Battle Cry - Leon Uris [38]
After he had debarked and walked down the gaudy tin-plated Broadway the feeling became more apparent. He couldn’t understand it. What was there to be afraid of? Almost like the tightness he had known before the opening kickoff in a big game.
Blinding, blinking lights. Hawkers. Dim lights and soft music of the hundred bars. The sea of white-capped sailor hats bobbing up and down, the drunks, the noise, the litter. It all blended into a symphony of discord that set his head reeling.
They say it is easy to spot a new Marine. He has that boot camp stare. They knew the stare in San Diego and had become rich on it. It takes a year of wear for the wool nap of Marine greens to wear down and acquire the knifelike sharpness of a veteran. The boot’s uniform wrinkles easily and fits badly. It is easy to see the awe of a boy who has never been away from home. You can spot him in a minute.
The merchant who sold him his basic medal and barracks cap and the photographer who literally jerked him in off the sidewalk had well-oiled tongues and open palms. After an hour a gum-popping floozy took his pictures and he hastened to return to the base.
He walked through the gate disgusted, with himself and with San Diego. As he retraced his steps and crossed the dark parade ground he felt more alone and confused than ever. He trudged toward his tent. Baltimore…she had run down the platform waving and stopped as the train took up speed…Danny gritted his teeth. He halted before his tent and drew a deep breath and smiled at his buddies. They were gathered about L.Q.’s sack playing poker.
“Back so early?”
“Yeah, not much doing.”
“How was Dago?”
“Oh, not bad…not bad. Got an open hand there?”
“Step right up, Cousin Dan. Your money is good.”
“Er…I never played poker before, so you guys will have to sort of help me along.”
The course at radio school was divided into four parts: code, Naval procedure, theory, and field practice. When Class 34 formed and moved into the barracks of Signal School, it was a relief to Danny’s restlessness. The course wasn’t particularly difficult, but he found it fascinating. His day was full and the evenings were largely given to helping the Indian and Ski with studies that seemed to throw them.
As in all Marine schools, the teachers were experts. Radiomen who compared in their way with the illustrious rifle teachers at Matthews. Old salts from the Fleet, all were Tech or Master Tech Sergeants who could read and transmit code in their sleep. As in boot camp and on the rifle range, the lessons were drilled home with hours of practice and study.
Major Bolger’s Signal School taught a shorter course than that given the prewar men. Old-timers were stationed aboard ships and large land stations that required high speed operators. The new men learned low speed field operation. A mere eighteen words of code and twenty-two in English to pass. In the expanding Corps the slant was for men to work the sets they’d use in battle.
With each eventful day, a lonely night. Soon Danny Forrester knew the loneliness of soldiering. Cigarettes and poker. Lonely men need diversion from work and the hours of talk about women and home. He could not clarify the riddle of Kathy. Was it love or circumstances? Was it right or wrong to hold on to her? His letters were almost as impersonal as hers were endearing. He dared not speak of the hunger in his heart—she might drift from him. This thought chilled him. His mother, father, his home and friends all seemed hazy. Only Kathy filled his thoughts. He wondered if this worship wasn’t out of proportion. Taps—and men without women slipped between sheets of their empty beds and thought.
Sunday afternoon. Weekend liberty. Danny returned from the usual Sunday chow of fried chicken to the deserted barracks. On the veranda, a line of mattresses lay over the rail being