Battle Cry - Leon Uris [239]
In a few moments a huge circle of Marines and natives formed in the camp’s center and as darkness fell a fire was made. Then East and West joined voices and sang the Christmas hymns.
With wooden boxes used as drums, the native men began beating rhythmically and the center ring filled with grass-skirted dancers. Everyone clapped in time to the beats as the stately bronze girls flipped and swayed in perfect unison. Then a small girl, shapely and young, took the center and the others drifted to the sidelines. MacArthur explained that she was the “sept dancer,” the representative of Alexander’s clan, an honor that fell only to a direct descendant of the chief. She had been carefully trained in her art since babyhood. The other girls were merely backdrops. With a wad of gum going in her mouth she began her dance with very slow hip gyrations. The young lady must have surely been tutored by Salome, I thought. As the clapping generated steam she flung off her brassière so as not to cramp her style. She glided around the circle’s edge, her feet moving as if she were on skates and her hips swinging tauntingly. She swayed back to the center and as the drums beat faster and faster it looked as if she would take off in ten directions at the same time.
“This is dance of chicken,” MacArthur whispered.
Wiggling her shoulders, she began a fierce controlled shake that set her breasts shivering. She took short rapid hops with her rear pointing out angularly. Her skirt bounced and swayed madly. The clapping became quicker and quicker, trying to pass her tempo, and she increased her motion until she was a wild flitting blur in the firelight. I thought she must surely shake herself to pieces but she only added more speed as the beats became louder and faster and exuberant shouts arose. She danced until at last she dropped exhausted to the ground…. The Marines were no longer so lonely.
The festivities reached a hilarious climax when McQuade stepped into the center of the ring. Around his chest he wore three confiscated halters tied end to end to circle his girth. His monstrous belly hung over a grass skirt and he wore boondockers and a big black cigar plastered in his teeth. With the help of the revived village dancer they put on an exhibition of the hula never seen before by the eyes of man. The dance was matched only when Two Gun Shapiro, Major Wellman, and Marlin, similarly attired, tried to outdo them with their native partners.
Suddenly I felt someone shoving through the crowd to the edge of the ring where I sat with my boys. I turned and there, moving in beside me, was Danny. His eyes were bright and some of the color had returned to his face.
“Merry Christmas, Mac!” he shouted. “Anybody got a beer?”
PART SIX
Prologue
OUR SHIP pulled into the lagoon. We took a trip up to Cora to say so long to Levin and Burnside and packed to leave the atoll. Seabags had good reason to get seasick this trip.
The ship, a liberty ship, the Prince George, carried no other cargo except Huxley’s Whores. The “Kaiser Coffin” had nothing to hold her below her water line and she bobbed like a cork for a slow sickening week at seven knots an hour. Often on the rising swell the George’s screws came clear out of the water and as she sank she rattled and shuddered till we thought she’d rip apart.
After New Year’s she pulled into Hilo on the island of Hawaii with Sam Huxley’s beleaguered Whores.
As had been the case on Guadalcanal, we were bringing up the rear. Once upon a time we had believed the Sixth was destined for glory. Two years and two campaigns and we were still cleaning up messes.
The camp was hell. Bitter cold during the night, hot in the day. Very little water and it was rationed. The diet of New Zealand was supplanted by Hawaiian pineapple.
The worst of it was the dust. It choked us by day and night. It was impossible to keep the tents or gear clean. Five minutes after a fresh cleaning the wind blew ancient lava dust around, atop and beneath us.
Liberty in Hilo stank. The island was mainly inhabited by Japanese-Americans.