Battle Cry - Leon Uris [192]
Max Shapiro’s face broadened in a big grin. “I’ll be a sonofabitch. Now you talk my language. You and me are going to hit it off swell. I don’t care to fight you right now, but I admire your courage,” he said, looking far up into Highpocket’s face. “Shake, Colonel, and I’ll give you a mean, smelly outfit.” Huxley and Two Gun Shapiro clasped hands warmly. “Well, sir, I’d like to get acquainted with my crew.”
“Very well, Captain. My orderly will show you to your company area.”
“By the way—who is my gunnery sergeant and my exec?”
“McQuade is your gunny—hell of a good man. Fox is being reorganized and I have assigned no new exec officer yet…by God, I’ve got just the man for you. Ziltch!” The little orderly tumbled in the door. “Get Lieutenant Bryce over here on the double.”
CHAPTER 1
NOVEMBER the first came into being with the dawn. The transport J. Franklin Bell drifted from Wellington Harbor into open sea and took its place in the convoy. Each hour the water turned a deeper blue and a new ship appeared on the horizon. The last thought of another maneuver faded by the second day. Warmer air enveloped the ship as it moved north toward the equator.
The initial excitement gave way as they settled down on a zigzag course. It appeared we were in for a long ride on a slow freight. Troopship monotony in the crowded quarters set in by the third day. We exercised topside, played poker, wrote letters, sang, and repeatedly cleaned and checked our already spotless equipment.
The packed holds made it advisable to remain topside for as many hours a day as we could. As we slipped into hotter climates the air below became foul and the dulled senses and sluggishness that always appear on a troopship hit us. So much so that it was a real chore to drag into the crammed head for a sticky saltwater shower and a tortured, scraping shave.
It was impossible to ascertain the number of knots we had put between ourselves and New Zealand on the wiggly course north. Once again the water turned green, indicating land. In a searing noonday sun an island loomed over the horizon. We lined the deck, buzzing thankfully for the break in the boredom of the seemingly aimless and endless journey. The word passed about that we were pulling into the French New Hebrides and the island of Efate, south of the Espiritu Santo. We passed the coast line of another typical “Pacific paradise” baking in the sun and caught a glimpse of Havannah Harbor. I had never seen anything like it. It was crammed with more warships than my seabag held socks. The sailors aboard identified the battlewagons Colorado and Tennessee, the cruisers Mobile, Birmingham, Portland, and Santa Fé. There were carriers whose decks bristled with fighter planes and dive bombers and I caught sight of Old Mary, the U.S.S. Maryland. It did my heart good to see the old girl. I had done two years aboard her as a seagoing bellhop a long time ago and was glad she had been resurrected from her watery grave at Pearl Harbor.
We dropped anchor in Mele Bay and a wild rash of scuttlebutt broke loose. Foul Ball Philips, Lt. General Tod B. Philips, Commander of the Fleet Marine Force, the big skipper himself, was ashore with Admiral Parks of the Fifth Fleet. The story snowballed from ship to ship that we were going back to Wake Island. There were whoops of joy on the J. Franklin Bell. Surely, we reckoned, the Sixth Marines would draw the honor of establishing the beachhead.
With Wake Island and revenge in our minds, the New Hebrides hellhole held little fascination. We wanted to get under way. Even stories of the rare collection of Army nurses there held small interest.
We held maneuvers before departing. A dress rehearsal with Foul Ball himself and his cigar in attendance. I was worried because the landing went off without a hitch. An old superstition of long-forgotten schooldays in the dramatic club came to mind. Something about a bad dress rehearsal meaning a good opening night. I would have settled at that point for the debacle at Hawke Bay.
As the rest of us pranced about on the