Battle Cry - Leon Uris [233]
They nodded.
“Like hell you have!”
“Gee, I’m sure glad we found it, sir. Here is your jeep.”
“Wait a minute…come back here, you people.”
“Sorry, Major, we got to go gizmo hunting.”
“Gizmo hunting?”
“Yep, well, good-by.”
The enraged officer looked under the hood and tears streamed down his cheeks. His brand-new car had been battered beyond recognition. He rushed to his superior officer to arrange charges against the Marines. They must have been from the Fox camp and the driver, the fat sergeant, would be unable to hide that stomach anywhere. For several hours the Army staff argued the feasibility of bringing charges. Some feared it would only step up the raids by the Marines. Stouter hearts prevailed and it was decided an example must be made of them once and for all. The Army had the fullhearted backing of Commodore Perkins and again Shapiro’s camp underwent a raid. But again the raiders were several hours later than the reliable spy, MacArthur, who had been recently promoted to sergeant.
“Fat boy…fat boy?” Shapiro scratched his head…. “I haven’t got any fat boys in this camp, they’re all skinny. If you people gave us a square shake on rations I might have some fat boys.”
A mile away in a hut by the ocean, Gunny McQuade lay on the lap of a young native girl who stroked his balding head softly. Another girl brought him a bottle of beer, cooled at the bottom of an artesian well. He uncapped it, passed it about to his friends, guzzled the remains, and gave a long, loud, contented burp.
CHAPTER 9
ON AN exceptionally peaceful evening the men sat about on the beach listening to Command Performance, enjoying the two favorites, Bing Crosby and Dinah Shore. Some lay in the lagoon, floating and cooling from the extreme heat of the day, and others just lazed about with their hands around a beer bottle. During a rendition of the latest song hit, “Pistol-Packing Momma,” the air raid siren went off. They doused their cigarettes and settled back to hear the rest of the program. The spotlights and ack-ack made a wonderful show but the bombs falling in the lagoon interrupted the program with their loud bursts.
A Seabee puffed up the road in the darkness from a nearby construction detail. He stumbled into the gathering on the beach as the fire grew intense from the battery of 90s behind the camp.
“Sorry to bother you fellows,” the Seabee squealed. “We haven’t had time to dig a shelter. Could I use yours?”
“Sure,” Shapiro said.
“But skipper,” whispered McQuade.
“Aw, it’s pitch black and the guy is scared to death. Right over to your left, son.”
“Here?” the Seabee called out in the darkness.
“A few yards back.”
“But, Max, there ain’t no shelter there….”
“Here? By this oilcan?”
“That’s right. The can is the opening. Just grab hold of the rope and lower yourself down.”
A splash followed as the Seabee dropped to the bottom of the well.
“He’s liable to drown, Max.”
“Naw, it’s only waist high.”
“Quiet, you guys. Dinah Shore is gonna sing.”
Andy and Danny wandered over to the airstrip on Lulu to scan the planes. They moved about the parking area examining the Billy Mitchel bombers and the names and paintings on the ships’ noses.
“Christ, look at that,” Andy said. “Seventy-fives right in their nose.”
“Regular flying artillery.” They walked about the bomber counting the machine guns and 37 mm’s bristling from her.
“We oughta have some of these in the Corps for ground support.”
“They’re probably still too fast or the Corps would have gotten them.”
“Gyrene pilots could really clear the way in these babies.”
“I guess you know that gyrene pilots are the best at ground support.”
“Certainly, I ain’t arguing.”
Their attention turned to a Liberator which had just pulled to a stop in the center of the strip and was being surrounded by a bevy of racing jeeps. They went out to the clumsy monster