Battle Cry - Leon Uris [36]
They cheered.
“Anything you want to add, Whitlock?”
“Fellows, just call me Tex.”
For an instant all eyes turned to Shannon O’Hearne, the vengeance-sworn hellion. He stepped forward and extended his hand. “Put her there, Tex.”
Beller relieved their anxiety. The majority of the platoon was assigned to a guard company. Norton to Pioneers. O’Hearne to Matthews as a rifle instructor, Chernik to North Island, aviation. A few got mess duty for a month.
“All right, you three—stop pissing in your pants. Forrester, Jones, and Ski—radio school!”
A last round of back slaps, handshakes and farewells; they lifted their seabags and walked from the barracks into a new day.
“You’ll be on the Base for a while, professor. I’ll look you up as soon as we get squared away.”
“Take her easy, Danny.”
“All right, you three fellows from this platoon for radio school. Fall in over there,” a corporal admonished.
Danny, Ski, and L.Q. wended with their load, rifle and seabag to the waiting group. Danny laid his seabag down and walked over to a husky lad wearing glasses.
“Hi,” the fellow said in a friendly manner.
“My name’s Forrester. This is my buddy Zvonski. Call him Ski. Old blubber butt there is L. Q. Jones.”
“Glad to meet you. My name is Marion Hodgkiss and this is Andy Hookans. We’re out of platoon One Thirty Eight.”
They all shook hands.
The corporal with the roster called roll and they lifted their load to their shoulders and trudged over the catwalks, past the tents, past the administration buildings to the edge of the Recruit Depot. Before them lay the sprawling parade ground of the Base. Running along its edge were long arched yellow buildings.
“Where is the school?”
“At the other end of the parade ground.”
“It would be.”
A new boot with slick-shaved dome passed between them. In his hand he held a bucket as he searched vainly for cigarette butts. He bumped into L.Q. Jones.
“Hey, you craphead,” L.Q. barked.
The boot snapped to attention.
“What’s the matter with you, can’t you look where you’re going?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You ain’t ever sorry for nothing you do in the Marine Corps.”
“Yes sir.” L.Q. slammed the pith helmet over the boot’s ears. “Carry on.”
“Yes sir.”
They moved down the endless grounds shifting their seabags from one shoulder to the other.
“What did you do that for?” Danny finally asked.
“Do what?”
“Chew out that boot.”
“Just wanted to see how it felt. Felt fine—and from the looks of him I’d say he’ll never learn—no sir, that boot will never learn.”
After several moments they reached the far end of the grounds, dropped their loads and awaited the stragglers. The last of the long row of buildings bore the sign: SIGNAL
SCHOOL. Over the width of the parade ground was a temporary set of eight-man tents facing an isolated building marked FIELD MUSIC SCHOOL.
“All right, fellows, my name is Corporal Farinsky. You people will stay in these tents until a new class is formed in about a week. Find an empty spot and grab it. When you dump your gear, fall in for a pay call and draw cots and pads. Uniform of the day is dungarees. For Base liberty you wear greens, field scarfs, and you must be covered at all times away from the school area. You have liberty every other night and every other weekend. On duty nights you may have Base liberty. Any questions?”
“Yes, sir. What do we do until a class is formed?”
“First of all, Marine, don’t call me sir. You’re out of boot camp now. Mostly you’ll have a few hours a day on work parties and cleaning details. If you behave, you’ll have plenty of sack time. Just turn to when there’s work and we’ll get along. Find an empty spot, drop your gear and fall out in ten minutes.”
“How about seeing if we can get together,” Marion suggested to Danny.
“Swell.