Battle Cry - Leon Uris [112]
“Somebody bring the lantern over here so’s I can see.”
“When we gonna meet?”
“One year after the war ends—one year to the day.”
“Okay with you guys?”
“Yeah.”
“I got it,” L.Q. said. “We’ll all meet in L.A., in Pershing Square, dressed up like fairies.”
“Great.”
“Yeah.” L.Q. took the paper and pen, and began to write. We crouched over him and belched.
DECEMBER 22, 1942. This here is a holy agreement. We are the dit happy armpit smelling bastards of Huxley’s Whores. We hereby agree that one year after the end of the war we will meet in the City of….
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”
“Give the Injun another beer.” L.Q. wrote on, stating that each man was to bring a representative animal from his state to the reunion. An Iowa hog, a Maryland terrapin, a coyote, a longhorn, a cougar, a bull for Spanish Joe, and a goat for Burnside because he was a mountain goat. I was to bring a Marine bulldog but we became stymied on Ski because we couldn’t think what animal inhabited Philadelphia. Finally we decided on a skunk in memory of the officers.
The document further ordered everyone to dress in the costume of their country. The Injun was to be in war paint, and L.Q. had to wear a beret and dark glasses. I was given dispensation to stay in uniform. L.Q. then concluded the pact with these words: If any guy gets killed and can’t make it, we’ll get drunk in his beloved memory. Any guy that breaks this pact is a dirty bastard, on his word of honor.
We all wrote out our copies and passed them around for signatures.
“Now,” L.Q. said, “let’s seal the pact in blood.” We borrowed Spanish Joe’s stilleto and pricked our fingers and put the blood by our signatures. With tears streaming down our faces, we shook hands, vowed everlasting comradeship in this hallowed moment—and, still belching, opened another round of beers.
“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