Battle Cry - Leon Uris [182]
For twenty minutes after the chow break the entire column limped. It was especially noticeable in Sam Huxley. He was a big man and it was twice as hard on him. His feet hurt; I knew it; and it made me happy. Huxley tried to disguise the limp for our benefit by stepping up the pace immediately.
The men cursed and fumed the miles away. Up and down they beat a tattoo on the never ending road. My foot trouble made me less aware of the other pains that were shooting all over my back and hips and neck. Soon they caught up with my feet. I felt like a hunk of raw liver going through a meat-grinder. Another mile…another…and another. I got short-winded, a thing that rarely happened to me when hiking on level ground. I closed my eyes and prayed. I couldn’t quit! What would my boys think? Some were worse off than me and they hung on…I’ve got to hold…I’ve got to, I thought.
Every step became unbearable. I felt like screaming for a halt. After each break I was afraid to stand up. The history of my life came before me. How the hell did I ever get into this mess? They wanted to send me to Communications School as an instructor. Why did I turn it down?…I’m an asshole! One more mile gone…another…Manakau…Oahu…thank God!
We swung off the road into a big field.
I wanted to drop on the spot but there was work to do. A communicator’s work never ends. We had hiked so well that Huxley pulled us in early for a long night’s sleep before the final day’s push. None of the platoon had fallen out yet but they were a mighty beat-up bunch. It was an effort to cram down chow and set up for the night. The air was calm and the evening mild and peace settled on the shelter halves in the meadow.
An hour and we were rested enough to sit around and bat the breeze and enjoy a late smoke before taps. As we talked I cut blisters and mended feet. The sick bay was overcrowded and I was a blister artist in my own right. I laid out the wet clothes in my pack to dry and buttoned up for some much needed sleep before the big push.
Speedy, on the way to taking over early watch on the TCS, came over to me. “Er, Mac…”
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“I think that goddamyankee is out of his head. Glad we got only one more day of this.”
“Well,” I said, “when it is all over we’ll be pretty proud of ourselves.”
“Tell me, Mac, and be honest. Did you guys ever take a forced march in the old Corps like this one?”
“Lots of times, Speedy, but I guess the one you are on seems like the hardest. I don’t think I’ll forget this one for a while.”
“Look, Mac, I got a few minutes before I take over the watch. Could I tell you something confidential?”
“Sure, I got my chaplain’s badge.”
“I don’t want it out that I said this but I saw Levin pull off his boondockers. His feet are bloody. Maybe you ought to take a look at them.”
“He’ll come around to sick bay if he needs help,” I said.
“Look, Mac,” Speedy continued uncomfortably, “I asked Pedro. He didn’t check in. Maybe you’d better let him ride the jeep tomorrow. He can have my turn.”
“He’ll get his own turn and no more.”
“Aw, for Christ sake, Mac, his boondockers are soaked with blood. I know about all the trouble, but…”
“Speedy. Levin won’t quit. He’s got something to prove.”
“To me?”
“Why don’t you just forget it and get on your watch.”
Huxley pulled a fast one on us. He cut our sleep short and roused us at four in the morning. It was pitch dark except for the light of a quarter moon and the stars.
Groggy and bitter we broke camp and with a bar of chocolate we were on the highway in less than forty minutes. It was his plan to catch us half asleep so that the pace and pain would only