Battle Cry (71 page)

“That’s right. The can is the opening. Just grab hold of the rope and lower yourself down.”

A splash followed as the Seabee dropped to the bottom of the well.

“He’s liable to drown, Max.”

“Naw, it’s only waist high.”

“Quiet, you guys. Dinah Shore is gonna sing.”

Andy and Danny wandered over to the airstrip on Lulu to scan the planes. They moved about the parking area examining the Billy Mitchel bombers and the names and paintings on the ships’ noses.

“Christ, look at that,” Andy said. “Seventy-fives right in their nose.”

“Regular flying artillery.” They walked about the bomber counting the machine guns and 37 mm’s bristling from her.

“We oughta have some of these in the Corps for ground support.”

“They’re probably still too fast or the Corps would have gotten them.”

“Gyrene pilots could really clear the way in these babies.”

“I guess you know that gyrene pilots are the best at ground support.”

“Certainly, I ain’t arguing.”

Their attention turned to a Liberator which had just pulled to a stop in the center of the strip and was being surrounded by a bevy of racing jeeps. They went out to the clumsy monster and gazed curiously as the door swung open. Commodore Perkins himself was out to greet the plane which bore the name:
Island Hobo.
Danny and Andy took a respectful step back as a bevy of brass erupted from her.

“V.I.P.s,” Danny whispered.

“That’s the courier plane,” a nearby Seabee whispered. “She transports secret messages, maps, and information to bases all over the Pacific.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s got a Brigadier General in command of her.”

“You mean a Brigadier for just one plane?”

“Not one plane…
the
plane. Picked crew too.”

Following the high rank with the cute crushed caps, a pair of high and mighty looking sergeants debarked. On their sleeves was a patch which read:
Yank Correspondent.
The two Marines stepped forward and poked their heads into the door. As they did one correspondent bumped into Danny.

“’Scuse me, soldier,” Danny said.

“Watch where you’re going.”

“Suppose we could go in and take a look around?” Andy said. “I never seen the inside of a big job like this before. I’d sure like to sit me in one of them there turrets.”

The writer spun about and looked at the ill-clad pair before him. They wore blue Navy dungarees, Army shoes, green tops, and battered pith helmets and stood bleary-eyed and bearded, in contrast to the neatly starched men all about. The sergeant lifted his nose and sputtered, “Just shove off. You’re in the way. Of course you can’t board this plane.”

“Don’t get unfriendly, dogface, I just asked a simple question.”

The correspondent took a step back as if the leprous-looking creatures were going to touch him.

“You boys are Marines, aren’t you?” a voice behind them said.

They turned and faced a tanned well-built young man and were amazed to see a silver star gleaming from his collar.

“Yes, sir, we’re Marines.”

“Kind of hard to tell in that get-up,” the general said.

They blushed self-consciously at their tattered clothes.

“I’m afraid the sergeant left his manners in the States,” the general continued. “You see, Marines, the Yank boys are elite, they like the smell of brass. Real working brass.” He turned to the sergeant. “I’m afraid you missed the real story on this island. These Marines took the atoll. Were you in the invasion, lads?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, come aboard…Corporal Flowers.”

“Yes sir,” the corporal said, inching down the narrow gangway.

“These lads are Marines. Show them around the ship. You boys made a lot of noise in the States with this invasion. We are all proud of you.”

The red-faced correspondent stood openmouthed as Danny and Andy boarded and were welcomed by Corporal Flowers.

“Say, he’s a regular guy,” Danny said to the corporal after the general had gone in Perkins’ jeep.

“I’ll say he is. Most of them are. Young guys, you know,” the airman answered.

“Could we go up to the cockpit?”

“Sure, but don’t touch anything. Say, were you guys in on the landing? I’ll bet it was rough…. I can’t stand that Yank guy either.”

Meanwhile Marion pursued the more cultural aspects of the atoll in his off duty hours. Many times he made the long journey to Aboakoro, Nellie Island, where the largest village was located. He explored the natural wonders, studied the customs, and even made an attempt at mastering the tongue of the Gilbertese. On occasion he went out fishing in the masterfully handled hollowed-out coconut log canoes and on other occasions he enlarged his friendship with the Eurasian Calvin McIntosh, and kept his promise by bringing him all the books he could secure. The unhappy halfbreed had a field day when a Fox raiding party stole a case of books by accident and turned them over to Marion.

In the evenings when the tide was low in the lagoon Marion hunted down the million odd-shaped and magnificently colored shells in the sand and dug out the weirdly beautiful cat’s eyes to make bracelets and necklaces and earrings for his mother and Rae. Particularly fine specimens he sent back via the alligator to Shining Lighttower. The Navajo was adept in the ancient skill of his tribe, the art of silver smithing. Lighttower mounted the cat’s eyes on flawlessly shined and carved bracelets and rings of aluminum which had been secured from abandoned airplanes. He made some sort of memento, a ring, a bracelet, a watchband, for every member of the platoon.

The problem of rotting out the fish life from the cat’s-eye shells was solved by MacArthur, the native con boy. Marion dug them into the earth and they were eaten out without the putrid smell they had when left to sun above the ground.

MacArthur grew close to Marion who was generous in sharing the items he craved: chewing gum, knives, cloth, and cigarettes which he did not use. On Marion’s roamings, MacArthur generally tagged along to interpret and explain the million oddities he discovered. For many weeks the little native coyly hinted he would surely like to have a very fine pair of shoes such as the Marines wore. He pestered Marion so much that at last he was presented with a pair of brand-new, stiff leather boondockers. MacArthur had not worn them for more than an hour before the novelty wore off and he deeply regretted ever having asked for them. Nature and coral and hot sand had given him his own leather on the soles of his thick flat feet and this Western innovation made the poor boy go through the agonies of a man wearing an Oregon Boot. However, he was afraid of offending Marion and he always appeared in camp smiling sickly and limping in the boondockers.

The day that Marion gave the boy a reprieve and allowed him to throw the shoes away he made himself a lifelong friend.

The nearby village carried on a close and intimate friendship with Fox Company, completely ignoring the non-fraternization order. Shapiro was wise enough to have his officers and NCOs keep sharp watch on the boys who might get out of line. Each evening several men wandered over to the village bearing gifts and settled for a chat, a song session or a round of casino, the mutual card game. The Marines had terrible luck at cards but after a while they learned that the root of their misfortune lay in the tiny native boys and girls who snuggled up to them as they squatted on their pillows. With many displays of friendship they jabbered away, telegraphing the cards to the members of their family. Many packs of cigarettes were lost before the Foxmen learned to cover their hands.

“Pedro.”

“Huhhh.”

“Pedro, wake up.” The corpsman sprung to his feet, tangling in his mosquito net and with a knife in his hand. “Easy, it’s me, L.Q. Come to our tent right away.”

“What is the matter?”

“Danny’s sick, real sick.” The corpsman grabbed his aid pack and followed L.Q. through the sleeping, dark camp over the road to the radio tent.

They entered and Marion pumped the Coleman lantern until it lit the place with a bright glow. Andy bent over Danny’s cot, rubbing his forehead with a wet rag. He stepped aside as Pedro approached the twisting, moaning boy. Pedro took his pulse and stuck a thermometer in his mouth.

“What is it, Pedro, dengue fever?”

“Yes, but it looks like a very bad case.”

“He’s been acting groggy for almost a week.”

“He should have turned in. I told him to, dammit.”

“God! Sonofabitch…God!”

Pedro worked the thermometer loose from Danny’s teeth and squinted as he held it up to the light “We’ve got to get a doctor.”

“What is it?”

“He’s got over a hundred and five fever.”

“Lord.”

“Wrap him up, pile blankets on if he gets chills.” The three lifted the nets on their cots and took the blankets from them.

“L.Q., get the skipper here quick.”

He led the groggy captain into the tent. “What is it, Pedro?” Max asked.

“Very bad Max, very bad. Dengue. Never seen one like it.”

“Better get the alligator and move him to a doctor.”

“I’m afraid to move him in his condition.”

The terrible shakes started under the pile of blankets. The sick boy’s face turned soggy with sweat. He gagged and twisted and rolled and screamed as pains shot through his body. Bone-crushing fever, the natives called it.

“He looks terrible,” Max whispered. “I don’t like it. Is there a doctor on Lulu?”

“I think they’re all working out of the base on Helen. Doc Kyser is the closest one.”

“Get a jeep and hightail it down there.”

“But the tide is in, no can cross.”

“Get the duck then.”

“But Max, we’ll all get court-martialed.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass…I’ll take full responsibility.”

“We have to get instructions quicker,” Pedro said. “The round trip will take several hours. Radio to Sarah, quick.”

They hung on every word as the generator whined out and Pedro’s voice skipped down the chain of islands.

I was on watch at Sarah when the call came through and sent a runner to fetch Doc Kyser. I turned the mike and earphones over to him.

“How sick is he?”

“A hundred and five point two temp.”

“How long has he been ill?”

“Several days.”

“Pains in back and stomach?”

“Seems terrible agony…he’s delirious now, Doctor.”

“It’s dengue all right. We can’t do a damned thing for him.”

“What?”

“We don’t know what to do, Pedro. Give him aspirin and take the normal high-fever precautions and just wait it out.”

“But Doc, is there nothing…”

“We don’t know anything about dengue, Pedro. We don’t know what to do.”

“Can you not get up here?”

“I have fifty boys here full of fever now. I’ll try to get up there tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

Pedro handed the earphones back to L.Q. and seated himself once more on the edge of the cot and told the others to get some sleep. There was no sleep for Andy, L.Q. and Marion. The three and the corpsman kept a drowsy watch through the night, starting at each new moan and cry of anguish from Danny. A hundred times he called his wife’s name, “Kathy…Kathy,” through lips which turned from cracked dry to sweating wet. His voice moaned weaker as the hours wore on. He would toss and squirm and then make a sudden scream and shoot to a sitting position, his eyes glassy and unseeing. Pedro fought him back down and tried to cool his body before another chill set in.

Dawn found Danny in an exhausted slumber, drained of his strength. Pedro once more worked a thermometer between Danny’s lips. The three buddies nodded in quiet anxiousness as Pedro took the reading.

“It is good. It has dropped to a hundred and two.”

McQuade made his way into the tent. He was barefooted and half asleep. “Pedro, can you get over to my tent for a minute. One of my boys is down with the fever. He’s trying to make his peace with God.”

Pedro arose, wavering, and put his pack together.

“Thanks a lot,” Marion said.

“When he come to make him drink plenty juice. He’s all dry out. I come back right after sick call.” He left.

“Looks like we’re in for an epidemic,” McQuade said.

Danny opened his eyes. Everything whirled. He tried to speak but it felt as though his throat were caked solid. He raised his hand, then felt his head being lifted by a pair of strong hands and an icy trickle forced its way down his mouth. He gagged and fell back on the cot. He looked up and made out Andy’s broad form. It looked like he was standing behind a veil. Danny winced and grabbed his side and rolled and gasped to fight back tears from the knifing pain.

“How’s it going, Danny?”

He answered with a mumbled shaking of his head.

“Drink some more juice.” He rolled Danny over gently and poured down another few hard-taken swallows. Danny’s hand feebly clutched Andy’s lapel.

“I’m going to die.”

“No you ain’t.”

“I’m going to die, Andy.” L.Q. was frightened by the terrible change that had come over Danny. “No worse than when you had the bug in New Zealand and they packed you away to Silverstream,” he said.

L.Q. didn’t like the hollow wild stare of his buddy’s eyes.

Danny was the kind of guy you had to have in a squad. He never made mistakes. You could always feel relieved knowing he was alongside you.

Danny began crying.

Now, that looked rotten. They had seen him sick before, out of his head with malaria. They had lived through the lonely gnawing at his heart together. But Danny losing his will, lying there and crying? A hulk weeping and groaning with pain, whining like a beaten dog. It scared them all.

“I’m going to die. I never got it like this—everything hurts me.”

They stood over him awkwardly trying to reach for words of comfort.

“I want to go home…I want to quit. Another campaign and another…we’ll never get home…never.”

“He’s right, dammit!” Andy cried. “When you think they’ll send us back—in a box maybe!”

“Be quiet,” L.Q. said.

“First the Feathermerchant, then Levin and Burnside. Do you think they’re finished? Hell no! The Corps will get us all. If you ain’t lucky enough to get a bullet you’ll get it the other way—the bug, the crud, jungle rot, yellow jaundice, dengue.”