Battle Cry (8 page)

“Stop scratching in ranks. Them crabs got to eat too.”

“Sound off!”

“Sick, lame; and lazy out for sick call.”

“Whatsamatter, Ski, did they make the pants too long?”

“Goddamyankees! Ain’t you people ever going to learn?”

A voice from the ranks: “Sir, Private Jones requests permission to speak with the—”

“You don’t talk in ranks, ain’t you ever going to learn?”

“But sir, I got to take a piss something awful.”

“Piss in your pants, Private Jones.”

“In my pants sir, right away sir.”

“Mail Call!”

Those two electric words. A word from home. For the first time in a thousand to come, the hungry scene played itself. Not even Whitlock’s sneering at the Northern addresses and postmarks could dim the happy fire that burned inside them.

Dearest Danny,

You sound confused. I know that this boot camp is tougher than you are letting on….

The coach said he understood why you didn’t call. He sort of figured you would do something like join the Marines. He is going to write and send the school paper (I’m an editor on it now) and also a subscription to
Esquire….

It’s lonesome here without you. Sometimes I jump out of my skin when the phone rings…the folks have been very understanding….

Sometimes though, I can’t help but feel that you really don’t love me, the way you write. I think about us all the time. It will never wear off for me, Danny.

I’ll write again tomorrow,

I love you,
K.

He read it once more before turning to the other stack of envelopes. Then, he hid his face with his hands.
I’ve told myself a thousand times that it isn’t right and it won’t work. But what would it be like if I didn’t have her? So far away. I knew it would be lonely, but not like this.

“Nice, huh?” Jones startled him by thrusting a picture under his nose. He looked at a homely girl, fat as L.Q., with a toothy grin.

Danny whistled. “Wow.”

“Nice huh, Ski?”

“Yeah, some dish.”

“No cussin’ now. I’m putting this picture in my wallet. Confidentially I know she looks like a beast, but me and Heddy had a split-up.”

“Good news, Ski?”

“Yeah…yeah, it will be all right. We’ll make it.”

“I hope so.”

Jones took to calculating when the war would be over as Danny read through the rest of his mail. “Just think,” Jones babbled, “I gave up a nice warm bed in a flophouse for all this.”

“Get a T.S. chit from the chaplain. In the Russian Marines they call it a toughski chitski.”

“I was just thinking,” L.Q. continued, “of the best way to murder Beller. I already got it for Whitlock. Hang him by his balls.”

“You should be at the ass end of the line, like I am,” Ski said, “and try keeping up with the lard asses double-timing.”

The bitching session faded as Danny pulled a sheet of paper from his portfolio. It had a Marine emblem on the letterhead. He toyed with his pen several moments.

Dear Kitten,

Let’s put an end to this doubting. I love you and with each passing hour I love you more. The thought of losing you now…

He tore up the sheet and began again.

Dear Kathy,

Well, only nine more weeks of boot camp left and I’ll be a free…

He sealed the envelope and put MMRLH (Marine mail, rush like hell) on the back and walked the catwalk to the mailbox. Disgusted, yet glad. In the distance he heard the curse of a drill instructor. He smiled with little satisfaction that One Forty Three was drilling better than the other platoons. And his mind wandered back to Kathy. Then he ran for his tent to find a laugh from L.Q. As he entered, Ski was lying on his sack.

“Hey, Ski. Get off your cot. You know we aren’t supposed to lay on it before taps. Want to get us murdered?”

“He isn’t feeling good.”

“Looks like you got a fever, Ski.”

“Holy Christ, we got to go to the movies tonight.”

“I’ll go see Whitlock.”

“That’s O.K. Don’t go getting the rebel mad, Danny.”

Danny cut up the catwalk and stopped before the D.I.’s tent. “Sir, Private Forrester requests permission to speak with the drill instructor.”

“At ease, Forrester, what is it?”

“Sir, Private Zvonski appears to be sick.” He followed Danny back to the tent. Danny shouted, “Tenshun.”

“That’s all right, son, lay down.” The corporal bent over and felt Ski’s forehead. “You’ve got the Cat Fever, nothing serious. Lay in during the show and if you don’t feel better by reveille, go to sick bay.”

“Thank you, sir.” He left.

“Phew,” Jones sighed, “I thought he was going to boon-dock us for sure. What did you say?”

“I told him if he didn’t let my old buddy take the night off I’d start punching holes in him.”

“Gee, thanks, Danny. I’m your slave.”

The whistle blasted. “Fall out, top coats.”

“Here we go to get our morale built up.”

The four-thirty bugle found Ski’s fever gone and he wobbled to the head. As he advanced to the sink he asked Jones, in the next line, “How was the picture?”

“Great,” L.Q. answered, “great. They marched us clean over to the Base Theater. People were there, even women. Even saw a real Marine in dress blues. I said to myself right there and then that if I got to go into this war, I’m gonna join the Marine Corps.”

“What was the picture about?”

“Called
To the Shores of Tripoli,
” L.Q. answered, opening his shaving kit. “Well, this here guy is a horse’s ass like Beller and Whitlock and he joins the Corps because his old man was a Marine.”

“Gee, a picture about Marines.”

“Well, he gets to boot camp and first thing he does is read off his D.I.”

“Just like real life.”

“Yeah. After giving the D.I. the word he beats the hell out of the whole platoon. Nice guy, only nobody likes him. There’s a kid in boot camp who wants to make Sea School but he washes out and he’s heartbroken.”

“No blue uniform for that boy.”

“In the next scene he’s makin’ time with this Navy nurse. He’s a private and she’s a looey.”

“Just like real. Sorry I missed it.”

“Anyhow, he squares himself by saving the life of the D.I.”

“What he want to do that for?”

“Don’t interrupt…the picture ends with the war starting and the whole outfit marching down to the docks to ship out. Bands are playing and people waving flags and everyone singing the Marine’s Hymn, and they board ship and who do you think is waiting for him?”

“The nurse.”

“How did you guess?”

“Just like real life.”

“Hey, you guys, how about getting your ass in gear? We got to shave too,” an irate boot shouted.

L.Q. washed the soap from his face and replaced the razor in the kit. “Tomorrow is my day to put a blade in, don’t let me forget it.”

4:30 Reveille and the cursed record over the loudspeaker. Mad dash to the head. Dark and cold. Shower and shave. 4:50 Roll call. Make up bunks, square away seabags, police up area. By mop, by broom, by police bucket, by squeegee. 5:15 Run to mess hall. Daily game of trying not to be the last to drink from a pitcher of coffee or milk or you have to take it to be refilled. L.Q. always seems to be anchor man on the milk pitcher. Plunge the mess gear into steaming buckets of boiling water and the slow walk back to the tents with a welcome cigarette and the rising sun. Clean up mess gear with steel wool. Dirty gear causes dysentery. A final touch-up on the area.

6:00 Sick, lame and lazy call. A straggling line of the sick and the imagined sick. The sad line outside sick bay. Their stories fall on unsympathetic ears. A day off for cat fever. Scorching tonic for crabs. Quick knife and back to duty for a blister.

Crap details to clean heads or ride the garbage trucks.

Fall out and be inspected. Growls and curses and punishment. Tent inspection and a wake of overturned cots.

6:30 Drill. Drill and double time in the company area, the parade ground, the ankle deep sand of the boondocks.

9:30 Lecture: How to stand seabag inspection. How to scout enemy terrain. The proper way to take a prophylactic after sexual intercourse. How to salute an officer. How to recognize ships of the fleet.

10:30 Drill.

12:00 Chow. Noon chow is getting monotonous. Three times a week ground beef with gravy on toast. A Marine Corps standby. SOS, they call it. Shit on shingle.

1:00 Paper work. Take your picture for the record book. How much insurance do you want? Take ten thousand.

2:00 Drill.

5:00 Chow. The walk back is slower this time of day, but there is work to be done. Personal gear to be shined, mended, pressed. Clothes to be washed. The uniforms are beginning to fit and show vague signs of losing their newness.

6:00 Laundry call and wash inspection. Do it over.

6:45 Drill.

8:00 Rest period. Study lessons from the Manual. Recite them word perfect or the platoon goes to the bay. Help a buddy.

“Come on, Ski, try those half steps again on the column.”

“I can’t get it, I tell you.”

“You can. That Ziltch is a feathermerchant too, but he gets it.”

“I’ll…try.”

Mail call. Funny sounding word—“home.”

“Fall out for the movies, you got to have recreation.” 10:00 A whistle. No, not reveille already. Beller in from liberty, drunk. He thinks a moonlight trot to the bay might be good exercise.

Sunday, thank God for Sunday. Didn’t think the Marines recognized Sunday. Thought the D.I.s were Jesus here. “Don’t belong to a church? Well, you belong to one now. Take your pick. The Corps says you need religion.”

All day to clean gear and write letters. Read the ones from home over a hundred times. All day to feel sorry for yourself. To ask what the hell am I doing here?

Dear Mom,

Everything is going swell. They keep us busy….

Danny and Milton Norton worked down the long row of sinks, scrubbing them clean after the morning’s rush. Shannon O’Hearne leaned in the doorway warbling “Mother Machree.”

“Professor,” Danny said.

Although the modest man emphasized he was merely an instructor, the platoon persisted in promoting him. Norton was liked and respected. For most of them, little had been surrendered in the way of a career to join. Norton’s stature as a learned man seemed to make them feel, at times, that their plight was worth while.

“Yes,” he answered softly.

“I’ve been wondering, Milt, what made you join up?”

He smiled at his young friend. “That’s a funny question, Danny. Why pick on me?”

“I know the war and all that, but what I mean is, couldn’t you have gotten a commission?”

“I suppose.”

“See, after all you shouldn’t be going through all this. Hell, a teacher of economics—that’s somebody.”

“Is it? I didn’t know.”

“Don’t give me a snow job, professor. Seriously, I feel sort of silly cleaning out sinks next to you. Why, you know more in your little finger than those two Texans will ever know.”

“You’re quite wrong, Danny. I’m learning a lot from them.”

“You’re an idealist, Milt. I mean a real one. One of those guys who keeps it inside him and doesn’t blow hot and cold.”

“Ideals are one thing, Danny. If we don’t get this head cleaned in an hour, that’s another.”

“You know…pass me the brush, thanks…for a long time I’ve been trying to figure it out. I guess I don’t know the answer. But I’ll say one thing. I’m glad I landed with you.”

They stepped back from the sinks, and then put final touches on an overlooked speck or spot before they turned and faced the urinals. Danny cast a leer in the direction of O’Hearne. “We could get through a lot quicker if you turned to.”

“Below my stature,” Shannon answered.

Norton tugged Forrester away from any further argument. Danny calmed and returned to work.

“What about this boot camp, professor? It’s over my head.”

“It seems we’ve joined an exclusive club and we aren’t going to get our membership card till we’ve served the initiation.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“Not that simple. I suppose the Marines are all they’re cracked up to be. This gives us a common bond, very democratic.”

“Democratic?”

“Maybe that’s a bad word. What I suggest is that we’re all the same here.” He plunged the long-handled brush into a urinal.

“I see what you mean.”

“According to the book every Marine is basically a rifleman. That is the basic difference with the other services.”

“What about all this damned drill. We haven’t seen a rifle yet.”

“A divorce from civilian life. The first thing is to let you know that you are a part of a group and that the group moves together. Discipline, immediate reaction to command. Very good psychology.”

“It might be good, but I sure wish it was over.”

“Me too.”

They went about their work finishing up the urinals. Then Danny arose and walked to O’Hearne and dropped the bucket and brushes at his feet. “I saved the toilets for you.”

O’Hearne grinned and commenced singing.

“Who the hell you think
you
are? Come on, professor, let’s shove. He’s got fifteen minutes to finish up.”

“Come back here, wise guy, or I’ll knock the crap out of you.”

“Take it easy, fellows,” Norton crooned. “You know the penalty for fighting.”

“Forrester, I don’t like you or your crowd. Square away before I get mad.”

“You don’t like us because we don’t kiss your ass like the rest of the boots.”

“Take it easy, fellows.”

“O’Hearne, you’re a craphead like the rest of us. If it is going to make you happy to swing, go on and swing. At least you’ll go boondocking with us if this head isn’t finished.”

Shannon poised and Danny walked past him to the outside. Then he turned to Norton. “I suppose you’ll have to finish up, Shannon.” To attack Norton would mean ostracism from the platoon. O’Hearne snarled a moment then reached for a long-handled brush with the promise to settle the score later.