Battle Cry - Leon Uris [24]
“The nurse.”
“How did you guess?”
“Just like real life.”
“Hey, you guys, how about getting your ass in gear? We got to shave too,” an irate boot shouted.
L.Q. washed the soap from his face and replaced the razor in the kit. “Tomorrow is my day to put a blade in, don’t let me forget it.”
4:30 Reveille and the cursed record over the loudspeaker. Mad dash to the head. Dark and cold. Shower and shave. 4:50 Roll call. Make up bunks, square away seabags, police up area. By mop, by broom, by police bucket, by squeegee. 5:15 Run to mess hall. Daily game of trying not to be the last to drink from a pitcher of coffee or milk or you have to take it to be refilled. L.Q. always seems to be anchor man on the milk pitcher. Plunge the mess gear into steaming buckets of boiling water and the slow walk back to the tents with a welcome cigarette and the rising sun. Clean up mess gear with steel wool. Dirty gear causes dysentery. A final touch-up on the area.
6:00 Sick, lame and lazy call. A straggling line of the sick and the imagined sick. The sad line outside sick bay. Their stories fall on unsympathetic ears. A day off for cat fever. Scorching tonic for crabs. Quick knife and back to duty for a blister.
Crap details to clean heads or ride the garbage trucks.
Fall out and be inspected. Growls and curses and punishment. Tent inspection and a wake of overturned cots.
6:30 Drill. Drill and double time in the company area, the parade ground, the ankle deep sand of the boondocks.
9:30 Lecture: How to stand seabag inspection. How to scout enemy terrain. The proper way to take a prophylactic after sexual intercourse. How to salute an officer. How to recognize ships of the fleet.
10:30 Drill.
12:00 Chow. Noon chow is getting monotonous. Three times a week ground beef with gravy on toast. A Marine Corps standby. SOS, they call it. Shit on shingle.
1:00 Paper work. Take your picture for the record book. How much insurance do you want? Take ten thousand.
2:00 Drill.
5:00 Chow. The walk back is slower this time of day, but there is work to be done. Personal gear to be shined, mended, pressed. Clothes to be washed. The uniforms are beginning to fit and show vague signs of losing their newness.
6:00 Laundry call and wash inspection. Do it over.
6:45 Drill.
8:00 Rest period. Study lessons from the Manual. Recite them word perfect or the platoon goes to the bay. Help a buddy.
“Come on, Ski, try those half steps again on the column.”
“I can’t get it, I tell you.”
“You can. That Ziltch is a feathermerchant too, but he gets it.”
“I’ll…try.”
Mail call. Funny sounding word—“home.”
“Fall out for the movies, you got to have recreation.” 10:00 A whistle. No, not reveille already. Beller in from liberty, drunk. He thinks a moonlight trot to the bay might be good exercise.
Sunday, thank God for Sunday. Didn’t think the Marines recognized Sunday. Thought the D.I.s were Jesus here. “Don’t belong to a church? Well, you belong to one now. Take your pick. The Corps says you need religion.”
All day to clean gear and write letters. Read the ones from home over a hundred times. All day to feel sorry for yourself. To ask what the hell am I doing here?
Dear Mom,
Everything is going swell. They keep us busy….
Danny and Milton Norton worked down the long row of sinks, scrubbing them clean after the morning’s rush. Shannon O’Hearne leaned in the doorway warbling “Mother Machree.”
“Professor,” Danny said.
Although the modest man emphasized he was merely an instructor, the platoon persisted in promoting him. Norton was liked and respected. For most of them, little had been surrendered in the way of a career to join. Norton’s stature as a learned man seemed to make them feel, at times, that their plight was worth while.
“Yes,” he answered softly.
“I’ve been wondering, Milt, what made you join up?”
He smiled at his young friend. “That’s a funny question, Danny. Why pick on me?”
“I know the war and all that,