Battle Cry - Leon Uris [19]
Forty-five minutes to shower, shave, dress, make up the cot, police the area and fall in for rollcall. In darkness to the mess hall to stand and wait. It was here that Danny first learned to sleep while standing and leaning on Ski. The meals were solid and plentiful as they had to be to sustain the men through the ordeal of the day.
Back to the tents and clean up. Mop, squeeze, pick up cigarette butts and bits of paper. The policing buckets were always nearly empty and it was a rare prize when a boot found a stray fruit peel to pounce upon.
“A helluva way to fight the war.”
“Yeah, I got a letter saying how proud they are of me. They should see me now.”
“This is the bible from now on,” the corporal said, holding up The Marine’s Handbook. “The other one may save your soul, but this one is going to save your ass. We want you alive! Let the other son of a bitch die for his country, we want you alive!”
“All right, you goddamyankees. We got a date with the barber.”
“Barbershop,” whispered Chernik, the farmer from Pennsylvania. “They should call it a wool-shearing station.”
“And we got to pay two bits for it yet.”
There was only one instrument used, an electric clipper. In groups of five they ran from formation to the waiting chairs within.
“Shampoo, shave and light neck trim,” sighed L.Q. as he flopped into the chair.
“Prevents lice, makes every man in boot camp the same. Makes no difference what you once was. You’re a craphead when you come out of the barbershop.”
For the first time the D.I. laughed as the men without names came from the shack. And they laughed at their own misery. Everyone looked ridiculous. Feeling naked and branded they once more trotted to their area and lined up in formation.
Beller took over. He marched the line of hairless men. It was hard to tell the banker from the baker now.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Private Forrester, sir.”
“Did you shave this morning?”
“No sir.”
“Why?”
“The head was crowded, sir. Besides, sir, I only shaved twice a week in civilian life.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes sir.”
Beller hunted out another non-shaver. O’Hearne was his man. He called the pair in front of the formation. “You people were told to shave. The Marine Corps says you need a shave every day! Private Jones!”
“I shaved sir, twice.”
“Private Jones, go to the head and get two razor blades. I want old rusty ones. Then go get two razors.”
“Two old rusty blades coming up, sir.”
Danny and Shannon stood before the platoon, which was rigid and warned not to laugh. Without soap or lather the two offenders shaved each other simultaneously. The worn blades pulled and tore skin from each other’s face until Beller was satisfied they were smooth.
“You people shave every morning!” he yelled again.
The neat, squat, starched man in front of the platoon contrasted strangely with the raggedy-ann men before him.
“You people have a lot to learn. From the looks of you, you’ll be a long time learning. The first thing is how to fall into a formation and stand at attention. I want the lard asses to my left and the feathermerchants to my right. Line up by height.”
Danny, O’Hearne, and Chernik headed the three columns while Ski, Dwyer, and a lad named Ziltch brought up the rear. After shuffling the platoon around Beller said, “Remember who is on your right and always fall in at the same place.”
The lessons began. Hard-learned. Drilled-in a thousand times. A Marine at attention: hour after hour they stood at attention. Heels together, feet at a forty-five degree angle, knees straight but not rigid, hips equally balanced and drawn back slightly, stomach in, chest out but not exaggerated, neck straight, head parallel, eyes forward, arms at sides, thumbs along seams of trousers, palms in, fingers fall away naturally.
“Zounds, I curled a toe when he wasn’t looking.”
“Goddam, I didn’t think there was so much to learn when we was standing still. What about when we start walking!”
“Jones!”
“Yes sir.”
“What the hell you think you are? A Prussian general? Relax.”
“Relax