Battle Cry (35 page)

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

CHAPTER 5

WHERE WOULD
we go from there? The cold clammy reality fell upon us. The Unholy Four lay at dockside in Wellington harbor, waiting for the Sixth Marines. The transports were dear to the hearts of the Marines: the
Jackson, Adams, Hayes,
and
Crescent City.
The four that had taken the first bunch into Guadalcanal. The four that had popped Jap Zeros from the skies like tenpins.

The last bottle of beer was gone, the last hangover done. In the hour of breaking camp, you get that restless feeling of wanting to board ship fast and get the hell going so you can stop that queasy feeling in your guts. We weren’t there to enjoy the scenery and the women, nor was that the reason we had joined the Corps.

As usual, I had a hell of a time getting my squad out for the working parties. This time they had rigged the tent with cowbells and alarms so that the merest touch of the flap would set off a din. As soon as I would come after them, they’d escape out the back way or through the sides.

At last we strode up the gangplank of the
Jackson,
saluted the watch and the ensign and made our way to quarters. It was a wonderful surprise after the ratship
Bobo.
Headquarters Company had drawn a place in the first hold, directly across the hatchway from sailor quarters.

“Get a look at this, the Navy sure goes first cabin.”

“Sure different than that pigboat.”

“Hey, Mac, Seabags is seasick.”

“What you mean? We’re still tied up to the dock.”

“He got sick coming up the gangplank, just like the last time.”

“All that farmer has to do is look at a ship and he’s puking.”

“Say, how about this mattress!”

We settled down quickly for the wait until all ships could be loaded and we would make a sudden sprint to open seas.

Christmas services were held in a warehouse on the Wellington docks. After singing carols, and sermons from Chaplain Peterson and Father McKale, we all came down with a bad case of the G.I. blues. Andy, Danny, Marion, and the rest, all were quiet and remorseful. I wished the hell I could just wake up and find Christmas had come and gone. No one cared to talk, just sat around, lost to each other, all wrapped in their own thoughts. Danny read an old letter, Marion had his wallet open looking longingly at the picture of the girl with the red hair. Even Ski, with only bitter memories, studied the fading picture of Susan. Thinking was bad, it might wreck the operations. But what else could a man do on Christmas Eve?

The swabbies cooked up a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, but that didn’t help much. Food wasn’t what we were hungry for. Of course, an old salt like me didn’t get homesick. I only wished they’d give the men liberty, so I could get plastered too. L.Q. tried to snap us out of it, but somehow his jokes didn’t seem so funny. Times like this you could feel the dirty, rotten, stinking hunger of soldiering.

Ski opened his letter and read it once more. It was the last one from his sister. It told of the complete failure of his dream of only a year ago. Susan had been thrown out of her father’s house and was living in a hotel with her husband. His mother’s health was failing, mostly out of grief for him. And his sister, only a child, was already dating servicemen and thinking of quitting school to take a high-paying shipyard job.

“Come on, Ski,” Danny said, “they just blew chow down. They got a nice dinner fixed, turkey and the works.”

The bosun’s whistle squealed through the ship’s intercom. “Now hear this, now hear this. Shore leave will be granted to all Marines with the rating of Staff NCO and above.”

“Blow it out!” a lower pay grade man screamed.

As for me, it was just in time. I was going nuts. I figured that Burnside and me could get drunk enough for the whole squad. I quickly doffed my dungarees and dug up a set of greens from the stored locker. The last button on my blouse was set, when Andy came up behind me with a very soulful look.

“Nothing doing, Andy. I’ll blow my cork if I stick around this hole any more,” I said.

“I just thought, maybe…well, I told you how things were with Pat and me.” He turned away. I wasn’t getting soft, but after all, I thought, a good sarge has to look after his boys.

“Andy,” I called. Andy spun around quickly. There was a big grin all over his face. I peeled off my blouse and threw it to him. Andy threw his arms about me.

“Who the hell wants a musclebound Swede slobbering all over you on Christmas Eve? Go on, get the hell out of here before I reverse my course.” I went to my bunk, thoroughly disgusted with my sentimental outburst.

Gunner Keats entered our quarters and summoned Marion and me.

“Seen Gomez, Mac?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Have you, Hodgkiss?”

“Er…no, sir.”

“I thought so, he went over the side. When he comes in, no matter what the hour, I want him sent up to my quarters. He’s going to ride this trip out in the brig.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Corporal Hodgkiss, you seem to be the only man in the company I can trust. I want you to take the quarterdeck watch from twenty to twenty-four hundred,” he said. “Here is a list of the men aboard rating liberty and I want each one checked off as he comes up the gangplank. If any of the lower pay grades try sneaking aboard, you are to call the ship’s brig.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Gunner turned to go. I followed him to the hatchway and tapped his shoulder. “I know what you are going to ask me, Mac, and the answer is no.” Old Jack Keats was a Mustang, up from the ranks, and he knew how an enlisted man felt on Christmas Eve in a foreign port. It wasn’t so many years ago that he and I had been corporals together, tossing pisscutters in Shanghai. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “For Chrisake, Mac, if you take them ashore get them back before Hodgkiss gets off duty or we’ll all be up the creek without a paddle.”

“Merry Christmas, Jack,” I said.

“Go to hell, Mac.”

I gathered the squad in the head and locked the door. “Now look, you bastards, you all meet me in front of the Parliament House at twenty-three fifty, and God help the guy that doesn’t show on time. Remember, Mary goes off the watch at midnight and we’ve got to be back aboard. Lighttower!”

“Ugh.”

“You come with me. I don’t want you scalping anybody tonight.”

“Aw gee, Mac, I got a little squaw…”

“No war dancing for you, you come with me.”

“O.K., chief,” he said resignedly.

In forty-five seconds flat there wasn’t a radioman aboard the
Jackson.
I wished they could set up their radios that fast.

They found a bench in the Botanical Gardens. Andy lit a pair of cigarettes and handed Pat one.

“Not much like Christmas, is it, Andy?”

“I’m used to snow in the States.”

She laughed softly. “Here everyone packs up to go to the beach. I suppose we’re just plain upside down.”

“I’m glad I could see you.”

“It was nice of Mac to give up his pass. He’s a quaint old duck.”

“The old Marine—it’s guys like him that’s the real backbone of the Corps.”

“Where do you suppose you’ll be going?”

“Hell, I don’t know.”

“It was nice, having you Americans.”

“Pat.”

“Yes.”

“Were you…were you glad you met me?”

“I…don’t know, Andy.”

He loosened the too snug blouse Mac had loaned him and studied her face. She looked listless that moment, as though her mind were drifting back to other good-bys. Her brother and her husband. She had said farewell to them too, and now she was frightened.

“I mean,” she continued, “I like you well enough, maybe that’s why I’m sorry we met.” She stiffened herself to control the trembling of her body.

“Pat…look, I don’t know exactly how to say this, but I want you to know I’m glad I came to New Zealand and I’m glad I found you. I’m fouled up inside me—maybe it’s a good thing we’re shoving off…maybe I can get myself squared away.”

“That’s right, it’s best for both of us, Andy. Before we become involved in something we don’t want.”

“Yeah,” he cried, “that’s right. Everything is screwy—the whole world. You just can’t get tied up when you don’t know what’s going to happen from one day to the next. Especially with an outfit like the Marines, breezing through.”

“Do you suppose you’ll ever come back to New Zealand?”

“I don’t know…maybe when I get away and can think straight and you can too. Maybe we will come back. You never can tell about the Marines.”

“Stop, Andy! It’s silly talk. We both know you won’t come back…. War, war…damned war.”

“Pat, honey, you’re all upset.”

She closed her eyes. “I’ll be all right.”

“Would you do something special for me?”

“Yes.”

“Look, I know we’re just friends and all that. But, would you write me? Regular, you know. I’ve never got letters regular from a girl like the other guys…I mean, nothing to tie you or me down, but stuff about the farm and your folks and yourself. It would be real nice to get letters like that.”

“I’ll write you, Andy,” she whispered, “if you wish.”

“And I’ll write you too, Pat, and someday…”

“No…no someday, Andy. No more somedays for me.”

“Jesus! Almost midnight. I’ve got to shove, Pat, would you please go to the dock with me—or should I ask?”

She nodded and they walked swiftly and silently through the quiet streets. From the tram they walked to the gate by the guard shack on the dock.

“I’m glad I met you, Pat, and I hope inside me that I come back to New Zealand. Maybe we can—” He stopped. “Good-by, Pat.”

He kissed her cheek. For a moment he clutched her tightly to him, then drew back.

“Good-by, Yank, good luck.” Andy walked through the gate toward the ship. The heels of his shoes echoed through the deserted warehouses, while his form faded gradually from her view.

Pat Rogers clutched the iron fence and sobbed uncontrollably. “Good-by, my darling,” she cried….

At five minutes before midnight, my squad staggered up the gangplank. I saluted Marion and reported.

“Master Tech, Mac.” He returned the salute and checked me off the list.

“Colonel Huxley,” L.Q. snapped.

“Admiral Halsey,
Bull
Halsey,” Seabags belched.

“Chief Crazy Horse, mighty warrior massacred palefaces at Little Big Horn—”

“Aw shaddup, Injun…you wanna wake up the ship?”

“Yamamoto,” Speedy drawled. “I done lost my ship.”

“Fearless Fosdick, the human fly,” Danny said. The Feathermerchant drew up the rear. “Just plain Bill,” he groaned, and passed out.

I herded them below and tucked them in. All were present and accounted for—all, that is, except Spanish Joe. He had jumped before the Gunner had given us an O.K.

Marion glanced fitfully at his timepiece, only two minutes to go and Joe was not there. He paced the deck, trying hard to decide whether or not to have the Gunner send out an alert. Suddenly a shadow from the dock area caught his eye. It was flitting in and out of an open warehouse. Marion dropped back into the darkness to observe. The shadow made a quick sprint from the warehouse to the side of the ship and fell flat. It was Spanish Joe! He stood and looked about and then, with the deftness of a black panther, leaped to one of the huge ropes that docked the ship. With a slow, steady, noiseless motion Joe inched up the rope. First one hand reached up and gripped the rail, then the other. Ever so slowly, the top of his head came into view. He hooked his nose on the rail and cast his eyes about. Just about this time Sister Mary made a quick lunge across the deck, whipped out his pistol, and stuck it right between Joe’s eyes. And, as the legend goes in the Corps, Spanish Joe Gomez threw up both hands and hung from the rail by his nose.

After the miserable shakedown cruise on the
Bobo,
the
Jackson
was wonderful. Quarters were good and there were three square chows a day. Solid, well-cooked Navy chow down to the last bean. There were fresh water showers, a rare luxury, and everything aboard was run clean and shipshape, as if they took pride in the ship, like a best girl.

There was a warm bond between the sailors of the
Jackson
and the Marines. Their task was unglamorous—transporting men to the enemy. Perhaps they felt like partners in the venture and realized they had lives to protect. The record of the Unholy Four was great. They were the pioneer U. S. transports of World War II and had stopped attack after attack from the sky. They had taken the war to the enemy for the first tottering time on August 7, 1942. And they had a special affection for the Marines. We too felt safe in their hands and no Marine ever mentioned the Unholy Four without a feeling of warmth in his heart.

We assigned working parties, chipping paint in the heads, swabbing decks, doing mess duty and standing guard watches. The radio squad got the detail of lugging chow up from the cold storage lockers to the galleys, from two decks down. They grumbled something or other about being communicators, but Burnside and I took personal charge and there was no skylarking. For three hours a day we went down the steep ladders and shouldered hundred-pound sacks of spuds and then worked them slowly upward.

I for one always liked life aboard a good ship. In the old days, a good deal of a Marine’s cruise was sea duty. There was something nice and peaceful about standing by the rail after late chow with a coffin nail. Lots of times I kind of forgot for a minute who I was and where I was going. But soon the squad would edge in by me and I’d look about and see the gun nests and the swabbies standing by the 37-mm’s and I’d get back to earth.

When they locked us in at night, we’d start the poker game, the poker game that never really started and never really ended. The deck, the players and the locale might change, but the poker game went on forever. We’d clean gear and write letters; then, before taps, we’d gather on the boarded-up hold and Speedy would start singing and the squad would join in. The bunch sure liked to sing and they made damned good harmony, except for L.Q., who couldn’t carry a tune. When it got real soft and quiet-like, Speedy plucked the guitar he had borrowed from a swabby and gave us a ballad or two in that sweet clear voice of his. Kind of made a guy tingle right to his toes when Speedy sang: