Battle Cry - Leon Uris [199]
In the searing tropical day the landing craft buzzed to and from the transports rushing another load of lambs to the sacrificial altar. More Marines were dumped a mile out on the treacherous reef and waded into the never ceasing staccato of Japanese guns.
Carpe yelled to Mazoros, the radioman, “Dammit, son, can’t you get that thing working?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Salt water got into the battery and it’s ruined.”
Carpe grabbed his field phone as it rang. “Violet speaking,” he said.
“Hello, Carpe, this is Wilson White. The division band is coming in with stretchers and plasma.”
“What’s the situation over there?” Carpe asked.
“Bad. Our sector is littered with wounded. The corpsmen are doing the best they can.”
“How’s your ammo holding?”
“We’re getting low.”
“Have you got any TBY batteries? We can’t reach Rocky. I wonder if the dumb bastards know what the hell is going on in here.”
There was no answer.
“Hello, Wilson White, hello…this is Carpe…hello, goddammit!” He replaced the phone. “Runner, get to Wilson White and find out if their commander has been hit.”
A sergeant ran up to Carpe. “We spotted some TBY batteries over the wall, sir.”
“Over the wall? How the hell did they get there?”
“Damned if I know.”
Mazoros was on his feet.
“Where are you going, son?”
“To get those batteries.”
“Like hell you are. Get under cover—there’s a shortage of radio operators in these parts.”
Before the words had passed from Carpe’s lips, seven Marines were crawling up under a Jap machine gun where the batteries lay. Six got killed; one returned with the precious articles.
CHAPTER 3
WE were locked in the hold. No one slept in the crammed quarters. There were whispers in the dim light, of men crouched on the edge of their bunks waiting for word from the Second Marines.
“We ought to be in there helping.”
“The poor bastards.”
A rifle dropped from an upper bunk startling everyone. A Marine worked his way over a pile of packs and boxes and wiped the sweat from his chest.
“Why can’t we make a night landing?”
“Them assholes on the Maryland don’t know what they’re doing.”
“Wonder if the Japs have counterattacked?”
I walked into the head and splashed my face with sticky salt water. It gave little relief. I wanted to sleep but there was sleep for no one. We waited sullen and tense for word from Blue Beach. I rubbed the stubble on my chin, thankful at least that I wouldn’t have to shave in the morning. If I didn’t get out of this goddam hold, I felt, soon I’d be too groggy to walk. I stepped into the hatchway. Andy grabbed me from behind.
“I want to tell you something,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I’ve had the red ass all this trip. I was pissed off because I had to leave New Zealand.”
“Shut up.”
“Let me finish. I was glad when I heard we were going to be reserve. I wanted to be able to write to Pat and tell her, so she wouldn’t worry. I don’t feel like that no more, Mac. We should be on that beach. I don’t know nothing about farms and wives and nothing like that. I just know I want to get in there and kill some Japs.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Andy.”
“I don’t know what it is, but I know that sometimes there is something more important than just two people. I…I don’t rightly know what I mean. Only this waiting is getting me….”
On the beach Pfc. Mazoros repeated his instructions for the tenth time to the rifleman on how to operate the radio. His voice became weaker. He had been badly wounded and life ebbed from him. He rolled over to the ground, dead. The rifleman slowly lifted the earphones from Mazoros’ head and placed them on his own.
Over the seawall, thrice wounded Lieutenant Roy was leading his Scouts and Snipers from pillbox to pillbox with dynamite. At last he fell dead from his fourth wound.
A white moon hung low. It lit up the wreckage. The long pier shone like a silver ray through the breezeless, sticky night. The tide crept up on the Marines crouching behind the seawall until there was no beach left.