Battle Cry - Leon Uris [154]
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“You can leave soapsuds on the officers’ dishes. They’ll all get the trots that way.”
“Thanks, anyhow….”
The clincher was when Levin won the Regimental softball championship for Headquarters Company in an epic battle with K Company of the Third Battalion. Three of our guys had folded with malaria, two others were injured, and three were thrown out of the game for calling the umps, Huxley and Chaplain Peterson, dirty names in close decisions in which we were clearly robbed. Levin carried upon his shoulders the honor of Huxley’s Whores, to say nothing of the beer we had bet. He pitched us to victory and himself into our hearts.
Only Speedy Gray, the Texan, remained aloof after the game. He went out of his way to be nasty to Levin. But bigotry was something that, unlike the colors of a salamander, couldn’t be changed overnight.
L.Q. lay on his sack before reveille. The morning was cold. It was in those last few precious minutes before we fell in for roll call that we hated the Corps most. In the first chill of being awake and trying to be asleep for that extra minute, nature demanded a duty call. L.Q. cursed to himself. It was no use fighting. He staggered from the cot and lit the stove, a job generally saved for Levin. Levin was on guard duty on this particular day, and L.Q. was the first up.
With his eyes half shut he wended a weary way down the catwalk through the still dark tents toward the heads. Half frozen and mumbling at his fate he seated himself and nodded his eyes shut. He happened to glance to his left. A shudder of horror passed through him! Seated next to him, almost shoulder to shoulder, he saw a golden bar. He looked to the right—there were the two silver bars of a captain. In the dark he had gone to the officers’ head.
The two officers looked at the Pfc occupying the center seat and stared arrogantly and coldly. L.Q. grinned and squirmed uncomfortably. The captain tapped his foot restlessly and the lieutenant sighed in disgust. L.Q.’s face reddened with shame. All morning he worried, but the officers chose not to report him for entering their sacred realm.
Sergeant Herman, the quartermaster, bled. All depleted clothing was to be replaced and a complete new issue given. As we drew the new gear we stepped down in a line to a table where two officers checked in our old weapons. They checked off the recorded number of our Reisings. Mac stepped up, turned his in and drew a new carbine rifle, clips, rounds of thirty-caliber shorts and a pistol belt.
Seabags handed the officers Garand rifles.
“Where did you get this weapon, Brown?”
“Lost my Reising in combat, sir.”
“All right, next.”
Spanish Joe laid a Thompson submachine gun on the table.
“Where is your Reising gun, Private?”
“Lost it in combat, sir.”
Danny laid a BAR on the table…
“Where is your—don’t tell me, you lost it in combat.”
“Yes, sir.”
The squad fondled the new light carbines. They were beauties. Just the type that had been needed for a long time. Accurate up to two hundred yards, semi-automatic, light and well constructed. A far cry from their infamous predecessor, the Reising. There was a price for the new rifles, however. Huxley decided that too many Reisings had been lost in combat, and all those who had dumped them were charged $64, one third out on each pay call.
Divito, the jeep driver, ran into our tent. “It’s here!” he yelled.
We poured out and then, we saw her. Our eyes were filled with disbelief as we approached her. Our new TCS radio jeep had arrived. Built into the rear seat of the jeep was a beautiful radio.
“Gawd! Look at that radio.”
“Andy!” I shouted, “keep your meathooks off the hood. Do you want to get it dirty?”
We circled the jeep several times, noting that the tires were all right and the paint job was on neat. No one dared to look in at the transmitter and receiver. We feared it would vanish like a mirage. At last we peeked in. My hand was trembling as I reached to set the dials…. “Some job…some job.”
“Jesus, just like the doggies got.