Battle Cry - Leon Uris [30]
It finally blew up on a rainy afternoon. Although Beller and Whitlock would have taken pleasure in marching them in mud, there were powers even more almighty than the almighty D.I.s who banned drilling in the rain. Instead, they ran the platoon through six harrowing hours of inspections and recitations from the blue book. Finding nothing left to inspect, they let the men alone after noon chow.
Everyone was nervous from the rain, the closeness and the morning workout. O’Hearne’s boisterousness lent no comfort. He slipped into the sack next to Danny, who was writing a letter.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I was in bed with three broads?”
“The last time I heard it, it was six.”
The big Irishman smiled and slapped Danny across the back, overly hard. “Hear you used to play football.”
“Some.”
“Me too. Bartram High and semi-pro. Played tackle and fullback, just like Nagurski. Let me tell you about the game I played against…what the hell was the name of that team…doesn’t matter. Anyhow, I remember the score.” He then launched into a modest volume on how he crossed up the opponent’s offense and smashed its defense. Ski, in the upper bunk, was content reading over several old letters until O’Hearne’s booming voice overrode his train of thought.
“Hey,” he yelled down, “seems to me they had a dumb quarterback on the other team. I would have run a tackle trap right over you, the way you said you was rushing that passer.”
Shannon winked and nudged Danny in the ribs, then held his nose.
“I played ball,” Ski said swinging to a sitting position.
“Get this, men—he played ball. What grammar school?”
Ski bounced down. Everyone edged in, sensing a fight.
“I played for Central.”
“What, in your dreams, feathermerchant?”
“Guard.”
“Oh, spare me.”
“Bet?”
“You say you played guard?”
“You can hear.”
“O.K., sonny. Just for kicks, I want you to block me out of a play.” Ski looked to Danny, and Danny nodded and smiled. O’Hearne assumed the position of a charging lineman. The feathermerchant immediately saw the product of poor coaching—if O’Hearne ever did play. His angle was too high and he was off balance. The little lad crouched. “Hike,” sneered O’Hearne as he raised his arm to slap the feathermerchant down. Shannon didn’t have a chance. Ski’s uncoiled body drove upwards, his shoulder sinking into the big man’s stomach a full six inches. O’Hearne thudded against the bulkhead and sank to his backside. He heard a roar of laughter.
His face turned crimson. He sprang to his feet and hit Ski in the mouth. Danny was up and dived and both went careening into a doubledeck bunk which toppled under the impact. He wrestled Danny’s grip free, just in time to catch a punch on the jaw from Chernik, then something dropped on him. It was L.Q. Jones. Ski bounced back into the melee and the four of them pinned down O’Hearne quickly. It was gentle Milton Norton who spoke.
“Shannon O’Hearne, you’ve been asking for this. Let this be a lesson to you. Any more hooliganism on your part and we won’t let you off this easily—is that clear?”
“Clear?” Chernik repeated, grabbing O’Hearne by the short hair and batting his head on the deck.
“Clear,” he croaked. He wobbled to his feet, red and shaking. For an instant he tensed for a second try, then sagged and shoved his way toward his bunk.
“Tenshun!”
“Well, well,” Whitlock hissed, “what have we here, a little grab ass?” He spotted the offenders. “O’Hearne, Feather-merchant, Chernik, Forrester, Norton, Jones…come to my quarters.”
They went.
“All right, stand at ease. You first, Ski.”
“We was practicing some football plays, sir.”
“Forrester?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Norton?”
“Yes sir?”
“Don’t tell me you played football, Norton?”
“No sir, but at Penn, sir, University of Pennsylvania, I used to watch practice all the time. Er, Coach Munger is a personal friend, sir—I was naturally interested.”
“I