Battle Cry (6 page)

“Fall in and follow me. Leave your handbags here. You won’t need anything in them any more.”

Danny’s group fell in line somewhere about the middle of the other seven hundred and forty men who made up the new battalion. They ran a half mile to the dispensary and then stood for over an hour.

“Peel down to the waist,” a sailor corpsman ordered as he walked the line with a bucket of mercurochrome in one hand and a paint brush in the other. He painted a number on each chest and the name was recorded by a following corpsman.

Midnight brought them to the steps of the dispensary.

“Oh man,” L.Q. moaned, “my lil ole pappy tole me not to leave our magnolia plantation. Oh man, I’d just love to be a settin’ and a sippin’ mint juleps…oh man!”

“Shut up in that line, goddammit!” The tempers of the corporals grew progressively worse with each passing minute.

At last they entered the building. In quick succession they were pricked in the finger for a blood smear, blood was taken from the arm for a Wassermann, and eyes, ears, nose, heart, and reflexes checked. Followed a hernia check, blood pressure, balance, and a chest X-ray. As the last man left they were herded to another building.

“When you enter, take off all your clothing.”

“Oh…oh,” Jones moaned. “Oh…oh.”

An assembly line of needle men awaited them. Vaccination, tetanus shot in the right arm, two others in the left and a grand finale in the buttocks.

For the last shot a well-oiled team worked. One corpsman painted the butt cheek and popped in a needle as though he was tossing darts. The next corpsman worked in flawless motion filling the hypodermic, screwing it into the needle, shooting, and removing the needle into a boiling tray.

An exhausted Shannon O’Hearne fidgeted in the line. As the needle entered the man in front of him, a bead of perspiration formed on O’Hearne’s brow and his stomach felt queasy. The corpsman screwed in the holder and pushed in the serum. As he went to withdraw the needle it stuck in the lad’s flesh, leaving a slow drip oozing from it. O’Hearne passed out and had to be dragged back into line by two stronger-hearted friends.

Two-thirty in the morning. They limped into the barracks and fell into their bunks. Danny tried laying on his back, then on each side. But he was swollen from blunt needles and dubious techniques. He found solace flat on his stomach and closed his eyes, too worn to feel sorry for himself.

“Hit the deck!” The lights went on. Danny rolled. It must be a joke. He had just fallen asleep. He struggled his eyes open, his body ached from the plunging. He steadied his head long enough to catch the time: four-thirty. He placed his watch against his ear and assured it was still ticking, lay down again.

The scream of a whistle split his ears and he realized it was no dream or joke. It was still dark and the sky still flooded with stars. Straining, he eased himself from the upper bunk and staggered in behind the other disheveled, half-asleep men who cursed and mumbled their way to the head. He lined up behind Jones at one of the sinks which had a six-deep waiting list.

“My lil ole mammy told me…” L.Q. moaned hoarsely.

The splash of cold water failed to clear the cobwebs, but another blast of the whistle did. Half undressed, they fell in outside in the darkness. Chow, but too sore and tired to remember eating, and they trudged back to the barracks, packed and fell out once more.

With heavy eyelids and disheveled persons they awaited the next process. Their wait was not long. A tall, leathery, redheaded corporal dressed in stiff khakis, pith helmet, and glossy shined shoes stepped before them with roster in hand.

“Ten-shun!” he snarled. The sun slowly cast light on the motley-looking recruits. The corporal’s face was freckled and his eyes steel blue and cutting. He walked the line, hands on hips. From one hand dangled a stick thirty inches long with a leather-laced thong hanging from it.

“From now on this is platoon One Forty Three. My name is Corporal Whitlock. You’ll hate the day you met me.”

“Hey, corporal. How about letting us get some sleep.”

“Who said that?”

“I did,” Dwyer answered.

A path cleared as the corporal walked to Dwyer. For a full minute Whitlock cut him down with an icy glare. “What’s your name, son?”

“Ted Dwyer.”

“My name is Private Theodore Dwyer, sir,” Whitlock corrected.

“P…private…Theo…dore…Dwyer…sir.”

“Are you chewing gum?”

“Yessir.”

“Swallow it.”

Gulp.

He paraded before the new platoon, which stood frozen.

“Goddam Yankees,” he finally hissed. “Goddamyankee is one word in my book. All right, you people. My name is Whitlock…you address me as sir. You sonofabitches aren’t human beings any more. I don’t want any of you lily-livered bastards getting the idea you are Marines either. You’re boots! Crapheads! The lowest, stinking, scummiest form of animal life in the universe. I’m supposed to attempt to make Marines out of you in the next three months. I doubt it. You goddamyankees are the most putrid-looking specimens of slime I have ever laid eyes on…. Remember this, you sonofabitches—your soul may belong to Jesus, but your ass belongs to me.”

The drill instructor’s cordial welcome to the Corps thunderstruck them. They were all awake now. And the dawn came up like thunder out of Coronado ’cross the bay.

“Answer up when your name is called, goddammit.” He ran down the roster. “O’Hearne…O’Hearne!”

“Here,” a voice whispered. Whitlock advanced on the husky, curly-haired Irishman.

“What’s the matter? Lose your voice, craphead?”

“Been on a drunk—my voice is gone.” He dropped a cigarette butt on the deck.

“Pick up that butt, craphead.”

“Don’t you call me craphead.”

O’Hearne balled his fists. Whitlock poked his little stick under Shannon’s chin. “We got special treatment for tough guys. Pick up that butt.” The stick lifted O’Hearne’s chin slowly. Shannon unballed his hands and reached to the ground. As he bent, Whitlock’s glossed shoe met him squarely and sent him sprawling. Shannon arose and charged, then pulled up short and fell meekly back into the formation.

The corporal launched another tirade. He cursed for ten minutes, seldom repeating an obscenity. He expanded on the group’s future status in life. Isolation from the outside world…loss of all trace of individuality…no candy…no gum…no newspapers…no radios…no magazines…speak only when spoken to…salute…address as sir and obey all men within the confines of boot camp above the rank of private.

With each new word they slumped into increasing acceptance of the snare they now realized they were utterly trapped in. Never before had they heard such a collection of words thrown together. So this was palm-treed, blue-uniformed San Diego.

The corporal ran them past the permanent structures to their new quarters. It was a tent city bordering a gravel parade ground on one side, with vast expanses of sunbaked sand stretching to the bay on the other. Danny, Ski, and L.Q. Jones drew a three-man tent. Then they were introduced to Platoon Sergeant Beller, a Texan also, and no less a ranter than the corporal.

Beller cursed them for another ten solid minutes, then sent them off on a whirlwind procedure of hurry and wait. Double time, then stand in line.

They drew seabags and passed down counters stacked high with articles of clothing. The items were hurled at their heads. Everyone was angry and every few moments the recruits picked up a new curse word to add to a fast growing vocabulary.

The seabags became crowded with a barrage of skivvies, socks, overcoat, belts, boondockers, high-top dress shoes, field scarfs, and the rest of the wardrobe of a Marine. Everything was fitted hastily and with obvious disregard for the size of the man involved. The new gear was pocked with stickers and white tags.

For shoes, the recruit jumped up on a platform and held a pair of twenty-pound weights. As his feet flattened on the measure an NCO hurled them at him.

Double time. Draw cots, pads, ammo belts, shelter halves, and the rest of the field gear. They sagged under the cumbersome weight as they tried to keep up the racehorse gait.

Now to the canteen, where a book of chits was issued, its value to be deducted from the first pay call. Regulation purchases were required. A bucket soon carried a scrub brush, laundry soap, shaving gear, and a battle pin—an item once known merely as a collar clasp. Then came steel wool, Blitz cloth, seabag lock, toothbrush, cigarettes, steel mirror, shine kit, a tin of Kiwi polish and finally a blue volume labeled
The Marine’s Handbook.
Then they ran home with buckets swinging.

After chow the whistle shrilled. “All right, you people. The uniform of the day from now on will be: boondockers, green trousers, khaki shirts, field scarf and battle pin—and pith helmet. There are a couple of goddam irons in the pressing tent and you bastards make use of them. When you fall in tomorrow I want you looking like something. Get into uniform and pack your civilian gear…two minutes to dress and a minute to weep over your civvies…fall out!”

A headlong dive into the seabags and they emerged, their attire a long way from a recruiting poster. Overlooked tags, iron-stiff shoes, uniforms too long or too short, too loose or too tight. Canvas belts large enough to encompass a baby elephant. The pith helmets either perched high or fell over the eyes.

Whitlock looked at them. He lifted his eyes skyward. “Gawd!” he cried in anguish. “Gawd!” he cried again. “Square away that helmet!” His fist smashed the sun hat down over O’Hearne’s ears and eyes from its jaunty angle. Throughout the ranks there was a quick movement to adjust them.

“Gawd!”

After bidding adieu to their civvies they drew stencils and the remainder of the first momentous day was spent marking every belonging.

“I’ll give you crapheads till eighteen hundred to square away your uniform of the day. Fall out!”

“I never sewed in my life,” moaned L.Q., running a needle into his finger.

“Sure could use my mother now,” Ski added.

“Ya know, I don’t know just why I feel this way. But I got a sneaking suspicion that I’m not going to like this place.”

“Christ—two and a half months.”

“How about that Texan?”

“Oh, he’s a great kid. I remember where I saw him. It was his picture hanging in a post office. Where does the Marine Corps find these gems?”

“Goddammit!”

“What happened?”

“I stuck myself again.”

“I wonder what that quartermaster was thinking of?” Ski buttoned his trousers and looked down at the bottoms which draped over his shoes and onto the floor for a full ten inches.

“I guess I’m squared away,” Danny said, wiping his battle pin clean with the Blitz cloth. “Better get in line for that iron.”

The whistle blew. “Fall in. Bring your topcoats! All right, line up and dress down. Cover down—try to make it look like a formation. We’re going to the movies.”

“Corporal Whitlock…sir.”

The long Texan strode to Jones. “Sir, Private Jones requests permission to speak with the drill instructor,” he hissed, smashing the helmet over L.Q.’s eyes.

“S…sir, Private Jones requests permission to speak with the drill instructor, your majesty.”

“You don’t talk in ranks, craphead, but what is it?”

“Sir, did I understand you to say we are going to the movies?”

“Correct.”

“Well sir. Is it all right if you want to stay in the tent, sir?”

“You got to have entertainment,” he explained to the men, who could think of nothing more entertaining than to lay their weary bodies on a cot. “It’s good for your morale. However, Private Jones, if you’d rather stay in, that’s O.K. with me.”

“Oh…thank you sir, thank you sir.”

“Sergeant Beller,” the D.I. called. Beller, built low to the ground and solid as a tank, rumbled from his tent. “Sergeant, Private Jones doesn’t want to go to the movies.”

“Is that correct, Private Jones?”

“Oh no sir. Not at all sir. I think movies will be just double peachy.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Whitlock spat.

“Oh no sir. The fact is that I didn’t want to go, but I do now. I’m sorry.”

“You’re never sorry for anything you do in the Corps, craphead.”

“Oh no sir, I’m not sorry.”

“Well, corporal, if Private Jones doesn’t want to go to the movies he doesn’t want to.”

“You’re absolutely right, sergeant. I don’t think he should go.”

“Correct. Instead we’ll give him a little detail.”

“Oh…oh.”

“Do you know where the bay is?”

“No sir.”

“It’s three miles—thataway.”

“Thataway, suh?”

“Thataway. Private Jones, get your bucket and another one and double time to the bay. Bring me back two buckets of salt water. I want them full or you’ll be drinking them.”

“Yes sir, two buckets of salt water, coming up sir.” A swift kick sent him hurrying to the tent and then off into the darkness as the platoon double timed toward the theater.

Danny slumped forward on the hard wooden bench and drew his coat about him. He remembered little of the picture. Only something about Orson Welles shouting, “Rosebud.” Each time he dozed he felt Dwyer’s elbow in his ribs.

“Stay awake for Chrisake, Danny. Whitlock is watching us.”

A bugle blasted reveille through the loudspeaker. It was followed by a record that soon became the hated symbol of four-thirty in the morning.

Forty-five minutes to shower, shave, dress, make up the cot, police the area and fall in for rollcall. In darkness to the mess hall to stand and wait. It was here that Danny first learned to sleep while standing and leaning on Ski. The meals were solid and plentiful as they had to be to sustain the men through the ordeal of the day.

Back to the tents and clean up. Mop, squeeze, pick up cigarette butts and bits of paper. The policing buckets were always nearly empty and it was a rare prize when a boot found a stray fruit peel to pounce upon.

“A helluva way to fight the war.”

“Yeah, I got a letter saying how proud they are of me. They should see me now.”

“This is the bible from now on,” the corporal said, holding up
The Marine’s Handbook.
“The other one may save your soul, but this one is going to save your ass. We want you alive! Let the other son of a bitch die for his country, we want you alive!”