Battle Cry - Leon Uris [179]
“Try, hell. I’ll lay you ten to one we set a record that they won’t even bother to go after…Ziltch!”
The little orderly tumbled in the door. “Yes, sir,” he snapped.
“Get the staff and company commanders here on the double.”
The phone rang three sharp bursts. Huxley lifted it.
“Hello, Colonel Malcolm? This is Huxley. How is everything in Wellington, sir? Fine, glad to hear it. Say, Colonel, I want to take a little walk up to Foxton with my boys….”
I didn’t like the smell of this one. Highpockets had been waiting for a deal like this. He wanted some other outfit to set a pace for us to break. Breaking records at the expense of our sweat was his forte. The weather was bad. Gray clouds were blowing in from the ocean and looked like they’d start spilling at any moment. If we were going to beat Cherokee White’s mark to Foxton and scare off all other competition, a soggy highway wouldn’t make it any easier.
At least we got one break. We wouldn’t have to hike with ass packs. We had received a shipment of Army SCR walkie-talkies. They were little handsets weighing just a few pounds, set to one channel. They were perfect for communications on the march—if they worked. We packed the TBYs in the comm cart, just in case.
The trucks with our bedrolls and field kitchens roared out ahead of us toward the first bivouac. This was a full dress affair. All equipment that would be used in combat was along.
It began to drizzle as we hit the camp gate and wheeled left onto the concrete highway heading north. There was a mad scramble as each man broke out the poncho of the man in front of him and helped him into it. The big rubber sheets with clumsy snaps cramped our gear intolerably. As the rain thickened they threw a hot blanket over our bodies and made us sweat. Under the rain capes the long line of marchers looked like hunchbacks, their packs jutting out in a weird pattern.
We had gone only a mile when the sky opened up for fair. Huxley fumed and sputtered at the rain and ordered the point to quicken the pace. A stiff wind blew the water headlong into our faces in sharp, blinding sheets. The ponchos flapped against our bodies and their bottoms, ending at shoetop level, made perfect funnels for the water running down into our boondockers. The morning became almost a night in gray but we plodded on.
The water squished from my shoes, drenching my heavy New Zealand wool socks in a matter of minutes. This was bad. Wet feet and concrete don’t mix. The men picked them up and laid them down as water and wind swept the road in increasing fury.
One break, then another miserable one. There was hardly any use in breaking. The cold wet was better controlled with movement than stillness. We couldn’t even light a cigarette in the downpour.
Under the poncho it was nearly impossible to make minor adjustments to ease the sore spots that pack straps and pistol belts were cutting into us. We slogged on up and down stiff little hills and the concrete highway was becoming harder and harder with every step. I found myself repeating a little nursery rhyme about rain, rain, go away….
A break for chow. The squad huddled in a small grove of trees off the highway. We labored out of our packs, trying to keep our remaining clothes dry, stacking and covering them with shelter halves. Soggy and too miserable to bitch, we ate the foul hash and stew ration. It was impossible to heat the coffee so we mixed and drank it cold. It kicked us back to life.
Kyser crammed beneath a shelter half that Ziltch and another Marine held up over Huxley’s head as he studied the field map. The doctor took off his helmet and shook the water from his hair and face. In a second he was doused again. “Colonel,” he said, “we’d better call it off and head back to camp.”
“We’re a mile up on Cherokee’s time already,” Huxley beamed, not even hearing the doctor’s shout against the wind.
“I said,” the doctor repeated, “malaria will be dynamite if we don’t quit.”
Huxley looked up from the map. “What did you say, Doc? I didn’t hear you.”
“I didn’t say a goddam thing.