Battle Cry - Leon Uris [27]
He babbled seriously of the task that lay before them, then turned to the empty chair on the stage. “He could not wait. We all knew him, we all loved him. Student, athlete, credit to his school. Would Mr. Henry Forrester please step forward and receive the diploma for his son Danny?”
Henry took a deep breath. Kathy squeezed his hand for courage and as he stepped into the aisle the orchestra struck up the Marine’s Hymn to the rising applause of the audience and students. Martha dabbed her eyes.
Mr. Dickey grasped Henry Forrester’s hand. “We are proud sir, proud. Our hearts…our deepest thoughts of Godspeed go out to him tonight, wherever he may be.”
“Your eyes are nice…hey, professor. How do you spell limpid?”
“l-i-m-p-i-d.”
“Limpid pools, whatever that means. She’ll like it, anyhow.”
“Not very original.”
“That’s all right, she isn’t very bright.”
Danny eased the bolt back into his rifle and muttered, “I’ll never get all the cosmoline out of this piece.”
“Christ, I thought I’d go in my skivvies during inspection. Old Sellers steps up to me and I see the stuff oozing through the butt plate swivel. I think it’s the first time he ever missed.”
“Say, did you hear about the kid in One Sixty One, slugged the D.I.”
“Bull crap.”
“Honest.”
“For why?”
“He didn’t take a shower—so they gave him one. Used a bucket of sand and a scrub brush. He was a bloody mess when they got through with him. Anyhow, he took a punch at the D.I.”
“Yeah, where is he now?”
“In the brig.”
“Hey, professor, what did you think of them reading off that prisoner on the parade ground?”
“Kind of gives you the creeps, the way they do it. March ten thousand guys out and walk him up to a platform with his head shaved. Thirty days bread and water for stealing a couple skivvy shirts.”
“Almost like a lynching.”
“Tradition,” Norton mused, thinking of the gruesome ceremony.
“Just don’t get caught, Dwyer.”
A booming voice sounded from O’Hearne’s tent.
“Put on your old red bustle,
Get your tail out and hustle,
For tomorrow the room rent is due,
Lay it down in the clover,
Let the boys look it over,
If you can’t get five, take two.”
“Nice kid, that O’Hearne.”
“I want to be around the day we quit here. He swears he’s going to kick the hell out of Beller and Whitlock.”
“Say, where is L.Q.?”
“With Ski, doing their wash over.”
“Zounds,” popped Dwyer, “I think I can do a Queen Anne salute.”
“For Christ sake, don’t we get enough drill without you practicing with that goddam rifle in here.”
“We looked pretty sharp today on the monkey march and wind marches. One Forty Four hasn’t even learned the marching manual yet.”
“Lend me some linseed oil for my stock.”
“I wonder if there’s a lineup for the iron?”
“Yeah, three deep.”
“How about that even old L.Q. got the monkey march.”
“We’re sure getting fancy—fo’ goddamyankees, that is.”
Danny worked the bolt several times and looked his rifle over from butt to muzzle and placed it on the canvas straps under his cot. Dwyer went “Bang, bang, you’re dead,” and slipped the bolt on his.
“Christ, clothing inspection again tomorrow.” L.Q. and Ski entered with their buckets. “Hey, fat boy. You’re going to ruin them clothes, scrubbing them so much.”
“Jones put a whole bottle of bleach in them today to make sure he got them white.”
“Oh no.” L.Q. shoved his way to his cot, edged Chernik and flopped down. He was pale.
“Hey lard, you sick?”
“I got woes, I got woes,” the stout one lamented.
“What’s the matter, blubber butt?”
“I’m a craphead from One Forty Three. Woe is me, Woe is me.”
“I saw Beller talking to you after drill. What happened?”
“I…I…called my rifle a gun today.”
The tent became deathly silent. Murder or rape, yes. But your rifle a gun—good Lord have mercy. Sympathetic eyes focused on him. He was on the brink of tears.
“I gotta report to Beller after the wash.”
“Don