Battle Cry - Leon Uris [100]
“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