Battle Cry - Leon Uris [22]
They continued laughing, not seeing the D.I.
“TENSHUN!” Jones shrieked.
Cots and seabags overturned in a race to get to their feet.
“Outside, all of you,” the Texan hissed. “And bring your buckets.”
They stood in front of the D.I.’s tent, stiff as ramrods. The other men of the platoon peeked adventurously from their tents. The corporal paraded in front of them. “What are you people?”
“Crapheads,” they answered in unison.
“Goddamyankees too,” L.Q. added.
“Keep repeating what you are.”
“I’m a craphead…I’m a craphead…I’m a craphead.”
“Now put the buckets on your heads and keep talking.”
“I’m a craphead,” came the muffled sound beneath the scrub buckets.
“Left face…for’d harch.”
For an hour he paraded the seven offenders throughout the entire boot camp area. The platoons of boots gawked in amusement. With a pair of D.I. sticks he beat a drum roll on the buckets to their chant “I’m a craphead.”
In the darkness, he ordered them into buildings, ditches, clotheslines, heads, and light poles until they reeled like punch-drunk fighters. Then the chant was changed to “I love my Drill Instructor.”
During the hours of drill the voices of Beller and Whitlock alternately droned cadence and shouted corrections. It was as though the two men had eyes on their feet, in back of their heads, and on both hands. The smallest flaw was always discovered.
“Straighten up that goddam line. You ain’t a bunch of soldiers.”
“Get your mind off that broad.”
“When you do ‘eyes right’ I want to hear the eyeballs click.”
“Stop swinging those arms. You ain’t gonna fly outa here.”
“When you come to ‘attention’ I want to hear leather pop.”
“Your other left, dammit.”
“Fall on your faces, you sad bastards.”
“Don’t you know the difference between a column and a flank? Gawd!”
“There’s nicotine stains, wash them over.”
“You got three specks of dust under your cot.”
“Stop scratching in ranks. Them crabs got to eat too.”
“Sound off!”
“Sick, lame; and lazy out for sick call.”
“Whatsamatter, Ski, did they make the pants too long?”
“Goddamyankees! Ain’t you people ever going to learn?”
A voice from the ranks: “Sir, Private Jones requests permission to speak with the—”
“You don’t talk in ranks, ain’t you ever going to learn?”
“But sir, I got to take a piss something awful.”
“Piss in your pants, Private Jones.”
“In my pants sir, right away sir.”
“Mail Call!”
Those two electric words. A word from home. For the first time in a thousand to come, the hungry scene played itself. Not even Whitlock’s sneering at the Northern addresses and postmarks could dim the happy fire that burned inside them.
Dearest Danny,
You sound confused. I know that this boot camp is tougher than you are letting on….
The coach said he understood why you didn’t call. He sort of figured you would do something like join the Marines. He is going to write and send the school paper (I’m an editor on it now) and also a subscription to Esquire….
It’s lonesome here without you. Sometimes I jump out of my skin when the phone rings…the folks have been very understanding….
Sometimes though, I can’t help but feel that you really don’t love me, the way you write. I think about us all the time. It will never wear off for me, Danny.
I’ll write again tomorrow,
I love you,
K.
He read it once more before turning to the other stack of envelopes. Then, he hid his face with his hands. I’ve told myself a thousand times that it isn’t right and it won’t work. But what would it be like if I didn’t have her? So far away. I knew it would be lonely, but not like this.
“Nice, huh?” Jones startled him by thrusting a picture under his nose. He looked at a homely girl, fat as L.Q., with a toothy grin.
Danny whistled. “Wow.”
“Nice huh, Ski?”
“Yeah, some dish.”
“No cussin’