Battle Cry - Leon Uris [180]
The meal was hardly filling and few wanted to relieve themselves for fear of getting drenched clear through while doffing the ponchos. Our feet were on the way to collecting some juicy blisters even though we all had calloused layers on the soles of our feet now, leathered by miles of hiking.
We staggered back to the hard road again and stepped into the deluge. The short rest had brought out the aches cut in during the first hours of the junket.
A cold, wet numbness set in. We all became void of any feeling except the comforting thought that Hell couldn’t be any worse when we’d finally reach it. It was hard to do more than glue our eyes to the man marching ahead, and try to think about the States. As the road cut close to train tracks, a train sped by. We could see the passengers rush to the windows to catch sight of the walking circus, and even saw them shake their heads. We could almost hear them talking: “Crazy jokers, wot? Don’t know enough to come in out of the rain.”
I thought the day would never end. Mile after mile fell under the squishing boondockers of Huxley’s Whores…one hill…another. Pick them up and lay them down. Dark and wet and cold. A long line of marchers trudged on and on…an eerie outline of a helmet and hunched back and a crazy jutting where the rifle poked into the poncho.
The new little SCR radios went out. We couldn’t blame them. At least they’d get into the comm cart which slid along the slippery highway under the puffing groans of human oxen. We took a short break and one by one rode in the TCS jeep long enough to convert into ass packs and make room for sixty more pounds of weight on our backs. The extra displacement threw the poncho out of shape, and protection from the wet went out of the window. We got drenched through and through.
More miles fell. Our feeling of blankness gave way to a feeling for blood: Huxley’s blood. He just kept glancing at his watch and speeding the pace. I wanted to quit badly. It was the same old game over again…I’d have to stay if Huxley did, and he knew it.
The slow grim column slushed through Paraparaumu, Waikanai, and on to Te Horo. The citizens poked their heads through the windows to gawk and the dogs huddled back in the shelter of buildings and thought What fools these gyrenes be. Even our mascot, Halftrack, had had enough common sense to turn back at the camp gate and lie down by a potbellied stove.
Men began dropping. The jeep ambulance raced up and down the line of march sending a stream of water from its tires into our faces. Blubbering hulks sat in the mud on the shoulder of the road, too glassy-eyed and dazed to understand what had happened to them.
We called a halt in a meadow near Otaki. There was work to do. “Get that radio in with regiment…run telephone lines to the line companies…pitch the shelters…dig the one-two-threes.” We tried to find our own bedrolls on the trucks. It was a mess. Our area was boondocker deep in water and getting deeper as the rain pounded down. Near the road was dryer ground. We struggled against the lashing gale to pitch shelters. They leaked like sieves. The holding pegs tore out as fast as we pounded them into the soft turf. Mac arranged radio watches and guard details to see to it that no one made for the bridge over the river and a nice dry pub in Otaki.
We slogged over the meadow to the chow trucks. The chow was cold. There wasn’t any use trying to eat anyway because the rain filled the mess kits and turned the chow into a soggy mash. The kits couldn’t be cleaned as it was impossible to keep fires for boiling water going. Dysentery would follow this meal.
I made the last rounds in a stupor. Miraculously, no one in the platoon had fallen out yet. I crawled into my shelter and buttoned down. The semi-dryness was a relief. I pulled the water-logged shoes and socks off and checked the stuff in my pack. The extra clothes were fairly dry. I wiped my feet and for the first time felt a sharp pain. The blisters were there for good. I was too goddam tired and pissed-off to cut them now. The deck was damp. A streamlet of