Battle Cry - Leon Uris [58]
They were thrown from ten-foot platforms into the swimming pool with full packs on and they were sent into tents full of live tear gas and made to sing the Marine Hymn before being let out. When they weren’t learning they were marching.
And the eternal ring in their ears: “On the double! We ain’t got no place for stragglers in the Marine Corps! Hi di hi for Semper Fi!”
They’d answer, “Semper Fi! Hooray for me and screw you!”
Seabags Brown slammed his Reising gun down on his bunk angrily. “Dirty no good armpit-smelling son of a bitch. These goddam pieces are worthless as tits on a boar hog,” the farmer ranted.
“Yeah,” Ski agreed.
“Yeah,” Andy added.
“I shot ‘expert’ at the range,” Danny said, “and look at this goddam thing. I never hit a bull’s-eye all day, even inside fifty yards.”
“The bastard that sold them to the Marines ought to have his balls cut off.”
“Semi-automatic machine gun,” Danny continued. “Christ, my kid brother’s Daisy air rifle is deadlier than this thing.”
“Lookit, cousin,” Seabags said, showing his clips, “rusted. I just cleaned them yesterday and oiled them down, and lookit, rusted.”
“How about that, Mary?”
“They aren’t what you might call the finest weapons in the world,” Marion sighed.
“Look at that blueing job on the barrel,” Speedy Gray said. “I can damn near rub it off with my fingernail—and them sights, jumping Jesus. How they expect us to protect ourselves with this goddam thing?”
“How about that wire stock? Mother, I’ve come home to die.”
“Maybe,” Marion mused, “that’s why they teach us so much knife and Ju-do.”
“I’d like to see the guy that can hold one of these down firing automatic. Bursts of three, Mac says. Step on the sling so the gun won’t jump. The first shot and the goddam gun is pointing up in the sky and I’m sitting on my ass.”
“Maybe they were designed for antiaircraft.”
“Mine clogged four times today.”
I moved over to the bitching session. “Gunner Keats says you guys better learn to shoot these pieces,” I said.
“They ain’t no fugging good, Mac!”
“I don’t give a big rat’s ass what you guys think! Maybe if we hike to Rose Canyon for target practice, your aim might get sharper.”
“Mac,” Danny said, “how did you shoot today?” I turned and walked away.
“I guess I need a little practice too,” I said as I picked up my gun and shook my head sadly.
Saturday inspection! We stood restlessly by our bunks and looked them over for a fiftieth time, flicking away a stray speck of dust or smoothing out a minute wrinkle.
“Tenshun,” First Sergeant Pucchi barked and there was a popping of leather heels as Major Huxley and his staff marched into the room. Pucchi followed with a pad and pencil to take the Major’s notations on any fault his X-ray eyes found.
He passed them slowly, looking us over from head to toe—then our bunks. He wore white gloves and ran them over the windowsills seeking dust.
“Open your seabag, corporal.” Marion obeyed. “Very good, corporal.”
“Thank you, sir.”
There is a way to do everything and it is written in the book and Huxley inspected by the book.
“Lift your trousers,” he ordered of Zvonski. “Your socks are not rolled in a regulation manner, Marine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Receive instructions from your sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
A hush as he moved slowly down the aisle. Huxley’s gimlet eyes scanned every nook and corner. The few minutes seemed hours and he walked to the door. “Generally, very good, Sergeant Pucchi. Take care of the notations I ordered.” He turned and left and a big sigh went up and the tenseness relaxed into a mass of lit cigarettes.
The whistle blew. “Fall in for rifle inspection.” We donned our blouses, strapped on our fair leather belts and put on our overseas caps. Each man looked over another man, straightening a field scarf, adjusting the angle of the cap, or brushing a spot of lint from the blouse.
We checked our weapons again and moved out to the company street and stepped softly over the dirt lest we ruin the mirror shine on our