Battle Cry (37 page)

“Must be the lines up there.”

The boat bumped into shore, the coxswain gunned her hard to hold her fast and the ramp fell. We were bursting to breaking point with curiosity and took off straight for a lone Marine who was standing on shore. His face was yellow with atabrine and withered from malnutrition.

“Say, what town is this, cousin?”

“You’re on the Canal, buster,” he answered. “Pardon me, but I didn’t catch the name of the outfit?”

“The Sixth Marines.”

The Marine turned and yelled to a couple of buddies heading to the beach, “Hey, Pete, break out the band. The Pogey Bait Sixth finally got here.” He turned and left.

“Now that was mighty unneighborly of that fellow. I wonder where the nearest ginmill is?”

“O.K., fall in, on the double.”

We moved into a fringe of coconut trees near Kokum. The trees were everywhere. They stretched as far as the eye could see in neatly planted rows. This must have been the Lever Brothers’ plantation.

Naturally, I had a hell of a time getting the gear ashore and camp pitched. The squad dropped their packs and took off in search of scuttlebutt. It wasn’t long before the area was swarming with natives who were as curious as the Marines. They were long, thin, and extremely black. Their bodies were covered only with a middle loincloth, their arms and chests heavily tattooed with blue markings. Their hair was a black shock of Brillo standing straight up for several inches and dyed red about the roots. They wore earrings and their teeth were filed down to sharp points. They had a weird and shocking appearance.

With a few words of pidgin, bartering began. For a cigarette, a tall palm was scaled in quick monkey fashion and a dozen coconuts dropped. A few pennies, and a dirty wash was hustled to the river.

Speedy handed a set of dungarees to one particularly ugly specimen and indicated they needed washing. The native held out his palm and Speedy dropped a New Zealand sixpence in it. The native took a look at the coin, spat on the ground, and handed it back.

“They don’t go for that money.”

“Merican, Merican,” the native said, “no British.”

“It seems,” Marion said, “they have no use for their former exploiters.”

The bartering continued and we were all soon filled to the gunnels with coconut juice. We were soon tramping to sick bay with stomach aches.

Andy, eyeing a tall tree, broke out a pair of telephone climbing spikes and soon put the natives out of business. Whenever the word
Jap
came up in the course of the international trade session, the native would immediately hold up two, three, four, or more fingers, indicating his haul, and cap it with a slow motion over his neck, to indicate what he had done to the Jap, and then he’d spit on the deck. The two words they spoke most fluently were: “Can have?” with an extended palm.

As the day wore on, the gear was in and the camp set up, and wild rumors flew.

“They’re landing a hundred thousand Japs tonight from Rabaul.”

“I heard that Henry Ford is going to give a new car to every Marine on Guadalcanal.”

“We’re going to hit the lines, end the drive, and go straight back to the States for a parade up Market Street in Frisco.”

“The Japs know the Sixth has landed and they’re bringing in five hundred planes tonight.”

The wonderful strangeness of landing at Lunga on Guadalcanal—Guadalcanal, where they first hit. Guadalcanal, the legend. “Look, there’s the Slot, there’s Skylark Channel, and Florida and Tulagi, over there.” Where is Henderson Field from here? Where is the Tenaru? Yes, we were here, right on the spot where history was made. A million questions and wild stories ended any thinking.

Spanish Joe called the squad into a huddle, excepting me and Burnside. “There is an army ordnance shed about a mile from here,” he said, “loaded with Garand rifles. Who is with me?”

“How about ammo?”

“There’s lots of it.”

“I’m for it,” Andy said. “Let’s dump these goddam Reising guns in the drink.”

“Let’s go,” Seabags said.

“How about you, Mary?” Danny asked.

They waited anxiously as he surveyed the situation. He looked at his weapon, which was rusting badly from a splash in the landing. He looked toward the front lines. “Count me in,” Marion said.

By nightfall Burnside and me were about the only two left in Headquarters Company who still carried Reisings. I looked at the rusty barrel and sighed with envy.

Dusk fell on the still-excited encampment. I passed among my squad. “The password for tonight is Philadelphia,” I said. A real password in a real battle zone—their eyes lit up. The passwords were picked with two or more of the letter “l” in it. The Japs supposedly had difficulty pronouncing the letter, as it is nonexistent in their language.

Darkness found the camp still wrapped in nervous chatter. The rumors, the discoveries of the strange new land, and the questions were still on their lips. Soon, exhausted from the day, a fitful hush set in.

L.Q. Jones patted his new Garand rifle and walked to his guard post. It was very dark and very quiet. The sound of the surf on the beach made him uneasy…. I wonder how far the lines are, he thought. Any Japs around here? Jesus, it’s quiet. What was that! Only Burnside snoring.

He lifted the cover on the luminous dial of his watch. Still three hours to go. He slapped a mosquito, then reached in his helmet and pulled out his headnet and put it on. Another mosquito bit right through his dungarees—then a dozen more. Christ, it’s quiet.

Two hours and fifty minutes to go. What was that! Something moving! L.Q. fell on his stomach and edged toward the sound, slowly, carefully. Maybe I should stand up and scream…careful, boy, they’re tricky. Investigate first, then scream. His hand shot out quickly in the dark and clutched the moving object!

Andy sprung up with a knife in his hand and with the other grabbed L.Q.’s throat. They looked at each other.

“What you grab my toe for, you crazy bastard!”

L.Q. trembled. He managed a sickly grin and mumbled an apology. They both sighed with relief and said, “I thought you was a Jap.”

Two hours to go. They must be crazy to let a guy stand guard alone like this.
What was that!
Dammit, something had moved this time. He slipped quickly behind a tree and lowered his rifle. On a path, heading into the camp, he saw the dim outline of a figure. Small…thin…look at that silhouette—a Jap!

“Halt,” he squeaked, “what’s the password?”

“Password?”

“I’ll give you three to give me the password.”

“Hey, wait a minute, I’m a Marine.”

“One…”

“It’s a city. Dayton…Boston…Baltimore…Florida…”

“Two…”

“Don’t shoot! I’m a Marine…San Diego…Albany…Chicago….”

“Three.” BLAM!

Shining Lighttower dropped in his tracks. “
Philadelphia!
That’s it, Philadelphia!”

The shot aroused the camp and in a fraction of a second the place was rattling with gunfire. B
LAM
…
RAT-A-TAT
…BLAM…
POW!
Rifle bullets cut the air, grenades exploded and men ran wildly and aimlessly in the dark, their weapons spitting fire in all directions.

“Philadelphia!”
Sam Huxley rushed from his tent and blew a whistle. The firing stopped as abruptly as it had started.

“What the hell is the matter with you people? You’re acting like a bunch of trigger-happy boots. The front line is ten miles that way. Bryce! Take a check and see if anyone got hurt. Now go to sleep, dammit!”

L.Q. cried apologies a hundred times a minute as they dragged the fear-stricken Injun to his tent and laid him on his sack.

One more hour…I don’t care if the whole Jap army jumps me, I’m not going to move a muscle…what was that! A siren scream pierced the air. “Air Raid,” L.Q. screamed, “Air Raid!”

Pencils of light flashed up against the sky as the men huddled in a hastily constructed shelter. They heard the far-off chug of a motor.

“Washing Machine Charley,” someone whispered.

“Yeah.”

A lone Jap plane was caught in the light. The distant batteries of Henderson Field opened up. Puffs of smoke billowed in the sky above and below the slow lumbering plane.

Hisssss…Wham.

“He’s dropping bombs!”

“What you expecting, pennies from heaven, maybe?”

“He comes every night,” Sergeant Seymour said, “just to keep you new troops from sleeping.”

“Ever hit anything?”

“Blew up a head once. But it was an officer’s head—not too bad.”

Body-weary and angry at their foolish siege of trigger happiness, Huxley’s Whores buttoned up and were asleep when the all clear sounded.

The small, thin and graying Army general paraded in front of the large wall map with a pointer in his hand. Brigadier General Pritchard, a fatherly appearing man, was now the commander of all forces on Guadalcanal. Before him stood and sat an array of majors, lieutenant colonels and colonels, cigarette smoking, cigar smoking, and pipe smoking. He laid the pointer on his field desk, rubbed his eyes, and faced the men before him.

“I am extremely anxious to get this drive under way.” He turned to the small group of Marine officers near the tent flap. “The Camdiv—combined Army and Marine division—will be unique in this operation. And, I might add, the Pentagon and the Navy are watching with extreme interest. This is the first real offensive of the war. There is much, as I have pointed out, that will be novel and experimental, and it will have a great bearing on future operations. We shall have a testing ground, so to speak. Naval gunfire in support of advancing land troops, flame throwers, close air support and air reconnaissance on short objectives, to name a few new wrinkles.” He picked up the pointing stick and tapped it in his hand, restlessly. “Are there any questions? No? Very well, gentlemen. All further information will be relayed through channels. We jump off at zero six four five on the tenth. Good luck to all of you.”

A buzz arose from the officers as they filed out and headed for the jeeps. Sam Huxley stood by the opening until all were gone except Pritchard and his aide. Huxley shifted his helmet and approached the field desk. Pritchard looked up from a map.

“Yes?”

“Major Huxley, Second Battalion, Sixth Marines, sir.”

“What is it, Huxley?”

“May I have the General’s indulgence for a few minutes?”

“Something not clear, Major?”

“Everything is quite clear, sir.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“General Pritchard, is a suggestion out of order?”

Pritchard put down the magnifying glass and relaxed in his canvas field chair, tilting it back on its rear legs and swinging it gently. “Sit down, Major. A suggestion is never out of order in my command.”

Huxley remained standing. He drew a deep breath and leaned over the desk. “General Pritchard, keep the Sixth Marines off the lines.”

The General nearly fell over backwards. He caught the desk and brought the chair to a still position. “What!”

“I said, sir, don’t use the Sixth Marines in this operation.”

“You’re way off base, Major. That is not a matter for a junior officer.”

Huxley fidgeted nervously for a moment. “May I speak freely, sir?”

The General tapped his small wrinkled fingers on the field map, eyed the large rawboned man before him and said, “By all means, Huxley, say your piece.”

“I believe,” Huxley said, “that our senior officers are in a state of constant intoxication and don’t grasp the situation. Or, perhaps they do grasp it and have decided to get intoxicated.”

“Kindly get to the point.”

Huxley clenched his fist. “General,” he cried, “the Sixth Marines are too good to waste on this type of operation.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you know the history of this outfit, sir?” he rambled on quickly. “General, you command all the forces in the area. You know the situation. They are planning strikes farther up the Solomons.”

“What has that to do—”

“You have ample Army forces. Two divisions and the elements of another for this drive on Guadalcanal. I beg you, General, give us an island to hit farther up the line. This Regiment is for assault. We’ve worked hard and we’re well trained. We deserve a better break.”

Pritchard smiled softly. “I know the history of the Sixth Marines quite well, Major,” he said. “I was captain in the last war. A Marine corporal kept a bayonet up my butt all the way through Belleau Woods.”

His appeasing humor did not seem particularly funny to Huxley. “Then give us an island, sir. You can do it. Just recommend that we be held for landing duty in the next operation.”

The General’s soft mood changed. “Huxley, tell me something. Do you honestly think your men are too good to tramp through the jungle for thirty miles, digging them out of caves, blowing up bunkers, and slushing through the mud? Or isn’t there enough glory in it for you?”

“It’s not our cup of tea, sir. You have more than enough Army….”

“In other words, Huxley, the dirty grind is for the dogfaces. You’d rather have a little more blood.”

Huxley turned crimson. The words stuck coming out.

“I’ll answer for you, Huxley,” Pritchard said. “You think you are too good to fight beside us, don’t you? You think that your regiment is worth my division?”

“Exactly! There are a thousand islands out there. If the Army wants to fart around for six weeks, it’s their business. We’ll never get this war finished, especially if you take one of the few decent outfits you have and waste them. We’re fighters, we want a beachhead.”

“Suppose we let Washington figure out how long this war is going to last.”

“May I leave, sir?”

“No! Sit down, dammit!” The little general drew himself to his full five foot seven-inch height and marched up and down before the chair where Huxley sat. “I’ve been damned lenient with you, Huxley. You wouldn’t be so liberal with one of your own officers. War is a dirty business, Major, and one of the dirtiest things you Marines are going to have to take is orders from the Army. If you are anxious to get your head blown off, we’ll get you transferred to assault some choice real estate.