Battle Cry - Leon Uris [142]
“Getting chilly, Mac,” he answered. “I think I’d better get below.”
CHAPTER 1
AGAIN we rushed to the rail like a bunch of excited school kids on an outing and saw her come up on the horizon—New Zealand! Her soft green hills, and the quaint colored houses that graced them, looked just the same. Again, she looked like she did that morning the Sixth had seen her from the Bobo, as the most beautiful land in the world. The harbor and the surrounding hills reminded us somewhat of San Francisco—not quite, but somewhat. The convoy slipped into Oriental Bay toward the docks, and strains of music drifted out in greeting. The Division Band blared out with “Semper Fidelis.”
Honor guards from the Second, Eighth, Tenth, and Eighteenth Regiments stood stiffly to attention as the rope hit the pier. Then the band played “The Marine’s Hymn.” Most of the men had heard it a thousand times and it never failed to send shivers up the spine clear to the stacking swivel. Then the joshing started.
Dock: Well, well, what took you so long? You guys run into a sniper?
Ship: You guys can secure the watch and go back to camp, the Maimas are back.
Dock: I hear the Sixth is going to get a special citation. A box of pogey bait for every man.
Ship: Took a fighting outfit to finish what the Hollywood Marines started.
Dock: ’Fraid all the women are taken, fellows…sorry. You boys better dash off to camp and get your new pogey bait whistles.
We, in the Sixth Marines, had an inferiority complex. We still wore our identification, the fourragère, defiantly about our left shoulders, but the Second and Eighth Regiments had seen many more grueling months of combat than we had. We, of course, knew in our hearts that our Sixth was the finest of the three—and of the entire Marine Corps. We didn’t accept the ribbing lightly. Many were the lost teeth over the catcall “Hey, pogey bait!” To worsen matters, the other regiments told the citizens that our fourragère was really a V.D. braid.
The Second Marines had taken over Camp McKay, our old billet about two miles past Paekakaraki. The Eighth Regiment was stationed right at Paekak, while the Eighteenth Engineers and the Tenth Artillery Regiments were in closer to Wellington, at Titahi Bay and Plimmerton.
Our new camp, Camp Russell, was directly across the tracks from Camp McKay. Whereas McKay was on high ground, we were in the flatlands near the ocean. We debarked from the train to find that work was still going on at a feverish pace to complete Camp Russell. Winter and antarctic winds and rains would soon be on us. But the new camp was neatly laid out, tailored for the Regiment.
There was much work to do and all hands turned to unloading the tracks which poured gear in from the Jackson. Our seabags were brought in from the warehouse. It was like greeting old friends. Anxious hands unlocked them and there were smiles as long-forgotten items popped out. We pitched tents, drew cots, pads, and extra blankets and squabbled over placement in the tents.
Chow, a breath of clean air, a smoke and a shower. The wonderful feeling of solid earth beneath your feet in a place you almost called home.
The heads weren’t covered yet. As we visited them, trucks of the New Zealand builders raced up and down the road. Many of them were driven by women. We waved to them from the sitting position and they waved back.
We gathered up firewood from lumber scraps. The officers lost no time in placing a guard around the only fuel dump in the battalion. Combat was over and officers were called Sir again.
Taps were blown in the still disorganized, but weary and happy camp. We fell asleep to dream sweetly of open arms in Wellington waiting to greet us.
Andy opened the door into the lobby of the Salvation Army Hotel for Women. He was greeted warmly by an Army lass in uniform at the desk.
“Mister Andy! Welcome back.”
“Hello, Mrs. Cozzman,” he said.
“We’re all excited having our Sixth Marines back. How are you?”
“Fine, ma’am.”
“Praise to God that you are all right. Goodness, those other Marines