Battle Cry - Leon Uris [185]
We hit the road. Huxley limped like a cripple. His body looked all out of proportion and he trembled with each step. The word passed down the line that he was dragging his ass. But the point no longer had the urge or the energy to step up the pace and down him. Maybe he was putting on a show to keep the outfit intact? No, it was no show. He was in trouble and the slow, dragging steps were sending shocks of pain from his feet to his brain, almost paralyzing him with every step.
Highpockets is going to drop…Highpockets is going to drop…Highpockets is going to drop…. This became the cadence as we slugged step after miserable step. A singsong, silent chant was on every lip and every eye was on Sam Huxley, whose face was wrenched in pain. He clenched his teeth to fight off the blackness creeping over him. Huxley’s folding…Huxley’s folding…. A mile, another. We neared Otaki again. Our pace was almost nil. Five men keeled over in quick succession. We pulled to a halt.
We were finished and we knew it. We’d never make the last day. Fifty men were out now and the time was past for fighting climax after climax. The saturation point was past. No miracle had happened.
Sam Huxley felt nothing in his long legs. He pinched and rubbed for an hour to get feeling back. He looked at his watch like a nervous cat from where he sat propped against a tree. His only order was to get up the galley along the highway quickly. It didn’t make sense to put it so close to the road. What was he up to? Suddenly he sprang to his feet and shouted. “Get your mess gear and line up along the road for chow, on the double!”
We staggered up the highway to where the field kitchen was. Eight hundred and fifty men, and the officers at the head of the line. Huxley kept looking at his watch every few seconds. Then he smiled as the sound of motors was heard coming over the Otaki Bridge. Huxley had passed his miracle!
Trucks rolled down near us. In them sat the men of Pawnee Blue, the Third Battalion was coming back from Foxton. On their asses!
“Candy-assed Marines!” A roar went up from us on the roadside, “Candy-assed Marines!” The red-faced men of the Third Battalion held their tongues, ashamed of their position. “Candy asses…candy asses!”
“Say, what outfit is that?”
“Why that’s the Third Battalion, cousin.”
“Worthless as tits on a bull!”
“Ain’t they sweet!”
“Whatsamatter, candy asses? Road too hard for you boys?”
“Maybe they’re Doug’s soldiers.”
The trucks roared out of sight. I felt wonderful. I felt like bursting inside. Huxley was standing on top of a table, his hands on his hips. “Well,” he roared, “shall I call the trucks up for us, or does the Second Battalion walk?”
“The hell with chow!” A cheer went up.
“And when we hit the camp gate,” Huxley shouted over the din, “let’s show them what the best outfit in the Corps looks like!”
The surge of pride bustled like spring as we pushed south again. It was a fitting climax to the fantastic venture. We realized we were on the brink of a monumental feat that gyrenes would be talking about from Samoa to Frisco for a hundred years. The Second Battalion was near setting a record that would never be equaled anywhere.
As we worked the miles closer to camp, familiar landmarks came into view. We had pounded out the word with our feet that this was the greatest battalion in the Corps.
We passed Paraparamumu and the point gave the word to straighten up and look smart. Eight hundred and fifty men stiffened their backs and L.Q. Jones sang:
“Hidy tidy, Christ almighty.
Take a look and see,
Zim zam God damn,
Huxley’s Whores are we.”
It made chills go up and down the spine to hear the whole column break out singing. As we swung into the main gate of camp the road was lined with Marines from the Second and Eighth Regiments who had come to gawk at the hiking fools. The highway was filled with jeeps of officers from lieutenants to colonels, from every camp in the division. Their mouths hung open in stunned awe as the files