Battle Cry (22 page)

“Tired of my hoss,

Tired of my saddle,

Tired of rounding up,

Crappy old cattle,

Come a ki yi yippie, yippie ya, yippie ya….”

The bartender leaned over to them. “You two guys have had enough, you’d better get going.”

“Did you hear the man, cousin?”

“The hell you say.”

“Let us not stay in this den of iniquity.”

“Yeah, let us not tarry.” With each other’s aid they managed to navigate from the stool to the deck without incident. Speedy then began to collapse. He fell into Brown, who was falling into him. They braced each other and with arms locked staggered to the street.

The fresh air nearly floored them. They moved backwards and forwards, managing to gain a few feet toward their objective, which was nowhere in particular.

Seabags came to a halt against a building. “Can’t go another step, cousin…I’m plum tuckered.”

He took off his blouse, dropped to his knees, and made a pillow of it on the sidewalk. Then he lay down. Speedy shrugged and lay down beside him.

A huge M.P. leaped from the paddy wagon and went over to the prostrate pair. He poked his billy club into Speedy’s ribs.

“What are you doing down there?”

The Texan looked at him through almost shut eyes and answered, “What the hell you think I’m doing? I’m trying to get this bastard home.”

It was ten o’clock. Spanish Joe turned his eyes from a floorshow of dubious wartime quality. Sister Mary glanced at his watch and then back to his book. Joe reached across the table and tugged Marion’s sleeve.

“Look, Marion,” he said, “put down the book for a minute.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“That fifty bucks I won in the poker game last night—you took?”

Marion withdrew his little notebook. “You owe out thirty dollars and fifteen cents of it.”

Gomez downed a double shot of rye and wiped his lips with his sleeve. “It’s like this, old buddy, I got the number of a joint…and well, look…Christ on a crutch, don’t give me a sermon. Could I go, huh?”

Marion slammed the book down mentioning something about Satan. Spanish Joe bent close to him, pleading. “I tell you it’s a high class joint.”

“Doesn’t
anything
soak into that renegade skull of yours?”

“Aw come on, Marion, be a real shipmate. Ain’t I been to church two Sundays in a row? And I ain’t borrowed a thing from the guys all month.”

“No!”

“But these girls are sensational…Jesus, all guys ain’t like you. We’re only human.”

“I’ll bet they’re sensational,” Marion sneered. “Did you ever stop to think of the consequences that might follow? I mean other than moral.” He pointed a finger under Gomez’s nose. “Suppose you get a dose and they throw you in the clap shack and make you do G.O. time, without pay.”

“Just one of the chances in the game.”

Marion reopened his book.

“Most of us are only human. Aw come on, Marion, don’t be a wedgeass all your life.”

“I’m not going to give you fifty dollars, Joe, and see you get rolled.”

“Just a tenspot is all I need, just a sawbuck.”

“From what I understand, ten dollars is too much.”

“Yeah, but Marion, this is Dago and there’s a war on. Broads are hard to import.”

Marion eyed his pleading pal and weighed the pros and cons of human weaknesses. Finally he chalked up another round to the devil. “I’ll have to go along, understand, or you’ll never get back to camp.”

Gomez pumped Marion’s hand wildly. “That’s a real understanding pal. Let’s shove.”

They found the establishment. Spanish Joe rapped softly on the door. About thirty seconds passed, it opened a crack. “Moe sent us,” Joe whispered. The door opened, they entered quickly into a dimly lit, drably furnished living room. They were ushered in by a prune-faced madam.

“There is only one girl working tonight, honey,” she rasped. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes. Who wants to go first?”

Marion had comforted himself by sitting in a deep chair by a lamp and was already concerning himself with
Gibbons Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

“Just me tonight, momma,” Joe answered. The madam leaned over Marion, a set of triple-strand pearls flapping against his face. “How about it, honey? I’m sure you’ll like the girl.” Sister Mary answered her with a fierce grunt. The madam looked at Spanish Joe, who merely shrugged.

“He’s like that all the time, never seen anything like it,” he explained as she showed him into a bedroom down the hall.

Marion struggled through several pages of his book, looking often at his watch and trying to play deaf to the muffled noises of the place. A ray of light cracked, heralding an open door. He drew the book in front of his face, quickly turning an unread page and another one. Spanish Joe entered, his arm draped about the kimono-clad whore, gently slapping her buttocks. “Give the little lady a sawbuck, Marion.”

Marion reached into his wallet, withdrew ten dollars and stood up. His eyes met those of the prostitute. They were pale blue and sad-looking…he saw a flow of flaming red hair and a small trembling body. He clutched the lamp table for support, growing dizzy. A silence…so deathly he could hear the tick of a clock down the hall and the thump of Rae’s heart. He stumbled from the room.

A blast of cool night air stung his wet eyes. He staggered aimlessly for block after block until he became exhausted. Then he sat down on the curbstone and cried.

It was raining hard. I had the squad locked up in the radio shack, drilling on practice keys. “O.K., take ten.” They stood up from their benches, stretched and doffed their earphones.

“Mighty slick corncobs they have in this here outfit,” Seabags Brown, the Iowa farmer, mused looking out of the window. “Only trouble is you got to unroll so damned much paper to get to them.” He peered at the rain and let a wad of tobacco juice fly out the window. “My gawd, it’s raining harder than a cow pissin’ on a flat rock.”

“You ain’t just a whistling through your buckteeth, Spike,” Speedy commented.

“Come on, Mac, have a heart and let’s knock off. I’m going dit happy at this damned key,” L.Q. moaned.

“Highpockets has the red ass,” I said, “and I don’t blame him. You guys have been fouling up those field problems like a Chinese firedrill.”

“What you want, chief, eggs in your beer?” Lighttower grinned.

“Mac,” Forrester said, “I think you’re bucking for warrant officer.”

“I hear tell, cousins, he’s been playing drop the soap with Bryce,” Seabags said, banging his forefinger against his ear in a familiar gesture.

“Why you boots, you wouldn’t last ten minutes in the old Corps with this kind of operating.”

“Tell us about how good you guys were in the o-ould Corps,” Andy snickered.

“Why in the o-oould Corps,” Jones took up the rallying, “now let me tell you recruits something. I’ve worn out more seabags than you have socks.”

“I think Mac is going Asiatic on us.”

“Yep, pore old boy is cracking up bigger than hell. Survey him to field music.” Seabags let another spit fly out the window.

“Give me a coffin nail,” L.Q. asked Lighttower.

“You palefaces ever buy your own cigarettes?”

“Butts on that cigarette,” Andy called ahead of Gray.

Forrester took a bar of pogey bait and peeled off the wrapper. “What’s the matter with Sister Mary? He’s sure had a wild hair up his ass lately.”

“Yeah,” Andy said, “somebody better give him the word. He’s getting awful one way.”

“Is it true they’re going to survey him to artillery?” L.Q. asked.

Gomez sprang to his feet. “Knock it off.”

“Just scuttlebutt, old man. Freedom of speech, you know.”

“I said knock off the crap!”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Joe—I’m a lover, not an athlete.”

I changed the subject. “Back on those keys. I’m shoving off and I don’t want any of you bums sneaking out until seventeen hundred.” I went to the door, put on my poncho and pith helmet. “Forrester, check into barracks in fifteen minutes and relieve Marion on the C.Q. and take these sick-bay soldiers to chow.”

I entered the lifeless barracks and scanned the long row of neatly made bunks. In his corner, Marion Hodgkiss on C.Q. duty lay back staring blankly at the ceiling. The phonograph spun a piece of his classical music. It bounced, haunted-like, off the empty bulkheads. I shook the rain off and moseyed over to him.

“Damned pretty piece, what’s its nomenclature?”

“I told you a hundred times,” he recited in monotone. “The last movement of Brahms First Symphony.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Brahms, damned pretty.” I circled around his sack. “Sure is raining out, yep, sure is raining.” The record ran out, the player arm going around in crazy circles. I reached over and cut it off.

“I didn’t tell you to do that!” Marion snapped.

“Look, Marion, you’re going to crack up if you keep this up. There’s even scuttlebutt of transferring you to artillery.”

He gritted his teeth and looked out of the window. A wind whirred the rain hard against the windowpane, sending the little drops flying and swirling in a million crazy directions. “I happened to be going to Coronado the other night and—”

“Mind your own goddam business.”

This type of language from Sister Mary could well mean I might be on the receiving end of a fractured jaw. I turned to go.

“Mac,” whispered Marion.

“Yeah.”

“Mac, I’m sorry. I’m…I’m…”

“Come on, kid, put on your rain stuff and let’s go down to the slop shute and talk. The guys will be in here in a few minutes.”

“The C.Q.?” he asked.

“Forrester will take it.”

He slipped the poncho over his head, buttoned it down and donned his pith helmet. We walked slowly down the slippery, rain-soaked street, the water squishing under our boondockers, past Barracks One to the catwalk over the sand, and entered the slop shute. I brushed the water off and sauntered up to the bar. “Two beers.”

“Coke for me.”

“Beer and a coke.” We took the bottles and sailed for an empty table.

At the end of the bar we spied Gunnery Sergeant McQuade and Burnside tossing down brews. McQuade was surrounded by a gang of his boys from Fox Company. His huge gut hung far below his belt. He leaned on the bar and through sea-hardened lips he bellowed for a survey on the beer. He spotted me.

“Hi Mac,” he shouted.

“Hi Mac,” I called back.

“This here reecruit is nine beers behind me.”

“Line up ten beers,” Burnside ordered. “I’d like to see the day that a washed-up mick can outdrink Burnside.” McQuade threw back his big red face and roared. They both had reputations as human beerkegs and they’d been having a drinking bout for six years. The “Gunny” turned to his boys.

“Why, I’ve passed more ship masts than this guy has passed telephone poles,” he bellowed as Burnside chuggalugged his third bottle down. “Did I ever tell you men about the all-Marine ship, the old U.S.S.
Tuscarora
? Yes, sir, what a ship! Forty decks deep and a straw bottom to feed the sea horses. Why, one time we was going up the Yangtze River and there were so many bends in it that the aft guard was playing pinochle with the forward guard.” He tilted a bottle to his lips, “Here’s to the next man that dies,” and downed it in two swallows.

Burnside lifted his voice in song:

“Glorious, glorious!

One keg of beer for the four of us,

Glory be to God that there are no more of us,

Cause one of us could drink it all alone….”

I turned to Corporal Hodgkiss. “Think you’d like to bat the breeze, Marion?”

“I’d like to write a story about Burnside and McQuade some day.”

“They are a couple for the book.”

“Mac,” he said, “I don’t understand about those women.”

“Whores…I mean prostitutes?” He nodded. “I don’t know, Marion, it’s hard to say. When we were over in Shanghai in thirty-one, they had a lot of White Russian girls. I know a couple of the guys who married them. They seemed happy enough.”

“Can one of them…I mean, Mac, well…I never asked her much about herself…I always thought they were rough and hard, like the books make them.”

“They’re women just like any other women. You’ll find all kinds, same as there are all kinds of Marines.”

“She’s so gentle and ladylike, and she likes to learn about things. I…just couldn’t picture her with…Mac, it doesn’t add up. She’s wonderful…why would she be doing that?”

“The first time I went to a joint, Marion, I was just about your age and just about as innocent. The girl had a copy of some high-tone book on a stand beside the bed. I forgot the name of it. The thing that I always remembered about her was the fact that I was so surprised that she read a book. It happened that she was a very nice girl, a college graduate. She had her story. Everyone does—like I said, there’s all kinds.”

“What would you do if you were in my shoes, Mac?”

“You’re the only guy that can answer that, Marion.” I lit the smoking lamp and thought hard. “They’re funny kind of women, I’ve known lots of them. A good many of them have been kicked around…and men, well—just so many pigs after the same thing. They know all the angles, all the answers. Maybe that’s why Rae fell in love with you. You were something new for her.” I nursed my beer and fought hard to find the right words. “When a guy gives them a decent shake they get a loyalty like a hound dog. Those girls don’t care to look around or cheat. Their man is something special to them. They’ve got a tenderness that maybe all of us want but few guys are lucky enough to find. But you’ve got to pay a price for it, you’ve got to be pretty big and erase a lot of ugly pictures from your mind….” I fumbled and floundered.