Battle Cry (31 page)

“That is correct, but you didn’t give me a chance to tell you.”

“We do hope you boys like us. We owe so much to you, with the Japs breathing down our necks and our own lads so far away.”

“You here often?”

“I do a regular turn twice a week. Now, I told you, no fraternizing.”

“No fraternizing
Andy,
” he corrected.

“I’ve another customer. Excuse me please.”

“Don’t stay too long. I want to tell you about what an amazing fellow I am.”

He watched her move on down the counter and serve a Kiwi airman. Andy disliked these opening maneuvers. However, he reckoned they were necessary. He also liked what he saw and there were only a few invaluable moments to try for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. As she moved about on her duties, he managed to slip in a word of conversation from time to time.

“What part of America are you from?”

“Washington.”

“Oh, the capital?”

“No, Washington State, there’s a difference.”

“Come now, I went to school, you know. Washington is on the western coast of the United States and produces large quantities of timber,” she recited.

“And I cut down half that timber before I enlisted.”

“Really, that is interesting—a woodsman.”

“Lumberjack.” (Now don’t flit off again, honey.)

“And you really cut trees at one of those camps?”

“Topped them, cut them, and floated them down the river.” (That’s right, just lean over the counter and get real interested.) “My name’s really Bunyan but modesty forbids so I go by the name of Hookans.” (Smile pretty.) “By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Pat, Pat Rogers.”

“I knew a girl by the name of Pat once.” (What a dirty bitch she was.) “Heck of a nice girl. Came from Spokane, I had a big crush on her when I was a kid.” (Every guy in town was laying her.)

“Yes, there are Pats all over. Small world,” she said. (Clever comeback…ripping, eh wot?)

“Say Pat, in the interest of harmony among the Allies and lend-lease and my morale, how about a date?” (Close in, boy.)

“I’m afraid I couldn’t.” (Aw honey, don’t make it rough on old Andy.)

“I haven’t met anybody since I’ve been here. I guess I don’t make friends easy. I sure would like an evening of dancing and movies. Maybe help me forget I’m so homesick.” (To say nothing of a night in bed with you.)

“Thanks very much, Andy, but I’m afraid I’ll have to let that part of the war effort down. Nice meeting you.” (Boy, she didn’t mince words. I’ll play it pathetic, then quit.)

He gave a weak smile and grinned like a naughty puppy that was caught in the act and looking for pity. She sighed, shrugged and turned to meet the onrush of Marines pouring in for a quick cup of coffee. He propped his elbows on the counter, put his chin in his hands and looked doleful. Then he spotted the wedding ring on her hand. (Married!) He slipped on his overseas cap, squared away and turned to leave. She met him at the end of the counter.

“Andy.”

“Yes?”

“You don’t mind if I’m fickle, woman’s prerogative. Flickers and dancing do sound nice and I haven’t been out in an awfully long time. Could I take you up on it?”

(I’ve heard everything now, sister. Pining away for your old man in the Middle East? I’ll bet you haven’t been out since last night.) “You bet you can take me up on it. Just lead the way, wherever you want to go. I get liberty Thursday. I’ll be ashore around six, how’s that?”

“I’ll have to get someone to take my shift, but I’ll arrange it.” (I’m sure you will…old Andy likes married broads, well broken in.)

“Where shall I pick you up?”

“Salvation Army Hotel for Women. On Nelson Square, a bit above Lambdon Quay.” (Salvation Army Hotel…oh well, I can always get a hotel room.)

“See you Thursday and thanks, Pat.” (Yeah, see you in the sack, old bean.)

“I don’t give a big rat’s ass…see, I don’t give a big rat’s ass.” Ski wavered and hit the bar with his face.

“You’d better cut this out, Ski, or you’ll get shipped to field music.”

“I don’t give a big rat’s ass. Don’t make no goddam difference nohow, any more.”

“Are you coming or do I get rough?” Danny demanded.

“You’re my buddy, Danny. You’re my buddy and you like me even though she don’t. A 4-F…a stinking 4-F.”

“Cut it out. You’re going to crack up bigger than crap if you don’t quit eating your heart out.”

“I don’t give a big rat’s ass.”

“You’ve been in the brig twice already. Once more and Huxley is going to ship you out.”

One day, several weeks after their arrival in New Zealand, I saw my squad in a different light.

Burnside and McQuade had gone on a real pisscutter the night before. The staunch hiker was faltering on his pace. We’d made the Little Burma and pushed halfway up. Then Burny called for a break and sank to the side of the dirt road, under a tree, drenched in sweat.

“Come on, Burnside, getting candy-assed?”

“Yeah, how we ever going to beat Bn 2’s record if you quit after four miles?”

“Let’s wind it up, Burny, the liberty train goes tonight.”

Then it dawned on me. Any man in the platoon could set the pace now. The cumbersome weight he carried didn’t mean a thing. Even during the breaks the men no longer bothered to ease the packs from their backs for a rest. And canteens that left camp full returned nearly full. The squad was rugged and hard. Highpockets was getting what he had striven for.

After the hikes we all raced for the ice cold showers. Warm water was a luxury not afforded us. The needles of frigid water washed away the sweat and grime and there was liberty to look forward to. A night at a pub, or with a girl in Wellington. The men drank and slept with their shackups and ran for the liberty train which left at midnight. The train was always overcrowded. Sometimes they had to spend the trip sleeping up in the luggage rack or on the deck. The train stopped at Paeka-karaki at two in the morning. From there we hiked the highway for two miles to Camp McKay and fell exhausted on our sacks at three. At six we arose to hike another day and go on liberty another night.

Reveille, roll call and double time a mile before chow. Clean the gear, fall in…hike to Little Burma.

We’d communicate. By radio, by phone, by flares, by pyrotechnics, by panels, by semaphore, by air-ground pick up, by runners, by flash guns. We practiced code till we were dit happy. We broke down and set up the TBXs until we could do it blindfolded.

Pat laughed as they climbed the hill off Lambdon Quay towards the Salvation Army Hotel for Women.

“I’ve had a grand time, Andy. I’m glad I used my prerogative on you.”

“Me too. We’ll do it again, real soon.”

“If you’d like. Do you think I’d make a good lumberjack?”

“You’d made a good something,” he puffed, slowing her down. “I get winded when I don’t have a pack on my back. You’d make a good running mate for Burnside. I think you women hike uphill faster than you do on level ground.”

They turned at the gate that led up the path to the hotel. Andy unlatched it, took her arm, and they walked up. Near the entrance to the huge converted mansion she turned.

“Good night, Andy. It was really lovely.” She extended her hand to him. He seized her and kissed her. She pushed away from him hard. “Don’t ruin it,” she said.

“Aw come on Pat, cut the act.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He swung her forward again, but she resisted. “Stop it, please!”

He released her and gave a sardonic smile. “You ain’t any different than the rest,” he said. “Play hard to get…oh, really, this is the first time I’ve been dancing in years…baloney.”

“I think you’d better go, Andy.”

“What have you been doing with the Marines in town? Crying away for your husband while he’s sweating in North Africa?”

She arched her back. “My husband,” she said, “was killed in Crete two years ago.”

Andy sagged back as she walked quickly to the door.

It was a calm, soft New Zealand Sunday. The Second Battalion had the camp duty. After chow and church the men wandered back to their tents. Gear was cleaned, leather shined, and clothes washed on the laundry racks and uniforms pressed for the next days of liberty. Then came a crap-out session. Talk about home and talk about women. Scuttlebutt on the Marines on Guadalcanal and scuttlebutt about where they were going. Sister Mary went to the Company office to pound out a story. The Injun and Seabags pitched horseshoes down the Company street. The rest, except for Andy, Danny, and Ski, played softball on the rocky diamond on the parade ground.

Finally Danny laced on his boondockers and loaded up a couple of ammo clips.

“What you doing, Danny?”

“Going back in the hills. The farmer on the last hike told me they’ve got some wild boars back there.”

“Oh yeah, how far?”

“About ten miles.”

“Christ on a crutch, you hike six days a week. What you want to go back there on crap-out day for?”

“I don’t feel comfortable when I’m not hiking.”

“You’re cracking up bigger’n crap…wait a minute, I’ll go will you.”

They stepped to the tent flap. “Want to come along, Ski?” The Feathermerchant stared idly at the tent top and gave no answer.

“I’d better fill my canteen,” Andy said, “and check out with Mac. Christ, I’m worried about Ski.”

“Me too. But I suppose time is the only thing.”

“Goddam women.”

They crossed the open sheds that housed the mess and filled their canteens at a spigot. Then they went to the galley and bummed some sandwiches and soluble coffee from the cook.

“Danny?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ever apologize to anyone?” Andy asked.

“What kind of stupid-assed question is that, of course I have.”

“Many times?”

“Sure.”

“I mean, be real sorry for something and just go up and say you’re sorry.”

“Sure.”

“Ever say it to a broad?”

“Why the third degree?”

“I just wondered.”

Andy Hookans walked into the Salvation Army Canteen and looked about for Pat Rogers. She was at her usual spot behind the counter. He stood and watched some Kiwis play ping-pong until the coast was clear. Then he advanced and took a seat. She saw him and turned away. His face reddened.

“Pat, please,” he said, “I want to talk to you for a minute.”

“Will you please leave, Yank. I don’t wish to see or have anything more to do with you.”

“Look,” he said, “if you don’t let me say what I came in to say, I’m going to jump this counter and drag you out by the hair and make you listen.”

“Be quiet! You’re starting a scene.”

“In ten seconds I’m coming over and get you. Please, two minutes is all I ask.”

She glanced about the room and saw eyes turning in their direction. She sighed disgustedly. “I warn you, Yank, I don’t want you to give me any more trouble. I’m just doing this to avoid a scene.”

They stepped from the canteen into the shadows cast by a small streetlight. Andy fumbled, face flushed and voice nervous. He lifted his eyes to hers. “Pat…I ain’t never said I’m sorry to no one as long as I lived. I ain’t ever apologized for nothing.”

She turned away.

“But I’m saying I’m sorry to you. I ain’t ever been sorry for a thing I’ve ever done or said…but I feel bad, real bad, and I couldn’t rest easy till I told you.” There was silence for many seconds. “That’s all I wanted to say,” he whispered.

“That was nice of you, Andy, I appreciate it. We all make mistakes, you know.”

“I don’t expect you’ll want to go out with me again and I don’t blame you…but I’d like you to take this.” He handed her a small package. “Don’t get the wrong idea…I…just want to show you…well, you know what I mean.”

“I accept the apology, but I’m afraid I couldn’t take the gift.”

“Please take it, I want you to. I won’t bother you no more.”

She opened the neatly wrapped package and looked at a pair of tiny, well-chosen earrings. “Oh, they are lovely.”

“You’ll wear them sometimes, maybe?”

“Yes, I’ll wear them…it’s nice of you, Andy. I know this hasn’t been easy for you to do.”

He extended his hand. “Thanks, I’ll shove off now.” He walked briskly, half cursing himself for the first honest humility he had ever shown.

“Andy,” Pat called.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you come in and have a cup of coffee? I’m off duty soon and you could walk me home.”

CHAPTER 3

MARION HODGKISS
was a happy Marine. A mail call never rolled by without a letter or package from Rae. Mostly books and more knitted stuff than he could ever wear.

We were proud of Marion; it wasn’t every outfit that could boast a writer. Each minute off duty was spent in Pucchi’s office pounding out stories, and the magazines back home were grabbing them up. We were doubly proud when he turned down a public relations offer in order to stay with the outfit.

Although everything seemed the same between him and Spanish Joe, I couldn’t help but feel that in back of his fierce black eyes Gomez kindled and fanned a slow burn. Something told me that there was going to be serious trouble between the two before the cruise was over.

In the half hour before evening chow, we usually played touch football on the rocky parade ground. Sergeant Herman, the quartermaster, had slipped a football in with the gear. It was nice of him to save space for it—along with his five personal cases of shirts, skivvies, socks, and other stuff he had “borrowed” during his tenure as QM. It was scuttlebutt that he planned to open an Army and Navy Store after he mustered out of the Corps. He had a very fine start. Herman, like any good Bn 4 man, literally bled every time he issued a piece of gear. It was like he was losing a son.

Promotions came. All except Spanish Joe and Lighttower were made Pfc and Danny was advanced to corporal. There was the usual ceremony—saluting, reading the long-winded document, cutting corners squarely.

Danny sewed the last stitch of his new chevron and an anxious squad peered over his shoulder. It is Marine custom to “stick on” a new stripe for good luck. Each man in the outfit punches the promotee in the arm, once for each pay grade. Danny, being a corporal, had to receive two whacks in the arm to assure his long life in that rate. By the time I got to him his arm was limp. I remembered the time I had made Master Tech and took six raps apiece from the whole company. I took my two swipes at Danny, who took the last two punches with a sigh of relief and, as is the custom, invited us all down to the slop shute for a brew.