though. I’ve had him in camp for two weeks and that’s a record. I suppose he’s entitled to a bust.”

“I come to this here clearing,” Joe went on, “it’s burning hot, a hundred and twenty in the shade.” Joe dramatized with full sweeping gestures, pointing out his trek with a map of ale bottles and ashtrays on the big black bar.

“By the way,” I said, “he hit me for a ten-shilling note and he took one of Andy’s shirts.” Marion withdrew his notebook and jotted the items down.

“Not too bad this month,” Marion said. “He only owes three pounds and eight shillings. I’ll take care of you and the boys at pay call.”

“Roger.”

“The sweat was gushing offa me. I was tired and so hungry I coulda ate the north end of a southbound skunk…I peers to the left and what do I see….”

“What was it, Yank?”

“A sniper, had me right in his sights…I was like a bump on a log. Makes me shudder to think of it.” Joe whipped out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

“What the hell happened?”

“I glances around fast-like, see…and there,” he sipped from his glass, “and there, looking down my throat at the edge of the clearing was a Jap machine gun!”

“Blimey!”

“Spanish Joe, I thinks to myself, a hundred broads from Chi to Dago will be grieving this day. I lowered my head and charged bayonet first like a mad bull at them!” He loosened his field scarf and rested back on the bar, leering mischievously at his audience.

“Tell us, man, what happened?”

“What the hell you think happened? I got killed, you damned fool!” He tilted his head back and roared at the stupefied onlookers. “Hey, bartender, survey this ale!”

I always got a kick out of the silly looks of Joe’s audience at the punch line of that story. I smiled and turned to Marion. “Heard anything from Rae?”

He nodded. “Look, Mac.” He opened his wallet and shoved it over the table to me.

I whistled. “Sharp girl, that Rae, a real lady.”

“That’s my house in the background, my room is around the corner. You can’t see it in that picture.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you, Mary?”

“I’m lucky,” he said.

“Tell me something. Anything gone sour between you and Joe because of Rae?”

Marion lowered his head and thought. “I can’t help but feel it sometimes, Mac. He tells me to jam it when he gets sore but he always comes back to me sorry. He never mentions her name but I can’t help but think…”

“What?”

“It’s hard to say exactly. But I know he’s going to let me down.”

“Joe has a yellow streak,” I said. “We’ve all talked about it. Behind all that bluster he hasn’t got much guts.”

“I don’t mean that, Mac. He comes back to me because I’m the only friend he’s got.”

“Why do you put up with the sneak thief?”

“I don’t know. In some ways he’s the most rotten person I’ve ever known. Maybe I’m trying to salvage what little decency he has. I guess, too, I feel duty bound to keep him under control for the rest of the fellows.”

“He’s slick,” I said. “We’ve never been able to nail a lie or a missing pair of skivvies on him yet.”

We looked through the haze to the bar. Joe was swaggering and bleary. “Survey this ale!” he shouted. “I can outdrink any man or beast in this pub…any takers? And when I finish I’m gonna get me a broad. They ain’t been loved till Spanish Joe loves them.”

“Is it true that you were a cattle rustler before the war?” a Kiwi asked.

“Naw, them damned cows just took a liking to me and followed me home.”

Marion grinned. “About three more glasses and Joe will be done.”

We looked around the room and through the smoke caught sight of Pedro Rojas, who had just entered. “Hey, Pedro!” I called. “Over here.” Pedro steered an uneven course around the crowded tables of drinkers toward us. He was half crocked. He slumped down beside Marion, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face.

“Ah, my very good friends. Señors Mac and Maria.”

“Hello, Pedro.”

“I see you are once again babysitting.” He nodded toward Spanish Joe. The waiter surveyed my brew and brought on another round of sarsaparilla for Marion. Pedro’s brow furrowed as he sipped from his ale mug. He smacked his lips. “You two are my very good friends. You two are fine understanding fellows…for Marines.”

“What’s on your mind, Pedro?”

“Pedro very sad tonight. Pedro is very sad because he is so happy,” the corpsman mumbled.

“Pedro is very drunk,” I said.

“Yes, my friend, I am drunk. But I am drunk with great sorrow.” He threw up his hands in a disgusted gesture, loosened his field scarf and downed the ale and refilled it from the quart bottle. “I am wishing to hell I have never come to New Zealand.”

“I thought you liked it, Pedro. It is a perfectly lovely country.”

“It is lovely, Maria, too lovely. That is why Pedro is sad because he is so happy here.”

“I don’t understand you, Pedro.”

Pedro Rojas sighed and looked into the ale mug. He took the handle and spun it about slowly. “I not wish to burden my good friends with my troubles, especially when I am drunk.” As he lifted the mug to his lips I reached over and drew his arm down.