Battle Cry - Leon Uris [213]
High noon found us dripping, exhausted and miserable. The blisters were wearing on at a record pace. Huxley believed that the smaller Japanese must be having a much rougher time of it and he didn’t want us to slacken. Our pursuit must not give them a rest or an opportunity to prepare defenses.
“Hey! What town is this!”
The road took a turn from the lagoon to the center of the island and there, straddling it, was the first inhabited village. Our first look at the women started us drooling. It had been a month since we had seen a female of any kind and we little anticipated the luscious sight before us. They were as tall as their men, big hipped and heavy legged, and like the men they wore only bright-colored cloths about their waists. They edged curiously to the road as we passed through. All eyes in the column were glued on them. I had never seen such an array of bare bosoms, all ample, firm and blossoming like tropical fruit.
“Gawd!”
“Cousin, I’d like to walk on a mile of that one barefooted.”
The girls giggled and waved and we waved and slobbered.
“Christ, I didn’t know that damn thing was still there till now. Guess I’m still a man.”
Had the Gilbertese girls known their existence was causing such a ruckus in the ranks they would surely have disappeared in angered shame. As it was, we trudged through giving careful attention to each and every one. Fortunately the girls didn’t understand English.
It was mostly the fourteen-to sixteen-year-old jobs that caused the greatest commotion. Apparently the tropical heat withered them at about twenty years of age. A few aged crones were there, wrinkled like rhinos and potbellied, with stone-white hair.
Passing through this village added another twenty natives to our ranks. The pace didn’t hurt so much now we could anticipate running into another village. We hit several more ranging from a dozen to a hundred huts. Each time, the Gilbertese came rushing to the road waving, shouting welcome, exchanging smiles and coconuts for cigarettes and gum. Often an older man would snap rigidly to attention and execute a British salute, holding it till the whole battalion passed by. Each new crossing found the tide a bit lower till, at noon break time, we waded in water only waist deep.
We flopped down on the outskirts of a village and word passed down that we weren’t to enter huts or touch any girls.
“Where are we, Mac?” L.Q. asked.
“Start of Nellie Island, the government village.”
We dumped our belts and helmets by the radio, took our carbines and headed for the lagoon. Marion glanced over his shoulder at the sprawled battalion and the natives dashing up the palms for coconuts.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” he said.
I laughed.
“Real adventure, out of a poster. Beautiful place, this atoll.”
“Very romantic,” I agreed. “How do these girls stack up with Rae?” I teased.
Marion’s face turned crimson. I slapped him on the back. “I must admit,” he said, “I peeked, but I don’t think Rae has anything to worry about.”
Near the water’s edge by a clump of trees there was a man squatting. On the deck by him lay several fish he was scaling. He looked different from the natives, more like a mulatto, light tan and very freckled, and thin. His hair struggled between red and black and he wore a khaki shirt and faded shorts and sandals. From his lips hung a curved pipe. He had a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard. Mary and I approached him as he peeled the fish.
“Mind if we sit here? I mean, you speakee English, no, yes?” I asked with a bevy of motions.
“You may sit,” he answered. “It is your island and I speak English quite well, thank you.” He spoke sharply without looking up and made me feel ridiculous for my question.
“Er, we wouldn’t bother you but we are on the lookout for an alligator.”
“You won’t find any alligators in these waters,” the man said tersely.
“It’s a boat—well, like a boat. It goes on land and water…we call them alligators.” I sat down and opened my ration.
“My