Battle Cry - Leon Uris [34]
“Yeah,” L.Q. moaned. “I’ve had to take a piss for an hour, but I’ll be damned if I can get up enough guts to get out of the sack.”
“Will you shut your mouth? You’ll have me thinking about it now.”
“How do you like that Whitlock? He gave me the detail again; emptying piss buckets. Third time.” Jones scratched. “I think they got all the crabs, but one. The bastard is driving me crazy.”
Silence.
“Danny,” Ski said.
“Yeah.”
“Know something?”
“What?”
“I’m sure lucky I got lashed up with you and L.Q.”
“Go to sleep.”
“No, I mean it. If you hadn’t been helping me out I’d be a screwed goose. They’d probably made me start all over. I just don’t catch on fast.”
L.Q. threw off his blankets and dashed for the tent flap. “I can’t hold it, my back teeth are floating!” He returned and flung himself into his sack and buried himself, shivering.
Several moments passed.
“Danny,” Ski said.
“Aren’t you asleep yet?”
“What do you figure after boot camp?”
“I don’t know. Scuttlebutt has us going from Truk to Tokyo.”
“Yeah, got to take scuttlebutt lightly. But I did hear on good authority it might be Wake Island.”
“Could be.”
“What are you going out for when we get back to Dago?”
“Not much choice in the Corps. We’ll all wind up packing a rifle in the FMF sooner or later.”
“Yeah, ain’t a hell of a lot to choose from.”
“Maybe I’ll take a crack at the test for radio school.”
“Radio, why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just something a little different. Not that I mind packing a rifle. Just something a little special.”
“I’d like to get into aviation. Fifty per cent more pay. I could get her out here faster.”
“Sure rough to try saving on twenty-one dollars a month, Ski.”
“Yeah, but it will be twenty-eight soon. Jesus, I’d never make aviation.”
“Why don’t you quit pushing so hard, Ski?”
“Can’t help it, Danny. I just can’t rest with her in that lousy town. It eats me all the time. Her there with that bastard old man of hers.”
“I know.”
“Danny.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I can get into radio? I’d sure like to stick with you.”
“Why not take a crack at it?”
“Radio guys wear them lightning flashes on their sleeves, huh?”
“They call them ‘sparks.’”
“Yeah, I’d like that. But Christ, I’d never pass the test.”
“Rub your nuts for luck.”
A voice boomed from the next tent.
“Hey, you guys, knock off the crap! Let’s get some fart sack drill.”
“Yeah,” another added. “Ain’t you crapheads heard we’re shooting for record tomorrow?”
“I guess they mean us,” Danny said.
“Blow it,” Ski called back as he crawled deeper into his sack and drew the blankets over his ears.
Then there was quiet.
“Jesus H. Christ,” L.Q. cried.
“What’s the matter now?”
“I got to piss again.”
It came to pass that the platoon belied Beller’s prediction that none of them would ever learn to shoot straight. On record day, the goddamyankees qualified with an astounding total of eighty-six per cent. Of these, six entered the golden circle of Experts; O’Hearne and Forrester were among them. Even L.Q. managed to get his stomach low enough to fire a Marksman and receive a badge on his basic medal.
The basic medal worn by Marines told the deadly qualifications of each man: BAR, pistol, bayonet, chemical warfare, and the almighty rifle.
Firing on the last relay, the whole platoon gathered around to support the professor. Ideals and all, Norton saw not much more than Maggie’s Drawers. Several of his shots went into the target next to his.
Happy and reeking with the cockiness of a platoon in its last week, they left Matthews for the Marine Corps Base sporting an inch or more of hair.
Exams filled the final week. Openings for the few specialists schools. Some ventured to take the tests; others merely waited for the axe of fate to fall. Yet others, like Milton Norton, volunteered into the newly forming Pioneer Battalion.
Nervous, bursting with excitement, the sharply pressed and shined men scampered