Battle Cry - Leon Uris [23]
“Good news, Ski?”
“Yeah…yeah, it will be all right. We’ll make it.”
“I hope so.”
Jones took to calculating when the war would be over as Danny read through the rest of his mail. “Just think,” Jones babbled, “I gave up a nice warm bed in a flophouse for all this.”
“Get a T.S. chit from the chaplain. In the Russian Marines they call it a toughski chitski.”
“I was just thinking,” L.Q. continued, “of the best way to murder Beller. I already got it for Whitlock. Hang him by his balls.”
“You should be at the ass end of the line, like I am,” Ski said, “and try keeping up with the lard asses double-timing.”
The bitching session faded as Danny pulled a sheet of paper from his portfolio. It had a Marine emblem on the letterhead. He toyed with his pen several moments.
Dear Kitten,
Let’s put an end to this doubting. I love you and with each passing hour I love you more. The thought of losing you now…
He tore up the sheet and began again.
Dear Kathy,
Well, only nine more weeks of boot camp left and I’ll be a free…
He sealed the envelope and put MMRLH (Marine mail, rush like hell) on the back and walked the catwalk to the mailbox. Disgusted, yet glad. In the distance he heard the curse of a drill instructor. He smiled with little satisfaction that One Forty Three was drilling better than the other platoons. And his mind wandered back to Kathy. Then he ran for his tent to find a laugh from L.Q. As he entered, Ski was lying on his sack.
“Hey, Ski. Get off your cot. You know we aren’t supposed to lay on it before taps. Want to get us murdered?”
“He isn’t feeling good.”
“Looks like you got a fever, Ski.”
“Holy Christ, we got to go to the movies tonight.”
“I’ll go see Whitlock.”
“That’s O.K. Don’t go getting the rebel mad, Danny.”
Danny cut up the catwalk and stopped before the D.I.’s tent. “Sir, Private Forrester requests permission to speak with the drill instructor.”
“At ease, Forrester, what is it?”
“Sir, Private Zvonski appears to be sick.” He followed Danny back to the tent. Danny shouted, “Tenshun.”
“That’s all right, son, lay down.” The corporal bent over and felt Ski’s forehead. “You’ve got the Cat Fever, nothing serious. Lay in during the show and if you don’t feel better by reveille, go to sick bay.”
“Thank you, sir.” He left.
“Phew,” Jones sighed, “I thought he was going to boon-dock us for sure. What did you say?”
“I told him if he didn’t let my old buddy take the night off I’d start punching holes in him.”
“Gee, thanks, Danny. I’m your slave.”
The whistle blasted. “Fall out, top coats.”
“Here we go to get our morale built up.”
The four-thirty bugle found Ski’s fever gone and he wobbled to the head. As he advanced to the sink he asked Jones, in the next line, “How was the picture?”
“Great,” L.Q. answered, “great. They marched us clean over to the Base Theater. People were there, even women. Even saw a real Marine in dress blues. I said to myself right there and then that if I got to go into this war, I’m gonna join the Marine Corps.”
“What was the picture about?”
“Called To the Shores of Tripoli,” L.Q. answered, opening his shaving kit. “Well, this here guy is a horse’s ass like Beller and Whitlock and he joins the Corps because his old man was a Marine.”
“Gee, a picture about Marines.”
“Well, he gets to boot camp and first thing he does is read off his D.I.”
“Just like real life.”
“Yeah. After giving the D.I. the word he beats the hell out of the whole platoon. Nice guy, only nobody likes him. There’s a kid in boot camp who wants to make Sea School but he washes out and he’s heartbroken.”
“No blue uniform for that boy.”
“In the next scene he’s makin’ time with this Navy nurse. He’s a private and she’s a looey.”
“Just like real. Sorry I missed it.”
“Anyhow, he squares himself by saving the life of the D.I.”
“What he want to do that for?”
“Don’t interrupt…the picture ends with the war starting and the whole outfit marching down to the docks to ship out. Bands are