Battle Cry - Leon Uris [141]
Yet the opportunity to take long baths in the sea pumped new vigor into our tired veins. We just lay there luxuriously and let the surf beat off layer after layer of filth and grime—and the rest did the same for our brains. We washed our ragged dungarees, brushed our teeth, and “borrowed” some clothes from an Army quartermaster. But it was only when we got steaming hot cups of coffee that we knew it was really over.
The men of the battalion adored Sam Huxley. That is, until one day when he canceled the transportation sent by the Army and ordered them to hike the seventeen miles back to their camp. But they did it, under the scorching sun, and even managed to look smart when they passed the Army camps. It was anger that did it, anger at Sam Huxley, and the determination not to go down as long as that bastard was still standing and marching himself….
I fell on all fours once, trying to fight off the dizziness that was near blacking me out. I panted and looked at the shade on the other side of the road and tried to crawl over there on all fours—me, Mac, the old gyrene!
Danny took the pack off me and propped me against a tree and wiped my face. We sat there gasping and trying to muster energy to reach for our canteens. There was no cursing—we didn’t have the breath.
When we were back in camp, Huxley returned us to full military discipline. Idle Marines make for trouble. We dug ditches, picked up butts, held inspections, practiced code, and did anything we could to keep occupied. We had lived like pigs while we had to, but we didn’t have to now.
There was never-ending scuttlebutt, a hundred wild rumors a day. We heard the Sixth was due to hit another island up the Solomons, although common sense told me we were in no condition to fight yet awhile. We hadn’t relished the idea of cleaning up the mess made by the First Division and the Second and Eighth Marines. We felt we ought to have our own island to take, and let them clean up our mess. We knew, too, that other outfits would never let the Sixth live it down that we hadn’t yet made a landing.
Finally came February 19th and one working party I didn’t have to dig my squad out for. All hands turned to. The Unholy Four were lying at anchor in Skylark Channel ready to take us off the Canal. We boarded and shook hands with old friends and heard the wonderful word of hot fresh-water showers below for all troops, to be followed by a big special chow, with all the trimmings.
Then the bosun sounded his pipe. “Now hear this, now hear this…the Captain shall read a message to all Marines….” The Skipper read a flock of “good job well done” communiqués from a cross-section of the generals and admirals who wished to express their appreciation to their chore boys.
“Gee, we really that good?”
“Yeah, makes the piss drizzle down my leg.”
There was a rumble on the ship, and an excited stir as the Jackson weighed anchor. Blinkers on the signal deck flashed to the other ships of the convoy. A little destroyer zigged in front of us weaving her crazy course. (I wonder if a tin can sailor ever sailed a straight line?) There was a tremble and a lurch and the Jackson glided into position in the convoy.
My boys lined the rail for a last look at Guadalcanal. She was calm and peaceful, like the day we first found her. Like an exotic Hollywood scene. But she had the body of a goddess and the soul of a witch.
Good-by, you dirty bastard, I thought.
Just then the speakers started up again. “Now hear this, now hear this…the Captain wishes to relay the following message: Our destination is Wellington, New Zealand.”
Wellington! A roar of cheers. There was a lot of handshaking and back-slapping. We were going back to the land we adored. I couldn’t help feeling soft about it, even after so many years traveling from pillar to post in the Corps.
I walked up to Andy and put my arm about his shoulder. He looked to the sea, his eyes narrowed, and he was deep in thought. The cool night air came dancing in as we picked up speed. “Just what