Battle Cry (52 page)

“Don’t say that, don’t!”

“Let’s take a chance. We’ve got to. I’ll get through. I’ve got something to get through for, now.”

“I’m frightened,” she said.

“So am I.”

“But I don’t want to go to America.”

“Who said anything about America? This is my home and you’re my woman. That’s all that makes any difference. The rest of the world can go to hell…. I think I need a drink.”

For the first time since he had known her, the deep sadness was gone from her. Her eyes were alive and dancing. “It’s mad, Andy.”

“Sure it is. What do you say?”

“Yes, Andy, yes.”

She was in his arms again and he felt strong and safe holding her. “I’ll see the chaplain tomorrow. You’ll be investigated,” he said.

“Let them investigate.”

“I feel wonderful, Pat.”

She drew away gently, led him to the divan, and took her place beside him. “Andy,” she whispered, “if we have a little boy would you mind terribly if we named him Timothy after my brother?”

“You mean…we’re going to have a baby?”

She nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me, honey?”

“I didn’t want to use that to hold you, Andy.”

He took her hand and kissed it and laid his head on her shoulder. “You…you’d send me away? Oh Pat, you’d have done that for me.”

“I’ve loved you for a long time, darling,” she whispered. Her arms were about him and she drew him close and he rested his head on her bosom. He closed his eyes as if in a dream from which he never wanted to awake. “I wanted someone,” she cried, “that this war couldn’t take away from me.”

I slapped Andy on the back as we approached Chaplain Peterson’s tent. We glanced at the bulletin board outside. In one corner was a picture of a luscious and naked female. Under the picture the words:
No, you can’t marry her unless she looks like this. Chaplain Peterson.
The process of getting married involved much red tape and grief and hundreds of men besieged the chaplain. The penalty for failure to go through channels was severe. On several occasions the entire regiment was called out for a reading off of a Marine caught in a bootleg wedding. Dishonorable discharge was often the punishment. I braced Andy again and we entered.

The round-faced man with the crew cut and infectious smile greeted me. “Hello, Mac, what are you doing here? Spying for Father McKale?”

“How’s the T.S. business going?” I retorted to my old friend.

“Listen, Mac, do me a favor. I was in the Navy for twelve years but I’ve never heard anything like the language these Marines use. Talk it up among the boys. I think I’ll give them a sermon on it this Sunday. Excuse me, who’s your friend?”

“Andy Hookans. One of my squad.”

“Sit down, boys. Hookans, huh? Always glad to convert a good Scandahoovian. You a Swede, Andy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Me too, put her there.” They shook hands and Andy felt relaxed. The chaplain broke out a pack of smokes. “Hookans,” Peterson repeated as he dug through the mass of papers on his desk. “I thought the name sounded familiar…oh, here it is.” He opened a paper and glanced at it.

“Er, Chaplain, that picture on the bulletin board outside is a dead ringer for my girl.”

Peterson smiled. “Looks like you came in well prepared. Matter of fact, you pulled rank on me.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Andy asked.

He flipped the paper over to us.

Dear Svend,

A big Swede by the name of Andy Hookans will probably come stammering into your sanctuary any day now to pop the question. I’ve met the girl and she’s too damned good for him. She is an angel. I’d appreciate your cutting any red tape in getting them married. If you don’t, I’ll send all my boys to Father McKale.

Thanks,
Sam Huxley
P.S. (We missed you at the poker game last Friday.)

“Er…the P.S. isn’t for publication.”

“Yes, sir.” Andy beamed. “Yes, sir.”

CHAPTER 6

IN RECENT
weeks Seabags had been taking his liberty in Otaki, a small town some twenty miles north of Paekakaraki. A yarn spinner, and one with a knack for making friends, he had conquered the place lock, stock and barrel. Seabags Brown became known as the Mayor of Otaki. As he roamed the streets of his favorite haunt the population of the predominantly Maori town would echo a chorus of “Hi, Seabags!”

And he’d answer the greeting between chaws of the eternal plug: “Hi, cousin.”

Although the cultures of the white man and the Maori were intermixed, the natives clung jealously to many of their ancient customs and rituals, especially in the smaller towns such as Otaki. Rites of long-gone generations were kept alive in meetinghouses on the outskirts of town and the tribe was ruled by an ancestral chieftain. Few white men ever set foot in the last stronghold of these native traditions. Seabags was one who was always welcomed into the meetinghouses. On the occasion of the aged chief’s birthday Seabags was permitted to invite a few of his friends to the ceremony. Seabags, not being able to master the chief’s tongue-twisting name, addressed him only as Cousin Benny.

In spite of Seabags’ standing in Otaki, I was a bit leery of going to the party. A few days before, a Marine had attacked a Maori girl and tempers in the town were high. Seabags assured us that it was quite safe. Marion, L.Q. and me accepted the invite. Marion was anxious to get a glimpse of the ceremony to use as background for a story. Seabags warned him that it would be an insult to refuse a drink so Marion agreed to try one. Then Seabags said that Cousin Benny might offer one of his granddaughters and it would be a bigger insult to refuse that. Marion turned red and kept quiet.

As we got off the train and headed for the nearest pub I felt as if I was walking on a bed of hot coals. Then started the chorus of old men, young men, old women, middle-aged women: “Hi, Seabags!”

“Hi, cousin.”

A dozen small dark children raced up behind us and climbed all over him. “Hi, Cousin Seabags,” they cried. He knelt and tussled with them and sent them scampering for the nearest candy store with a handful of pennies.

We entered a bar and took positions at one end to dig in on a couple of quarts of beer, with sarsaparilla for Marion. As we drank time away till the meeting hall opened, an exceptionally large Maori entered. His shirt was open and revealed a burly chest. He was fierce looking and gripped a machete knife in his big brown hand. It was polished and glinting and wicked looking. He strode up to the bar and spotted us. He advanced in our direction with slow, deliberate steps, his machete swinging back and forth in menacing fashion. L.Q. backed up and nearly trampled Marion trying to get out of the way. This guy didn’t love Marines. Maybe he was the raped girl’s brother.

He came face to face with Seabags and raised his knife! And slammed it on the bar. “Hi, Seabags!” he said, throwing his arms around the farmer.

L.Q. passed out in a dead faint.

“Hi, cousin,” Seabags said. “Pull up a glass. I want you to meet…funny, I could of swore I brung three guys with me.”

At dusk we made our way to the
hapu
house in the flatland outside the city limits. The exterior was carved and painted in a style that reminded me of Indian totem poles. At the door we were greeted by the Ariki of the tribe, Cousin Benny. He and Seabags embraced and rubbed noses, and when we were introduced we followed this procedure. The center room was a big hall. From the raftered ceilings hung a huge raftlike canoe. Perhaps it was the same type of craft that their Polynesian forefathers had used in drifting to this land some eight or nine hundred years before. On the walls were shields and spears. The history of the Maoris has always shown them to be excellent fighters in hand-to-hand combat and masters of ambush and camouflage. In the present war a Maori battalion had spearheaded the Anzac forces in the drive across the deserts of North Africa. Their shrill war cries and anxiousness to mix it up in close gave them many bloody victories.

For the feast a large, low table was crammed with
kumeras,
eels, crayfish, fowl, mussels,
aruhe,
and other delicacies. On the deck, in semicircular fashion, lay sitting-mats woven of
harakeke.
We took off our shoes and took places beside Cousin Benny who was painted, half-naked, and bedecked with feathers and beads. The
rangatira
was seated according to tribal rank with the
ware
or lowest caste at the end of the table.

Seabags joshed with the chief, who was a sucker for chewing-tobacco. L.Q. and me were awed at the whole deal and Marion took notes as fast as he could write. The food was well disguised with a strong flavor of herbs, but the joyjuice was a jolter and I warned the others to take it easy.

We feasted by firelight. Dancers performed in the center of our big circle. The kikipoo hit me fast and I got a wild urge to grab onto one of the hip-slinging, bead-skirted dolls and head for the hills. We knifed and fingered through the never ending courses and drank till we were seeing double. Singing and dancing and drumbeats became louder and more confused.

Then came dart-throwing contests, wrestling matches, top-spinning games, and more drinking. A group of girls seated themselves in the center of the circle, each holding a pair of poi balls. They played a fascinating game, passing the balls to each other in beat to the drums. Cousin Benny arose and walked up and down waving a stick and urging the girls to speed up. A Maori next to me explained that this was a re-enactment of their canoe voyage to the Land of the Long White Cloud, which was the Maori name for New Zealand. The girls flipping the poi balls in perfect unison represented the rowers, and their tempo, the beat of the waves. We three Marines sat and clapped hands while the girls brushed the balls against their beaded skirts and threw them about till they seemed to blur, but never a ball was dropped. The Corps could have used them for drill instructors.

Suddenly the girls fell exhausted, letting out horrible groans. The Maoris explained that this represented a period of starvation on the voyage. Finally Cousin Benny spotted New Zealand and everything ended happily.

Amid howls of delight, Seabags went to the center of the ring and took on the tribe’s wrestling champ. Both of them were stewed but the Maori was fast and tricky, and even the Marine’s gently applied knowledge of Judo could only bring them to a draw. They fell into each other’s arms sweating, each patting the other’s back.

Just about then I seemed to go blank. All I could recall was the pounding of drums and the chant of voices. I did notice Seabags and L.Q. head for a side room with a couple of girls as the chief nodded smiling approval.

Next thing I remembered, Marion and me were in the center with our trouser legs rolled up, shirts off, spears in our hands dancing with a pair of dynamite-laden hip slingers.

I felt cold water running over my face. I fought my eyes open. Drums were pounding…I closed my eyes again. It felt as though someone was shaking my head off. Seabags stood over me. “Come on, Mac, you passed out on the floor. We gotta make a run for the train.”

“
Owwww
Gawd!”

“Come on, Mac,” I heard L.Q. yell through the fuzz.

“Party still on?”

“It will be on for another week. Can you make it? We got to run for the milk train.”

My long years of Marine training brought me to my feet.

“We’ll have to carry Marion,” L.Q. said.

We bid our hosts a quick adieu and shoved off over an open field toward the depot. The fresh air brought Marion around and lightened the load. As we ran over the field he called to us from some twenty yards behind. “Hey, fellows, wait!”

“Come on, Mary, we’re late!”

“I can’t run forwards.”

We tried to drag him. It was no go. “I tell you I can’t move forward!” he screamed. “I’m crippled for life!”

We spun him around and he ran backwards for the depot.

“Fellows!”

“What is it now, Mary?”

“Hold up. I got to take a leak.”

He held out his hand to lean against a brick wall. The wall was forty feet away. He fell flat on his face. We lifted him, turned him backwards and lit out again. We hurdled a small ditch and waited for him. Mary took careful aim, jumped and landed in the slush at the bottom of the hole.

“Gawd, what did them drinks have in them?”

The milk train pulled into Otaki and for once some Marines were thankful to the New Zealand Government that the trains ran late. We piled into an open boxcar and fell asleep.

CHAPTER 7

IN THE
capacity of best man, I shoved off with Andy for Masterton a day before the wedding. The rest of the squad, under Burnside, would come up the following day. They had been granted three-day passes for the event. Before we left, Andy was presented with a twelve-piece setting of sterling silver from the company. The squad gave him a couple dozen cundrums but we smiled and kept our little secret.

The boys were bush brushing and polishing up. They were to catch a train to Wellington and stay overnight and take the first train to Masterton in the morning. It was the long way around, but they reckoned it was better to stay in Wellington than try to ride the sleeping cars with their beds running crosswise. A night in the sleeping car of a New Zealand train gave you the choice of either smashing into a wall or dangling in the aisle.

As they rushed about, preparing to depart, they made a last minute canvas of the company to secure loans until pay call. Amidst all the bustle, Jake Levin lay quietly on his bunk feigning interest in an already read letter.

“Anybody got an extra battle pin?”

“How about a left ornament…somebody got off with mine. Joe?”

“I just borrowed it. I was going to give it back.”

“How much loot we got in the kicker?”

“Over twenty pounds.”

“Hey, get the lead out of your ass. We got to make Paikak at five.”

“Too bad Danny is in Silverstream with the bug.”

“Yeah, too bad.”