Battle Cry - Leon Uris [102]
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.
L.Q. Jones squared away his field scarf and paced nervously over to Speedy Gray’s sack. They were preparing for a double date in Wellington. The Texan brushed his dress shoes with a slow, almost static motion that only he was capable of.
“They was a riding down the river,
Jest a settin’ on the stern,
She was holding his’n,
And he was holdin her’n…”
“Come on, Speedy, get off the pot. Liberty train goes soon.”
“Now jest take it slow and easy, pard. We’ll meet them hyenas in plenty of time.”
“Hey, Tex—same two beasts as last time?”
“Yep.”
“I hear they call them sisters the witches of Wellington.”
“Now, let’s not go into that mildewed routine about old O. and her sister,” L.Q. said.
“Man,” said Seabags, “I’m getting tired of these foreign women. I had me a broad the other night. Took near an hour to get her damned knee pants off.”
“They sure are scratchy.”
“What I wouldn’t give to run into a nice pair of silk skivvies. Man ain’t got no maneuvering room in them long johns.”
“Shut up, you bastards,” Danny said. “My wife’s picture is on the wall.”
“How come you ain’t going to see old Olga with L.Q., Chief?”
“Last time we stayed after curfew. We hadda sneak all over Wellington trying to get to the railroad yards, then we hadda ride to Paekak in a sheep car. Filled with sheep, yet.”
“Hey, Speedy…you coming or not?”
“Easy, boy, easy.”
“Anyhow,” the Injun continued, “we hit Paekak a half hour before reveille and it’s raining like hell. We hit the parade ground and who did we run into—Sarge Pucchi.”
“Yeah, I remember that,” Andy said. “L.Q. is wheezing and dripping wet. ‘Fine morning,’ he says to Pucchi. ‘Thought I’d take a walk in the hills.’”
“Yeah, and Pucchi sniffs L.Q. and says, ‘Sheep. Why, L.Q., I’m surprised at you.’”
“L.Q., where oh where did you meet them women?”
“Well, he can put a flag over Olga’s face and go for old glory.”
“O.K.,” L.Q. said, red-faced. “What if they are the last roses of summer? While you bastards are wilting away in a pub drinking hot ale, L.Q. Jones is working over Scotch and soda, with ice in it, real ice. Olga’s the only broad in New Zealand with an icebox and her old man is loaded.