Battle Cry (57 page)

“Today.”

“But, Sam, that’s impossible. You’re scheduled to take over the camp guard.”

“That’s your problem, Colonel.”

“What?”

“They’ve already left camp.”

“Dammit. You knew this. Norman will have a fit if I order guard again for his men.”

“Forgive me, Colonel, it completely slipped my mind…isn’t that too bad?”

The beer and ale poured and they verbally walked the miles to Foxton over and over. Some of the squad got so drunk they felt no pain and went dancing the first night of leave. The second and third nights, however, were spent in bed with their women or perched on bar stools high over the deck.

CHAPTER 9

SEPTEMBER
and spring. The winter slush and wet gave way. The hikes and field problems increased. Anything that came after the Foxton trek seemed trifling to the Second Battalion. The cycles of malaria lessened in both quantity and quality and new weapons and tactics were being introduced and experimented with.

A restless urge to move out came over the division. Each day brought new ships to Wellington Bay. Then the pot began to boil. The Third Marine Division in Auckland and the First Marine Division in Australia were putting on the final polish for a three-pronged assault into the sprawling dots on the South Sea maps.

Interdivision rivalry was put aside. When the chips were down it wasn’t going to make a hell of a lot of difference what outfit you were from as long as you were a Marine.

In the waning days of the stay, more and more Anzac troops began drifting home to New Zealand from the Middle East. The loss of their women, long won over by the Marines during their three-year absence, and the irritation of constant contact with the cocky, smartly dressed, and well-paid Americans who had taken over their country, created an immediate tension. The Kiwis did not get a triumphant welcome; only a shabby deflation as sad as their khakis. Often they were bitter and you couldn’t blame them. Of course, the New Zealanders had had little consideration for the men of Greece when they hit Athens, but that was water under the bridge. The Marines were in the saddle and trouble was brewing.

After a few scattered fistfights the situation produced a full-scale brawl one night at the Allied Service Club. The Marines were badly outmanned but still administered a beating to the Anzacs via the buckle to the head route. This only intensified the friction. Word got around that the Maori Battalion of desert legend was going to run the Marines out of Wellington the next weekend.

Major General Bryant, the Marine commander and a man of moderate temper, did not like the threat of the New Zealanders. An immediate order was posted that the entire Second Division was to have liberty to attend the opening day of the races. This was odd because Bryant hated horses. It wasn’t hard to read between the lines—every Marine capable of walking or crawling was to get into Wellington with his belt buckle ready.

They prepared for the event. I was content to rely on my belt buckle. Others reinforced themselves with a bar of soap in a sock, buckshot wrapped in cloth, brass knuckles, knives, strangling wires and other civilized incidentals, to cope with the expected situation.

As the Marines hit the city every intersection was guarded by a four-man team of military police, two Marines and two Kiwis. Twenty thousand of us slowly and calmly dispersed into groups of not less than four and awaited the visit of the Maori Battalion, and the others. They never came, and soon after, the trouble faded.

The squad packed up with sadness for they all felt they would never return to New Zealand. It had been pretty wonderful. They labored to load the trucks that streamed back and forth to the busy harbor. The worst of it was breaking down the clubroom. The furnishings were donated to a group of nuns, former missionaries from the Solomons who had been smuggled out by submarine early in the war. Last, we drew lots for the autographed pictures that adorned the walls. I got Myrna Loy. When the clubroom was finally stripped they all wanted to go fast. They loved New Zealand and hated the thought of a prolonged farewell.

It came quickly. Our ship, the
J. Franklin Bell,
was a hulking affair that fell into a class between the
Bobo
and the
Jackson.
One innovation did appear to us. Instead of nets, many of the new landing craft hung from huge davits and could be lowered to the water with a full load of men.

The ship sped from the harbor at breakneck speed. Then the men learned it was all a gigantic hoax to throw the enemy off guard. In reality, the division was sailing for Hawke’s Bay several hundred miles up the coast, on a maneuver. Whether it fooled the Japs or not is problematical. In any case the landing at Hawke’s Bay was the most colossal piece of organized mayhem any of us had ever seen. In the rough surf several boats capsized and men and equipment were lost and damaged. Valuable gear was jettisoned and the attempts at rubber-boat landing proved fatal in many cases. The beach was a disorganized mess and communications were fouled beyond repair. Many landing craft were damaged by the pounding or were wrecked on sandbars and underwater reefs.

As we hit the beach, Brigadier General Snipes, the Division assistant commander, snarled back and forth watching the disaster through his gimlet eyes. Snipes, originally a Raider leader, was a man of stormy action and stony emotion. It was scuttlebutt that no one ever saw his leather face creased in a smile. He had earned the name in the Corps of “Joyboy” Snipes. The hefty old campaigner with the flaming red hair cursed his way from one end of the beach to the other as report after report of mishaps and miscalculation rolled in. At last the armada turned and limped back to Wellington to replace lost gear and patch its wounded ego.

The return to the skeleton camp made the Marines edgy. Days straggled into weeks but at last we were once more loaded aboard the
J. Franklin Bell.
The Wellington docks burst with gear and the bay was filled with transports awaiting their turn at an open pier. They loaded and moved into the middle of the bay to await the rest of the division. Seabags, as usual, was rolled into the sick bay the moment he went aboard.

They ran a liberty boat in from the
Bell
nightly. Each day, one of the boys gave up his pass to Andy. As the days came and went with us still in the middle of the bay I became a little worried about him. Andy was getting touchy and unapproachable. I realized the agony he and Pat were going through, expecting each night to be the last. The agony of not knowing how many years it would be…if ever, before they would see each other again. When liberty was cut off, Andy began jumping ship by using a message center armband. I held my breath and stayed awake until Andy returned remorsefully, to toss in a fitful sleep, waiting for another chance to go ashore.

One by one the piers emptied. There was little time left, perhaps one more night, before the bolt from the harbor. My concern for Andy was deep. I had a queer feeling in the back of my mind that the big Swede was planning to desert. I decided to talk it over with him as soon as I could catch him alone. I found him aft looking wistfully at the city as the sun was going down.

“Andy,” I said, coming up to him, “I want you to take a detail for me.”

“I ain’t been feeling so hot,” he answered.

“Come on, Andy, you’ve got to take your turn.”

He spun on me, red faced. “Take the detail and shove it.”

“All right, fellow, let’s have it out.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Come here, dammit!” I ordered.

Andy sulked up to me, sullen and limp. “I can’t take it no more, Mac, I can’t take it….”

“If you got any ideas about deserting, forget them, Andy.”

“Don’t try to stop me,” Andy hissed, “or I’ll kill you.”

I went to Gunner Keats and pleaded with him to let me go ashore with the next trip of the control boat. Keats didn’t ask why, but knew from the distress in my voice that it was urgent and he arranged a special skiff to run me in. As I headed for the Jacob’s ladder, Sam Huxley tapped me on the shoulder.

“Mac,” he said.

“Colonel Huxley…I’m sorry, sir, you startled me.”

“Mac, don’t fail. She’s too nice a girl. I don’t want to have to take him in irons….”

“I wish to God, sir, I didn’t have to do this.”

“Good luck.”

I was in dungarees but that wasn’t out of place in the city. All about me were Marines in the same dress, walking and talking slowly with their women, saying bittersweet farewells, trying to catch a lifetime in each tick of the clock. Wellington was like a city in mourning. Girls, eyes red from crying, gathered near the docks to wait for the last liberty boats. Their Marines were going, never to return. An interlude on an island of beauty in a sea of war. The lights in the homes of Wellington were dimmed and eyes were turned to the harbor.

I tapped on Pat’s door. It burst open. Pat greeted me with anguished face.

“I’m sorry to startle you. I should have phoned.”

“Oh, come in, Mac,” she said. I could see her trembling as she ushered me into the living room.

“Excuse my appearance. Our dress uniforms are packed.”

“Do sit down, Mac. May I make you a cup of tea?”

I tried to start the conversation, then walked over to her and placed my hand on her shoulder. She sank into an armchair and whispered, “What is it, Mac? Tell me.”

“Andy…wants to desert. He’s coming ashore tonight.”

She sat silently. I lit a cigarette and offered her one. “What do you want of me?” she finally asked.

“You know what you have to do.”

“Do I know, Mac? Do I?” she said harshly. “Do I know?”

“Could you ever live in peace with that other boy in a grave in Crete?”

“You have no right to say that.”

“Do you want to see that big Swede turn into a shell? It will kill him and you, too.”

“What does it matter? At least I’ll have him. Oh, Mac, how can you ask this of me?”

“Because…you could never betray him.”

“Betray him to what?” She rose from the chair. “Oh, God, I knew this was going to happen. Why did I let it? Where is our war, Mac, tell me…why does it have to take him, tell me!”

“What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you it’s all wrong? Do you want me to say, run off and let him become a deserter? Should I tell you that it’s time to stop killing each other like animals?” I met her icy stare. “He’s a man, he has a job. Don’t ask me why. Dammit, Pat, you’re no different than a billion women in this war…. Goon, run…hide…take him and live in the shadows. To hell with both of you!”

She walked to the window and clutched the curtains until her knuckles turned white.

“Pat, I often wish I had the courage of a woman. In the long run, I suppose that what a man is asked to do is small beside what you women must bear.”

She turned and faced me. Her eyes were closed. She nodded her head slowly.

I walked to the table and put on my pith helmet and folded my poncho.

“Mac.”

“Yes?”

“Good luck…to all the boys. Write to me and look after him.”

Andy rapped on the door hurriedly that night. It opened and they were in each other’s arms.

“Hold me, hold me tightly.”

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt the baby.”

“Hold me, darling, hold me.”

“Aw, honey, you’re all upset. I’m here now…I’m here…
shhh,
honey,
shhh.
”

She regained her composure and went to the kitchen to prepare some tea. He followed her and leaned against the door frame wondering how he was going to say it.

“Pat. I ain’t going back to the ship.”

She did not answer.

“I said, I ain’t going back.”

“I expected it.”

He came to her and put his huge hands on her arms. “We can do it, Pat. I got it figured. I found a place in Nagio where I can hide out. Then we’ll make a run for it. Fly to South Island…maybe Australia. Three or four years and we can come back. I been thinking…we can do it.”

“All right, Andy.”

“You mean it honey? You really mean it?”

“Yes.”

Her hands fumbled through the cookie jar. She placed some buns on a plate and took sugar from the cupboard. She breathed deeply, afraid her voice would fail. The room seemed to sway. She could not look at him.

“We’ll have to pack fast, right away.”

“I’d better not bring a radio,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because you’d not want to hear about your battalion.”

“Pat!”

She spun about. “What will we name the baby, Andy? Maybe we can call him Rogers—no, even that won’t do. Timmy Huxley Smith. That’s it. Smith is a good common name.” She clenched her teeth. “I hope your buddies come through, Andy.”

“You’re just trying to get me riled up!” he yelled.

“No, I’ll go…I’ll go,” she cried. “Let’s run.”

“Dammit, what do we owe this lousy war? What do we owe the Marines?”

“Each other,” she whispered.

“You don’t care. You don’t care none for me…you’ll have your kid—that’s all you wanted.”

“How dare you! How dare you speak to me that way?”

“Pat…I didn’t mean to say that…I didn’t mean it.”

“I know, Andy.”

“It’s just that I’m almost off my nut. I don’t want to leave you.”

“If you want to, I’ll go with you.”

He fumbled for a smoke. “I guess I was crazy to ask…It…it would never work.”

She clutched the drainboard for support.

“I’d…I’d better get back to my ship.”

“I’ll get my coat.”

“No, I’d better go alone.”

His big paws groped through the air as he tried to speak. “Do you love me, Pat?”

“Very much, my darling, very, very much.”

His arms were about her and he stroked her hair. “Will you write…all the time?”

“Each day.”

“Don’t worry none if you don’t hear from me. Being aboard ship and all that…and take care of yourself and the kid.”

She nodded, her head on his chest.

“With a little luck we might land here again. Soon as the war is over, I mean…I’ll be back just as fast as I can.”