Battle Cry - Leon Uris [21]
CHAPTER 4
THE BALDHEADED recruits of One Forty Three could move together reasonably well at the end of a week. A few always decided to take off in another direction at a flank command but the majority of the main body hung on.
The end of the week also found a scratch on every boot’s forehead from the ornament screw where his pith helmet had been smashed over his face. Whacked fannies, poked ribs, and fingers cracked by the stick the sergeant carried were other helpful reminders of lessons forgotten. The stick, originally designed for measuring, had found other uses in the Corps. When it wasn’t heavy enough, the instructor’s boot was.
The days were broken by lectures. Field sanitation, personal hygiene, sex in San Diego and a hundred other subjects on which the Marine must be fully informed. The Manual was studied till taps in “spare time” and recited word perfect. But mainly it was drill, drill, drill!
An hour before taps found Danny’s tent jammed with visitors. Chernik, Dwyer, and another fellow called Milton Norton. Norton was unusually quiet, studious, and quite a bit older than the rest. He was very likable, though, and popular throughout the platoon.
Danny returned from Whitlock’s quarters.
“Did you pass?” Ski asked as he entered.
“Yes.”
“How do you like that for learning—Christ, he recites the Eleven General Orders and Rank and Insignia all in one day.”
“Quiet,” L.Q. snorted. “I’m trying to figure out who I hate the most, Beller or Whitlock.” He thumbed through the Manual. “To walk my post from flank to flank and salute all bastards above my rank…I know them…I know them.”
“You better learn them, L.Q., by tomorrow.”
Jones pulled a long comb from his pocket and ran it through the tenth of an inch fuzz on his head. “I washed it today and I simply can’t do a thing with it.”
“I hear tell,” Dwyer said, “that Whitlock is one of the easiest D.I.s in boot camp. I was talking to a guy from One Fifty today and he really got a tough one.”
“Oh yeah, that’s a crock—what’s his name, Hitler?”
“How about it, farmer?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Chernik answered. “I sort of like the extra hour sleep I get here.”
There was a loud noise from the other tent.
“O’Hearne,” Dwyer spat. “Of all the crapheads in the Marine Corps, I got to draw a tent with him. Our D.I. away from the field.”
“Yeah, he sure gripes me.”
“Say, Norton, I heard they been feeding us saltpeter. Is it a fact?”
“What makes you think so?”
“I ain’t had a hard on since I been here.”
“Just overworked,” Norton explained.
“Ha-ha, duty Ted Dwyer. You were the guy who was going to San Diego the night we got here.”
“Yeah, Ted, how do you like your dress blues?”
“Hey, Norton, what did you used to do in civilian life?”
“Teacher.”
“I thought it was something special.”
“There isn’t a thing in the world special about teachers,” the quiet fellow retorted.
“I mean, you’re not like most of the yardbirds here, fresh out of high school. Where did you used to teach?”
“University of Pennsylvania.”
“Penn! We got a celebrity in the tent, men.”
“Jesus Christ, what are you doing here?”
“Taking boot camp like the rest of the crapheads.”
“But—a teacher at Penn….”
“I don’t see any sign barring us.” Norton smiled.
“I’ll be go to hell, how about that?”
L.Q. picked up his skin-tight green trousers. “In another goddam week I’ll fit them if that Texas keeps drilling us like he has.”
“I had a dream last night. I dreamed I was in San Diego with a beautiful broad. I was making time with her and I woke up laughing and laughing.”
“Why?”
“She was Whitlock’s wife.”
“I won’t have you speaking of my old friend that way.”
“All I dream is lep two, lep two—fall in, fall out.”
Jones sprang to his feet. “All right you goddamyankees…” he aped Whitlock’s shrill voice, “ain’t you goddam crapheads ever gonna learn…Gawd…Jones, your other left…saddest bunch of boots I’ve ever seen…eh, Mister Christian…Mister Christian…what is the matter with Jones…where the deuce is his chest…hup two…I’ll be a sad bastard…goddamyankees…can’t you people