Battle Cry - Leon Uris [138]
“Nothing on God’s earth would give me greater pleasure. But who am I going to pawn you off on? What are you good for? Tanks? Artillery? Air? Amphibians? Or maybe a nice soft seat in public relations? Let this sink in. There is no soft touch in the Marine Corps. No matter if you’re a company clerk, field music, a cook or what, you are one thing first, last, and always—a rifleman. Shoot and march, Bryce. Our artillery doesn’t run when their guns are in danger, they dig in and protect them like any mud Marine. Our tanks are protected by the infantry and not vice versa. Any man in the battalion is capable of leading a platoon of rifles. Why, even our musicians bear stretchers in battle. Shoot and march, and the belief that you are invincible—that’s what they call fighting spirit. You wouldn’t understand.”
“No, I wouldn’t understand,” Bryce shouted. “Blood, glory, whisky and women. That’s the Marine battle cry. The deeper they wade in blood the better. Socially, spiritually, morally, you are nothing but professional killers—against every concept of democratic ideals.”
“Bryce, ideals are a great thing. No doubt every man here has some ideals. However, and unfortunately, this war and this island and the next day’s objective aren’t ideals. They are very real. Killing Japs is real and we are going to kill them and save our ideals for future reference. When we get off this island, Bryce, I’m going to assign you to a platoon of riflemen. You’d better become a good officer. Now, report to Harper at once and join that patrol!”
We fell panting into some brush. The scout, a skinny wiry Tennesseean, held us up. We lay sweat-drenched and gasping for air. Although we were traveling light, the trek through solid jungle had been exhausting. We had steered clear of any paths. The day was broiling and our thick black makeup made it seem hotter. The tension of keeping quiet became greater as we found signs of a Jap bivouac area. We had passed the radios from shoulder to shoulder every few minutes to keep going at top speed.
Even Bryce didn’t object when we called on him for a turn. I wet my lips and looked about. No enemy yet. Each step from here on would be filled with anticipation of being cut down by a sniper. The gum-chewing Harper and his scout had chosen their course well. So far we had avoided trouble.
Rackley the scout, three bandoleers of ammo draped over his scrawny shoulders, appeared again. He signaled us to assemble about him. We sank to our knees over Harper’s map. The scout whispered, “Thar’s a ridge about two hunnert yards up, slopes down to tall grass. Thar’s an open field and big field rocks in it. Past it is a woods and cave area, lousy with Japs.”
“Can you see them from the ridge?”
“Naw, can’t count ’em nohow. We’ll have to cross the field and lay in close behind some of them thar rocks.”
The gum in Harper’s mouth popped as he thought fast. “We’ll move to the top of the ridge and split into two parties. Paris, McQuade, a BAR team, and one of the walkie-talkies will go down with me. We’ll radio it back up to the ridge, soon as we get our information. Mac, set up the big radio and relay to Topeka White.”
“Roger.”
“Any suggestions? O.K., let’s move up to the ridge.” Rackley grabbed his rifle and moved out in front of us, leading the way. We moved forward in a creep. From the ridge top we looked over the field to the woods where the remaining Japs on Guadalcanal were holed up. The slope down the ridge was slick and would be tricky to negotiate. We took position by quiet and quick hand signals. I set up the big radio aways back and then they unzipped the walkie-talkies, screwed on more antennae, and gave each other hushed test calls. I ordered Danny to go down with the observation party, and Ski to stay back with me to relay information.
Rackley crouched low, then went over the top. He lost his footing immediately and slid and rolled over, halfway down the drop. We saw him reach bottom and zigzag through the field from boulder to boulder until he was almost at the