Battle Cry - Leon Uris [244]
He half closed his eyes and rested back. “What are the assignments again?”
“Seabags, L.Q., Lighttower, and Andy will be out with the rifle companies. Corporal Hodgkiss will be in the command post on the walkie-talkie team.”
“How about the Indian?”
“Not much of a code man but he can work a TBY at the bottom of a well,” I assured him.
“The rest?”
“Gomez, Gray, Forrester, and I will operate the sets to regiment and to the flagship.”
“Regiment is coming in with Tulsa Blue on our right flank and we’ve got to stay in with them if they veer south in the tide.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whatever you do, don’t lose the flagship.”
“We plan to use the jeep radio there, sir.”
“Good.” He folded the map and smiled self-consciously. “Care for a drink?”
I nearly fell over. Huxley opened the desk drawer and withdrew a half pint of Scotch. “I’ve been nursing this bottle along for six months, but this is an occasion, I believe.” He tilted the bottle to his lips. “Good luck, men.” He passed the bottle to the Gunner.
“Here’s to the next man that…er, good luck,” the Gunner said.
I took the bottle and held it up for a second. “No offense meant, Colonel, but I want to toast Huxley’s Whores, the best goddam outfit in the Corps.”
Keats and I stepped out to the promenade deck a moment later and leaned against the rail. The sky was flaming like a bursting fireball as the Pacific sunset turned the death-laden sea to orange. From the aft deck came broken and disharmonized voices drifting through the stillness.
“Nearer my God to thee,
Nearer to thee….”
“Looks like a rough session, Mac. Huxley is really worried.”
“Funny,” I mused, “he’s been living two years to get this assignment. He should be happy if we lose enough for him to get a membership in the butchered battalion club. God knows that’s what he wants.” I took a smoke from Keats’ pack and lit up.
“Maybe now that he’s got it, he don’t want it,” Keats said.
I slapped him on the back. “Services are busting up, I’d better go down and tuck the platoon in. See you in the morning, Jack.”
The Black Hole of Calcutta had nothing on the second hold of a troop transport. I held my nose and fought through the mountain of gear to my section. Seabags was tenderly rubbing a last drop of oil on his weapon and patted it. Danny lay on his sack and gazed at Kathy’s picture. Andy, L.Q., and Lighttower made chatter over a cribbage board. From Sister Mary’s phonograph came the strains of a classical piece of music that flooded the hold. Somehow, none of the boys bitched about it now. It sounded kind of soothing. I climbed up to my bunk on the third tier.
“Sounds nice, what is it?”
“Aren’t you ever going to learn? Brahms First Symphony.”
“Oh sure, Brahms First gizmo, nice.”
Marion put aside his letter. “Rae likes it too.”
“Letter to her?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nice girl, that Rae. You’re lucky.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell her. Mac?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you nervous?”
“Just plain scared.”
“Got a cigarette?”
“When did you take up smoking?”
“Just now.”
The bosun’s pipe whistled through the screechbox: “Now hear this, now hear this. All Marine personnel will remain below decks. No one is allowed topside for any reason until combat stations are manned at zero four hundred.” The whistle screamed again. We were read a message from the regimental, division, and fleet commanders. Something or other about the glory of the Corps and adding new battle streamers to our already glorious Regimental Flag. We had cheered like boots when we heard this spiel before Guadalcanal; we were rather skeptical at Tarawa. This time it was good for a few laughs.
“I tune in for John’s Other Wife and this is what I get,” L.Q. said.
“You talk too much, white man, play your cards.”
“Turn it off.”
I lay back and tried to shut my eyes…sleep was impossible.
The hold soon plunged into darkness save for the dim gangway lights. I rolled over and peeled off my skivvy shirt. It was saturated with sweat. I fixed my pack under my head for a pillow. It was quiet, restlessly