Battle Cry - Leon Uris [144]
“Seven,” Burnside counted. “And they got women with them.”
“Say, there’s some guys with pogey bait whistles…maybe they’ll blow us a tune,” another in the booth called, referring to the metal ornament on the tip of the braid.
“Sounds like the Hollywood Eighth Marines,” Burnside whispered.
“Shall I do the honors?” McQuade asked.
“Aw, lay off them,” Spanish Joe said. “We got them outnumbered…besides, the poor boys got mumu on Samoa.”
The main troublemaker at the booth poured his ale glass full and arose. “I propose a toast to the Sixth Marines. Now all together, boys.” And they sang:
“I’m a pogey bait Sixth Marine,
I can’t keep my rifle clean,
I don’t want a BAR,
I just want a candy bar.”
“That did it,” Spanish Joe hissed. He gulped down the remainder of his beer, lest Burnside and McQuade filch it. The two sergeants nonchalantly refilled and continued drinking.
“Call us if you run into any trouble,” McQuade said.
The seven Marines snickered as Spanish Joe cruised over to the booth. He drew up a chair and leaned on the table with his elbows. “Hi fellows,” he said, flashing his big white teeth.
“Shove off, pogey bait.”
Spanish Joe reached over to the burly one and straightened his field scarf. “Don’t they teach you guys no neatness?” Joe cooed.
“We ain’t got no pretty fourragères,” the Marine answered.
“Aw gee, boys, don’t feel that way. You guys are almost the same as allies.”
“Look, buddy, we was just having a little fun. We don’t want any trouble. We got our girls here, see.”
“Oh,” Joe said. “All shacked up, huh?”
“Take it easy…these are nice girls.”
“Ohhhh,” Joe said, “nice girls. They do it for you?”
The brawl was on! Spanish Joe landed the first blow. In fact, the first three. He bowled them over quick and cornered the remaining four in the end of the booth where they were unable to unscramble from the screaming girls. It wasn’t till a chair fell on Joe’s head that Burnside and McQuade finished up the others in quick order. They dragged Joe over the seven prostrate bodies toward the door.
“Jesus, old Spanish Joe is getting soft,” McQuade said.
“Yeah, the Canal took something out of that boy.”
“Hell, first real fun we’ve had on furlough.”
“Let’s bring him to. We got four more days left.”
Speedy Gray, Seabags, and the Injun raced from the camp as Gomez, McQuade, and Burnside staggered in.
Speedy propped his back on the end of the aged bed and let an empty bottle fall to the floor. It clinked against another. Seabags was doubled up in a wooden chair, rocking. He let a wad of tobacco juice skitter over the sill of the half-open window. The sill was brown with missed shots.
“Pig,” Speedy said.
“Aw, shaddup, cousin, I’ll clean it off before the furlough is up.”
The basement room of the large boardinghouse in Wellington was jammed with empty bottles. The bed had been unmade for three days, the men were unshaven. The establishment was “home” for some twenty girls doing war work in the capital. Seabags, through a combination of infallible connections and a winning manner, had been able to promote the basement room for the ten-day leave. They had rented two rooms, the other directly across the hall. It was reserved, however, for after-hours pleasure with one or more of the occupants of the home.
“Sure is a wonderful leave,” Speedy said, closing his eyes.
“Yep.”
“Hope the Injun gets here with them bottles. We just finished the last one. I’ll have to shave and go out after some if they don’t come back.”
“Yep.”
“The Injun said he’d come back before he shoved off for Otaki. I promised old Meg I’d get her an Injun. She’ll be mighty disappointed if he shoves.”
“Yep.” Spit.
“Ya pig.”
“Fine girl that Meg, fine girl. Made of iron.”
There was a rap on the door.
“Enter our humble domicile.”
Shining Lighttower entered, bogged under a burden of bottles. Speedy lifted himself very slowly from the bed and studied the room for a place to set the reinforcements. As he placed the bottles in the sink he read the labels…“Bistro’s Joyjuice, Manhattan Cocktail…is that all you