Battle Cry - Leon Uris [222]
They joined the squad around the radios and awaited orders. Up front there was an increased tempo of gunfire as Fox and George Companies were moving out.
“Yes sir, yes sir. We’ll have your dress blues when you get to San Diego, just sign here,” L.Q. chattered.
“I wish they wouldn’t give us so much chow. A man can’t fight proper when he’s so stuffed up.” There had been no breakfast.
“Butts on that cigarette.”
“Butts on them butts.”
Four walking wounded straggled down the road and asked for the aid station. “How’s it going up there?” Andy asked.
“Rough.”
Then came a half dozen stretchers straining under their gore-drenched loads.
“Looks like we’re getting us a nice casualty list. Another couple hours and we’ll be able to rejoin the division.”
A white-robed nun stepped up to Doc Kyser. “Are you in charge here?” she asked.
“Yes, Doctor Kyser is the name, Sister.”
“I am Sister Joan Claude, Mother Superior of the Mission. I would like to offer our services with the wounded.”
The hard-pressed doctor breathed a sigh. “You’ll pardon the play on words, Sister, but you are the answer to a prayer. Do you people understand anything about medicine?”
“Nursing is one of our duties, Doctor.”
“How many are you?”
“Ten.”
“Good, we’ll be able to release the corpsmen for line duty. Pedro!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have all corpsmen in the aid station come here at once for reassignment. This is nice of you people.”
“We are glad to be of service.”
Huxley, Marlin, and Ziltch ducked behind some trees as they approached the Fox Company area. The men before them lay dispersed throughout the abandoned Jap camp, behind boulders, trees, and in protected huts. The air was singing with bullets coming to and from the thicket past the camp.
“Runner,” Huxley called.
The call for a runner went down the line till a Marine leapt from behind a rock and zigged from cover to cover till he slid in beside Huxley. A trail of slugs ripped the earth up behind him.
“Where is Shapiro?”
“How the hell do I know?” the runner answered. “He’s all over.”
“Take us to your CP,” Huxley ordered. The runner fell flat and crawled forward to new cover and waved the party up to him. One by one they crawled up behind him. He dashed for a boulder, and a clatter of fire went up from the brush. Highpockets’ legs opened as he sprinted to the new cover. It was several moments before Ziltch and Marlin could safely be waved over. Marlin dived head first on top of them, then Ziltch came. The orderly tumbled and fell in the open, and Huxley bolted out and literally threw him to the safety of the rock.
“Damn, it’s hot up here,” Marlin bellowed.
“There’s plenty of them in the brush,” Huxley said. The runner pointed to a thatched hut about fifty yards from the ocean. It was hemmed in by trees on the side facing the Japs and offered a natural barrier. Behind the trees a squad of riflemen crouched in protection of the command post. They sprang up for the last dash and bolted across the open ground and tumbled breathlessly into the hut. Gunnery Sergeant McQuade lay flat on his back, his legs crossed and knees up as he enjoyed a cigarette while gazing at the ceiling.
“Sorry to interrupt your siesta, McQuade,” Huxley puffed.
“Hello, Sam,” McQuade said, dropping military formality in deference to the flying bullets.
“Where is Shapiro?”
“He went to straighten the line, he’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Huxley impatiently snarled as he peered out of the hut at the brush. Fox Company was pinned down. To rush the Japs when you couldn’t even see them might cost the entire company. A runner sprinted toward the hut, fell, arose and skittered in. He held his face.
“Man, I’m lucky. Just nicked me. We’re bringing in the telephone,” he panted.
“Lay down a covering fire,” Huxley shouted outside. “Make them lay low, there’s a telephone man trying to get in. Do you people have a mortar here, McQuade?”
“We ran out of mortars an hour after we started.”
“Sonofabitch!