Battle Cry - Leon Uris [212]
“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” Lancelot answered. He was followed jealously by Ziltch who was only waiting for the proper moment to inform the native that he, Ziltch, was number one boy.
They stood looking at the channel that ran between Karen and Lulu. Huxley surveyed the situation. The water was too muddy to see bottom. The book said it wouldn’t be too deep but Huxley only trusted the book part way. If any Japs lurked in the thick brush on the opposite bank, his men would make a beautiful target going over. He turned to Lancelot.
“How deep?”
The native went into conference with some others and one pointed to Huxley’s chest.
“Close to six feet,” Huxley muttered. He unsnapped his pistol belt and looped it around his neck. He took his wallet from his pocket and put it in his helmet.
“Don’t you think you’d better send someone else across?” Marlin said.
Highpockets didn’t honor the question. He nodded for Lancelot to come with him and point out the best possible route. The natives cut several long pole markers from the brush.
“When I hit the other side, send one platoon over. I’ll move them forward and string them across the island for a covering force. If we hit deep water, send a call for all men over six feet to form a chain over the channel and pass the radios, machine guns, mortars and telephone gear across. All others hold their gear in one hand and swim it with the other. Any boy that can’t swim will hang on to the tall boys. We reassemble at once on the other side…any questions?”
“How about waiting for the alligator to reach us and take the heavy gear over, sir?”
“Can’t depend on it. If we run into Japs we’d better have it ready. Besides, this damned tide is slowing us enough as it is. The alligator may not reach us till late evening. I don’t want to give the Japs a chance to dig in too deep. Got to keep them running.”
Huxley took Lancelot’s hand and stepped into the water. Within several yards he was up to his waist. Two machine guns sat ready to fire on the opposite shore. Huxley plodded about slowly, feeling each step before him. He sank the long poles into the bottom every few yards to mark the shallowest course. At one point he went down to his chin and floundered. Lancelot was ordered to swim back to our side.
Huxley’s drenched body began rising. He hit the opposite shore and ran quickly to the cover of a tree, then scanned the brush up ahead. He returned to the water line and signaled to us.
“First Platoon, move over on the double—leave your machine guns.”
The riflemen were in the water moving to the first marker. The short men began the torturing one-armed swim, holding their rifles and gear aloft with the other. After several moments they emerged and dashed ashore as Huxley moved them up to disperse a protection picket.
“All men, six feet,” Whistler ordered, “follow the channel markers.”
The human chain in midstream grunted under the weight they passed over their heads. Around them, platoon after platoon waded in. A grenade broke loose from a belt held aloft and fell into the water, sending up a muffled spout. No one was hurt. Several boys ran out of gas and had to be towed over by alert men on the other side who had doffed their gear and organized a lifesaving party.
I hit neck-deep water and cursed a blue streak, remembering I had left my cigarettes in my dungaree pockets. I held my carbine and belt up with my left hand and pulled hard against the tugging tide. I was cautious of dropping my feet even by the pole markers. Finally I hit the other shore almost dizzy with exhaustion.
It was a rough go. Each man dragged himself ashore shaking water like a puppy, alternately cold from the dousing and hot from the strain and the sun.
After nearly an hour the wet battalion was squishing uncomfortably down the seemingly never ending trail by the lagoon. The islands ran short now, breaking