Battle Cry - Leon Uris [181]
Huxley slogged up to the aid station. Doc Kyser was on duty. He was stripped and wringing out his dungarees when Huxley entered. He put on dry clothes and sat on the deck by the bulky aid packs that the corpsmen had deposited for the night. “Hello, Sam.”
“Hello, Doc.” Huxley shook the wet from him like a puppy. “How many did we lose?”
“Six men.”
Huxley smiled. “We’ll beat them in that department, too.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Most of them are too numb to know whether they’re sick or not. If it’s still raining tomorrow, you’re liable to be hiking up there by yourself. I’ll have business before the night is out. Those tents are going to go if the wind keeps up.”
“Dammit,” Huxley said, “we’re getting nothing but rough breaks. Quartermaster issued new shoes last week. They aren’t properly broken in yet. How did blister call go?”
“Like I said, they’re too numb to know.” Huxley turned to leave. “Incidentally, Sam, your orderly is running a fever.”
The lanky man tried to act unconcerned as he buttoned up to head into the storm. “Malaria?” he asked casually.
“I didn’t ask. He refused to turn in.”
“I’ll make him ride the transportation jeep tomorrow. He’ll make it.”
“Sure, he’ll make it,” Kyser spat. “They’ll follow you to hell, Sam, and you know it.” Huxley left.
I thought I’d never see the sun again. After the storm I vowed I’d hike to Auckland if it would only stop raining. Seven hours of sleep and the hot rays filtering down through a clear bright sky next morning made us feel like new men. In lieu of morning chow we were issued D-ration candy bars to nibble on the march. Huxley wanted a fast start and didn’t want to waste time on such luxuries as food. We broke communications double time, rolled our bedding, threw them aboard the trucks and fell in.
By 0700 Fox Company was on the road, taking the point of march toward the bridge. It wasn’t till I hit the road that I almost crumpled. The pains in my feet were sharp. A Marine has one item that can’t be neglected. His feet. They are his wheels, his mechanized warfare. I had babied mine and they had never let me down. I was always careful to keep them powdered and clean and I hiked in broken-in boondockers. Yesterday’s rain had brought on blisters, though, that would give me bad trouble before the rest of the thirty-five miles was conquered. Lucky, I thought, that I didn’t have new shoes like some of them.
We crossed the bridge of the Otaki River and hit the town as it was awakening. Quickly through, we were on open highway again. The warmth of the sun lessened the discomfort of the men’s feet and within a few breaks the clothes were dry, except for the shoes, which were still creaky, stiff, and damp.
After the third break I tried the little SCR radios on a hunch and they went back in as suddenly as they had gone out yesterday. We put the heavy TBYs back in the carts again, gladly.
As the day wore on I could see that Highpockets was really out for a kill. He raced the point so fast the rear company had to run to keep the line from spreading. He pushed us to our peak of endurance. Yesterday’s wet was replaced with today’s sweat. Fortunately, the mild winter sun played in our favor. Miles fell away. The pace, for a march of this length, was the fastest I had ever seen. With every break I dropped to the roadside for a gulp of water and a quick smoke and eased the heavy pack for a few minutes. It was my feet, though, that worried me. With each break the pain became sharper. When we hit the road it was agony for the first ten minutes. Then the pavement pounded them into numbness. By noon chow I felt like I was walking on a bed of hot coals.
We gulped the hard biscuits and hash and realized for the first time that we were hungry. We made