Battle Cry - Leon Uris [56]
“Yes. But…but when I try to, or even talk sometimes, I get tied up into knots. I’m living wonderful things to write about now. But I just can’t seem to find the right key. Like Andy says when they have a log jam. There is one key log that will turn the whole thing loose and float them down the river. You’ve got to take your peavey pole and loosen the key log…. I don’t suppose you understand.”
“I think maybe I do.”
“You see what kind of a guy I am. I can’t even talk to people without stuttering.” He sat down and blushed at his outburst.
“You have a girl, Marion?”
“No.”
“Ever been in bed with a woman?”
“No.”
“Look here, kid. I don’t read Plato, that stuff is a little over me. But there’s nothing the matter with you that…hell, it’s late. Let’s get some sack drill.”
Major Malcowitz, the huge ex-wrestler in charge of Judo training at Eliot, called us in close about the mats. He spoke through beaten lips.
“All right, youse guys has already loined in past lessons the fine arts of disarming, surprising, breaking ju-jitsu holds, and applying your own tactics. I want one sizable volunteer for the last lesson.” We all shied back. He smiled. “You,” he said, pointing to the gangly Shining Lighttower, whom Seabags Brown shoved on the mat before he could turn tail.
“Lay down,” the major requested, tripping the Indian to the deck with a thud. “Thank you.” Lighttower lay prone, looking rather dubiously at the wrestler, who had now propped a foot on his chest. “The last lesson is the most important, so you birds pay attention. Once you got your enemy off his feet, you gotta finish him off quick and quiet.”
“I want to go back to the reservation,” Private Lighttower moaned.
“The foist step is falling, knees first, onto the Jap’s chest, thereby crushing in his ribs.” He demonstrated gently on the shaking redskin. “You next bring the heels of both hands over his ears, thereby cracking the base of his skull.” A dull murmur sounded throughout the platoon. “Youse guys then take two quick swipes with the flat of your hand, first over the bridge of his nose, busting in his face and blinding him. Second, at the base of his neck, thusly cracking the bastard’s spinal column.”
The major glanced about at the awed faces. “For neatness, use both thumbs, jamming down into his Adam’s apple, thereby choking him. To polish the job you may kick him between the legs, square in the balls, a couple or three times.” Malcowitz stood up. “You may then admire your masterpiece—but if that son of a bitch gets up you’d better take off like a stripe-assed ape.”
CHAPTER 2
SPANISH JOE had a heavy load on. Sister Mary dragged him from the College Inn down back streets to the YMCA at the foot of Broadway. The Camp Eliot bus pulled in and Marion poured Gomez across the back seat and left him.
He crossed the main drag and walked along the docks until he came to the Coronado ferry slip. He purchased a ticket and boarded the boat. Quickly climbing the ladder from the auto deck, he found a seat by the rail. The whistle screamed as the ferry slid from her moorings. Marion Hodgkiss propped his feet on the rail, loosened his field scarf, unhooked his fair leather belt and ran it through a shoulder epaulet. He gazed down into the gently lapping water as the ferry chugged for Coronado Island.
Out there, in the quiet and dark, a guy could organize his thoughts better. Away from the sweating, swearing, griping, groaning, back-breaking chores of soldiering. Away from the city gone mad. The tin-plated main street where the sharpies and the filchers passed out watered-up liquor and sticky songs to deaden the loneliness of the hordes of men in khaki, blue, and forest green. Away from the dumps where an ugly wench was the sought-after prize for men who closed their eyes and pretended she was someone else. Away from the lights of the aircraft factories burning twenty-four hours a day at a crazed pace—and from the out of bounds hotels where only the plentiful dollars of the officers were solicited. Away too from the blistering hot feet from a