Battle Cry - Leon Uris [220]
“I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all,” Wellman said.
“I couldn’t find anything, not even footprints,” Paris said.
Huxley thought hard as he dragged on his smoke. “How is your position, Max?”
“We’re deployed perfectly from lagoon to ocean. Only about seventy-five yards wide there. The island starts spreading just beyond.”
“We’d better play it safe. I’ll send up the rest of the battalion’s machine guns in case they try something tonight. Marlin, have Captain Harper move George Company right in back of Fox. Max, as soon as it turns dark, send out a patrol and probe the fantail.”
“How far do you want us to go?”
“Not ‘us.’ You don’t go out tonight, Max.”
“Aw hell, Colonel.”
“Send Lieutenant Rackley, he’s got eyes in back of his head. McQuade and Paris, you go along too. Move as far up as you can. Get the picture of the terrain. As soon as you contact them, shag-ass back.”
“Aye aye, sir,” McQuade and Paris said.
“We’d better use a password tonight.”
“May I suggest Helen,” Wellman said.
“Helen it is. Pass it on.”
The machine gunners of the other companies were already filtering past us for the front. Shapiro put his helmet on over the hair which now looked like a permanent wave and mudpack combination. “If you start fighting, you are not to commit Fox Company without my orders, understand, Max?” Shapiro nodded. “Gunner, have a telephone line run in there.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Dark was coming quickly. We went over our weapons in a final check and then, out of nowhere, native women and children began to shyly edge into our bivouac. At first we were scared that they might be lepers, but were assured that the colony had not been in existence since the British were run off some years back. The natives seemed in a jovial mood. It was really the first time we had had to sit about and exchange chatter. Under the stern eyes of the officers we kept a talking distance from the women. Before long a group of them began singing and the entire camp gathered about. First shades of night were lightened by a huge white moon which dipped low on the lagoon. The sturdy, handsome people sang an ancient song, maybe as old as time itself. Their primitive harmony, born from sheer love of music, awed us. We stamped and applauded for more. They accepted our offerings of gum and cigarettes and sang again. Every new song brought a melody with beautiful harmony. The swelling chorus drifted over the glass-still waters as the group of tattered Marines sat entranced. Then, their voices blended in a familiar tune, and after their own words they sang the words that were known by us:
“Oh, come all ye faithful,
Joyful and triumphant,
Oh, come ye, oh, come ye…”
Muffled voices sent me springing up with my carbine. Burnside arose with a knife in hand. I had a hard time opening my eyes, which were puffed shut from mosquito bites. Through the netting I made out Pedro and Doc Kyser coming down the road. Behind them was McQuade and three stretchers sagging. Moans came from one of them. Colonel Huxley jumped from his hole, followed, as always, by Ziltch.
“The patrol,” Burnside whispered.
“That’s Paris on a stretcher,” I said.
“Lay them over there. Pedro, get that plasma.” Pedro bent over the moaning Marine and squinted at his dogtag.
“Type O, we have a pint or two, quick.”
“Hokay.”
“Put sulfa on and dress those other two lads,” Kyser ordered another corpsman.
“Aye aye, sir.”
I recognized the anguished boy as a corporal, a squad leader from Alabama. He was in bad shape with a hole in his stomach. Kyser moved him to a place where he could get some light to perform the transfusion. “I hope we don’t run out of plasma before we stop the bleeding,” Doc muttered.
Paris and the other men accepted their treatment easily. The Intelligence sergeant sat up and emitted a shaky smile. Pedro gave him a shot of brandy to steady him.
“Where did you get hit?” I asked.
He held up his right hand. Four fingers were torn away. “Stateside survey,” he said, “finally made it.”
“Can you talk, Paris?” Huxley asked.
“I’m all right,