Battle Cry - Leon Uris [210]
“The Gilbertese are great fishermen. The sea and the palm trees are practically their only means of survival. They have a few chickens and pigs for festive occasions, but, as you can see, the soil is very unfertile.”
“Don’t much look like Black Hawk County,” Seabags spat from his chaw.
“Shaddup, I’m getting enlightened.”
“The atoll has been under British control for many years. They export copra and cocoanut oil in exchange for cloth, cooking utensils and other items.”
“For Chrisake, Mary. Do the broads go or don’t they?”
“Many of the younger generation speak English due to missionary work. They have rigid tribal systems and their own language and customs. Life is simple and remote from Western culture. Few white men…”
“Mary, all I asked was a simple question. Do the broads…aw, the hell with it.”
“Come on, we’d better shag ass,” I said, busting up the geography lesson.
“Hey, lookit. Here comes Captain Whistler with a bunch of gooks.”
We formed a circle at a polite distance from the skipper and the staff. Whistler and some of his boys had come in with four natives. They were a cross between the light skinned Polynesians like the Maoris and the black Melanesians of Guadalcanal. The young lads hovered on the brink of black. They were handsome men; strikingly so by comparison with other natives I had seen all over the Orient. They stood about five foot nine inches, and were stocky, with well-tapered figures slim in the waist and broad in the shoulders. Fish and copra must have agreed with them. Their clothing consisted of brightly colored cloths wrapped tightly at the waist and falling nearly to their knees.
“I found these boys snooping around camp this morning, sir,” Captain Whistler said.
“They are quite friendly,” Wellman said, lighting his pipe and joining the group. “Any of you boys speak English?”
“Oh, yes,” one said, as he gazed about in childish awe. “My name Lancelot, my good Catholic Christian. Silent night, holy night…you want hear my sing?”
“Not just now, Lancelot,” Huxley said. “We are more interested in finding Japs. Do you know where they are?”
“Japs bad fellows, very bad fellows are.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“They run when you British come.” He pointed north, up the chain of islands. The other three natives nodded and pointed north, jabbering.
“How many Japs run?” Wellman asked.
“We no like Japs. They bad fellows. Take chicken.”
“How many?”
Lancelot turned puzzled to his friends. They argued for several moments in the confusing native tongue.
“Say again please?”
“How many? Numbers…one, two, three, four…how many Japs?”
“Oh…many thousand.”
Wellman coughed.
“Don’t get excited, Wellman, they aren’t much help.”
“Very glad British back,” Lancelot said.
“We aren’t British, Lancelot. We’re Americans.”
“No British?” the youth said, becoming long-faced.
“No British?” the other three echoed.
“We good friends of British…American…British friends,” Huxley said, shaking his hands together.
“Like hell we are,” Whistler whispered under his breath.
“God save King, no?” Lancelot asked for reassurance.
“God save King, God save King,” Huxley repeated. The four smiled.
“We come along no, yes? Help find bad Jap.”
Huxley drew Wellman aside. “What do you think, Major?”
“I suppose it is all right. They seem to be O.K. boys.”
“All right,” Huxley said, “I make you scouts for us. But you must be good boys or I send you home to village. Do you understand?”
“We get coconut for ’Merican. We carry boxes. Jap bad fellow.”
“In fact,” Wellman said, “they’ll probably be quite a help in tricky brush or tides.”
“Just be good boys,” Huxley said again.
“Oh yes…we Catholic…Hail Mary, no?”
They eagerly turned about, smiling and nodding to us. We took to them right off the bat. I was glad we were going to toss the Japs off their atoll.
“All right, fall in, goddammit. On the double…hit the road.”
Without Jasco doing our reconnaissance now, it was necessary to send a platoon from the point company well in advance of the main body. We had moved a few hundred yards when