Battle Cry - Leon Uris [215]
“You don’t know how lucky you are, fellow,” I said.
“My father always said that. Except when he was drunk. Then he’d tell me about the Highlands and the pipers and he would hide and weep. Stay hidden for many days. Someday I shall have my books back and they will take me over the horizon again.”
“I have some books in my pack, back on Helen.”
“Helen?”
“The main island.”
“Betio,” he corrected. “You are now on Aboaroko.”
“I have some books. I’ll bring them up to you if I have an opportunity. I’d like to see you again if we remain. Maybe when I get back to the States, I could send you books regularly.”
The man’s face lit up. “Would you…would you really?”
“What do you like?” Marion asked.
“Anything, anything at all. I read German and French too.”
Lighttower came up, puffing, “Hey, Mac. The Gunner wants you. We can’t make heads or tails out of the alligator. Andy must be sending code with his feet.”
Marion and I arose and shook hands with Mr. Macintosh. “Would you mind speaking to our Colonel?” I said. “Maybe you could give us some information on the Japanese.”
“I’m afraid,” he said bitterly, “I can be of little use. I was asleep when they passed. I do not wish to take part in your war.”
The two Marines walked back over the road to the radio through a mob of natives who were all over the place. Keats was in an uproar. “We can’t read the alligator!” he snapped.
“The goddam thing is all metal,” I said, “probably pounding the waves all over the place.”
The Gunner scratched his head. “We are ready to move out. Mac, you and Marion will have to stay here with the radio and keep trying to reach them. When they catch up, jump aboard and have them ride you up to the next island. We’ll be looking out for you. Keep in contact.”
In a few moments the battalion had moved out, leaving Mary and me alone but surrounded by a bunch of curious natives. We tried to contact the alligator. The signal from them was weak and Andy kept asking for repeats. I got a volunteer to spin the generator.
Cranking it proved so amusing that Marion had to form an orderly line to let each native have a turn. At last the alligator raised their signal and I gave them directions. They were several miles away and it would be at least an hour before they reached us. Marion and I broke down the set, cased it, waited, and tried to beg off eating the hundred open coconuts which were placed before us.
About fifteen minutes had passed when a small boy burst through the group jabbering wildly and pointing toward the ocean side of the island. “Jap…Jap!” he repeated.
We sprang up, grabbed our carbines and waved back the natives who clustered behind us. We dashed the width of the narrow island through some brush, following the swift-running lad. In a small clearing he came to a halt and pointed again.
Three Japanese Imperials were surrounded by a host of angry club-and rock-wielding natives. The Japs were unarmed and bleeding from the beating being administered them. Marion and I shoved a way through the crowd and tried to quell the mounting ire of the Gilbertese. One native was poised to hurl a rock. I stuck my carbine under his nose and only then did they realize we meant business. Slowly, still yelling and waving their clubs, they widened the circle. We faced the captives. One was a smooth-faced boy, the other two had straggly goatees. All three were tattered and evidently fatigued, thirsty, and hungry. They bowed several times to us. Two of them grinned appeasingly, the other remained