Battle Cry - Leon Uris [183]
Only knowing that the end of the hike was in sight kept me going that day. I felt the most miserable and pain-filled bastard alive and for the first time in my years as a Marine I was ready to throw in the sponge. I just didn’t have any guts left. Huxley had pounded them out of me. I was like a punch-drunk fighter, battered and almost out, only staying on his feet because the bell would ring soon and they could drag him to his corner. Foxton might be past the next hill or around the next bend.
For the first time we were not going parallel with the railroad. The route cut into hillier ground past Levin. The rising sun looked down on a gang of dazed zombies tramping and limping up the road.
With each break we gathered our guts for another last surge. Maybe another hour would find us at Foxton. Then another break and another. But Huxley showed no mercy. I pitied any poor bastards who ever set out with the idea of beating our time. And still the miles came and went. The early starting time would cut out the hour stop for noon chow—another Huxley innovation.
Let them try to beat us, crazy bastards, let them try. Let the sons of bitches kill themselves out-hiking Huxley’s Whores. I don’t suppose a man knows how much he can take. Many times in the hours before daylight I had felt I had reached the saturation point. Yet, each crisis passed and I was still half galloping along at the murderous pace—and nearly all of us were still on our feet.
Levin’s agony gave me renewed courage. I couldn’t order him to stop. The secret had to be kept, even if it killed him.
By 11:00 we began to sense that Foxton was close. The point broke out, almost double timing, in search of the town the name of which was now synonymous with Hell and Heaven. Hell to get there and Heaven to be there. By noon, houses cropped up along the roadside and at last from the crest of a hill we saw her dead ahead. The last two miles meant nothing now. It was almost anticlimax as we trudged through the streets of the sleepy farm town amid greetings from the citizens gathered at the windows and along the sidewalk. We went right through Foxton and were on the highway again.
I was seized with panic! Huxley might want to walk them to Palmerston North! I wouldn’t put it past him. The murmur in the column quelled as it swung off onto a dirt road and into a fenced-off field near the ocean.
Highpockets was wreathed in smiles as he checked the time. Of course there was work, but it didn’t seem so hard now. It was all over and we were relieved and damned proud. We slowly set up a camp, attended to our dilapidated feet, and a much needed mail call came through.
Aching but happy the battalion settled down. Spanish Joe borrowed a few chickens and a pig from a nearby farm and we had a fine barbecue. A day’s rest, a short field problem, and a return by truck to camp were in order. After a songfest around a campfire the boys decided they needed a little liquid refreshment in Foxton. Seabags reckoned it would be mighty unneighborly to walk up this far and not meet the local citizens. Our area was tightly guarded but Seabags was way ahead of the game. He had taken some message center armbands and planned to walk through the gates while “testing” the new SCRs for distance.
I wanted no part of it—only sleep. But I made them promise to watch the Injun and keep him from tearing the place apart. As I buttoned down they were already at the gates, cruising past the guards and giving phony test calls on the radios.
Doc Kyser limped into the command tent angrily. He snarled at Sam Huxley. “Have you lost your mind?” he shouted.
“Come in, Doctor. I was expecting you.”
“Huxley! I’ve sat by before on some of your little expeditions and said nothing. This time I’m putting my foot down!”
“Don’t put it down too hard, it’s probably sore.”
The Doc bent over