Battle Cry - Leon Uris [166]
“For Chrisake, what is this?” Speedy stammered.
“You don’t like Levin because he’s Jewish. You don’t like Pedro because he’s Mexican. You don’t like New Zealanders because they talk funny. You don’t like colored people—who do you like, Speedy?”
“He likes Texans, just Texans.”
“What the hell are you guys. A bunch of nigger lovers?” Speedy fumed. “He ain’t nothing but a kike draftee.”
“What are you acting so goddam important about? You haven’t cleaned a head, turned a generator, dug a ditch, or done mess duty since he’s been in the outfit. He’s done every crap detail for us.”
“Let me tell you guys something. They’re all yellow. If Levin wasn’t yellow then why’re you fighting his battle? He’s yellow.”
I had been trying to keep out of the argument. I didn’t feel it right to pull rank in this type of beef. I went over to Speedy, who was enraged. “What you going to do, Mac, order me to love him?”
“No,” I said, “I want to try to set you straight.”
“You’re the one that needs to be set straight. If he had guts then why is he always limping around camp like he was a cripple?”
“Because he has bad feet.”
“Sure, he sits in the goddam TCS for a week. Did the Injun get to sit in it? They was both on the same problem. How about sending him to gunfire school….”
“Calm down,” I said. “When they asked for Spanish Joe for the Division boxing team, they wanted Levin, too. He was Golden Gloves welterweight champ of New York for two years.”
Speedy’s mouth fell open.
“But…but he don’t look like no fighter. Why don’t he go on the team?” Speedy said.
“Sure. They’re living at the Windsor and touring the country and living like kings. But he wanted to stay for the same reason that Marion turned down the public relations offer. He wants to stick with the outfit. He figures that too many of us got malaria and there’s too much work to do. Because he wants to be a Marine like the rest of us.”
“If it was me,” Danny said, “I’d of clouted you a long time ago, Speedy.”
“That’s easy for a fighter to do,” I said. “It takes guts to take what he’s been taking. He hits like a mule. You’re lucky, Speedy.”
The Texan stomped from the tent followed by his buddy Seabags.
“Seabags,” I called.
“What?”
“Let him sit on it a while. And I don’t want you guys taking it out on him. Leave him alone and let him find his own way.”
Burnside was slick at beating the ration imposed by the club on nightly beer. He’d first load up at the Staff NCO Club and then tour on to Headquarters Club. Burnside carried it well and I knew he wouldn’t make trouble so I never mentioned it to the committee. Burnside pulled in one night under a heavy load. He guzzled his ration down in a few quick swoops.
“Gawd, I could piss a quart,” he said.
Pedro was standing next to him. “My good friend, that is impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible for Burnside and beer,” I said.
“I say it is impossible. The human body cannot hold that much urine. The medical book says so.”
“Bullcrap, Pedro. I done it many times,” Burnside said.
“You only think you have.”
“I know I have.”
“It is medically impossible.”
“I still say I can.”
“You can’t.”
“Wanna bet?”
“I don’t bet when I’m looking down your throat.”
“Chicken to bet?”
“No.”
“Then bet.”
“If you insist.”
“How much?”
“Name it.”
“Hokay, but you will lose.”
“Can I have another glass first?”
“Drink till you bust. I’ll still win. I’ll get a measure from sick bay.”
He left and returned.
“Ready?”
“Any more takers?”
More money showed on the bar.
Burnside won in a walk.
We all held our breath as the night of the company dance approached. Many other outfits in the division had thrown dances but they always seemed to end in a brawl. It seemed that a hundred or more Marines and a load of beer always brought on fireworks. A committee, headed by L.Q., rented the Majestic Cabaret, the finest and only night club in Wellington, with surplus club funds. What funds were lacking for the venture were made up by an assessment and a contribution from the officers. L.Q. did