Battle Cry - Leon Uris [153]
“It ain’t my fault I was drafted.”
“You’re going to make it a lot easier on yourself if you make up your mind not to go around feeling sorry for yourself. I’ll give you some gratis advice, Levin. These guys have earned their battle spurs and you’ve got a lot of proving to do. They’re a good bunch of fellows and they’re big leaguers and you’re just a busher.”
Levin clammed up and bowed his head. “I was just trying to be friendly. I ain’t no pop off. I was trying to be one of the guys.”
“Don’t go advertising that you were drafted into the Corps or you’ll make your life miserable. I don’t like to see you start on the wrong foot,” I went on.
“I’ll cut the buck,” he said.
“I hope so. We’re going to work your ass till it drags. If you put out every minute of the day you’re going to have one friend in this outfit. If you don’t put out, you’ll rue the day your mother gave birth to you.” I left.
“Jesus,” Levin whistled, “I thought I was out of boot camp. What the hell did I get myself into?”
“Don’t let Mac scare you, Levin,” Marion said. “Besides, you’ve got one friend already.”
“Thanks, Corporal.”
“Come on now, snap out of it. It’s only that we are jealous. You see, the boy you are replacing was a pretty swell head. He saved a patrol on Guadalcanal.”
“Jees,” Levin whispered.
“They are sending a Navy Cross home to his sister.”
“God.”
“Come on, I’ll show you around the camp.”
“You’re a nice guy, Corporal.”
They walked from the tent. “Tell me, have you ever studied any of the classics?” Marion asked.
“Levin!”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“I got you posted for the midnight watch on the switchboard.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“And don’t think you can bunk in late. You fall out at reveille for a special detail on a field problem, carrying the generator. And I want you cranking the generator every time it goes into operation for the next two weeks.”
“Levin!”
“Yes, Corporal?”
“We got a working party, digging new heads today.”
“Yes,” he said, heading for the tool shed.
Seabags held a bucket of creosol and a can of lye. He tucked a chaw in his teeth and sat down leisurely. It was an alleged two-man detail. “Let’s go,” Seabags said, “step on it. You’ll never get them there heads clean.”
“We’d be finished if you’d help me.”
“See this stripe? What does it mean?”
“You’re a Pfc.”
“Correct. Get busy.”
“O.K., Seabags.”
“Got a man for a garbage shoveling detail, Mac?”
“Got just the man you want.”
At two in the morning a weary private nodded his head on guard over the officer’s woodpile.
“Pssst!”
“Halt! Who goes there?”
“L.Q. and the Injun.”
“What you guys want?”
“We are going to borrow a couple of logs for the stove.”
“They’ll pull a check and I’ll be up the creek without a paddle.”
“Nice guy.”
“What you expect for a draftee?”
“From Brooklyn, no less.”
“Aw, O.K. But hurry before the sergeant of the guard makes a round.”
I was determined to work him till his ass dragged, but Levin stood the gaff. After the initial shock was over, the squad accepted him one by one. Spanish Joe’s price for friendship was Levin’s beer ration card. When I finally let him at a radio, I found him to be an exceptional operator and, of course, we took him in with open arms when we discovered that he was also a first-class barber. Banks, of message center, had been butchering our hair for over a year—and at two bits a crack, yet. As members of the squad, we were entitled to free cuts with a shampoo and shave occasionally thrown in, I explained to Levin.
L.Q. was the first to take Levin to his heart. Levin had been potwalloping on mess duty for almost a month, and they had given him an extended engagement.
“Hey, Levin, you want to get off mess duty?” L.Q. asked.
“I got to do my time.”
“Yeah, but they gave you an extra two weeks, just out of spite. I heard the cook say you work so hard he’s going to try to keep you there forever.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Tell you what to do. Know that soap they use for the officers’ mess gear?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, just put a scratch or two on your hand and dip them into a solution—makes your hand