Battle Cry - Leon Uris [59]
“Fall in and dress down the ranks!” Right arms shot out sidewards and heads left to straighten the line. Mac walked through his platoon and then to the front. He was satisfied.
“Ready…front!” They came to attention. “At Ease.”
Exchanges of salutes, roll call, more salutes and a rigid man-by-man inspection.
“Little too much oil on the barrel, Marine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stock looks fine. Keep it up.”
Each officer had a trick method of tossing the weapon about as he inspected it. The classier ones handled the pieces as though they were batons. The Marine accepted his weapon in the prescribed military manner, snapping the chamber shut, squeezing the trigger, and returning to the order.
After inspection, an hour of close order drill. More, if the inspection was bad. Then, weekend liberty.
In a book I had once read, by a dogface, he wrote that the Marines spent all week shining up for a ten-hour liberty, or something to that effect. Looking back over the years, I felt his observation was an understatement. How they looked going out and how they looked coming back in, of course, were two different matters.
I always got that good feeling when I passed a Marine in town. He had that sharp shine and gait, like he was something special and knew it. Lots of times I felt sick looking at some of the dogfaces. There is a certain dignity, I think, that comes with a uniform and it must be rotten to belong to an outfit that doesn’t have enough pride to keep that dignity up. I hated to see a man slouching, cap cocked back, in need of a haircut, shoes unshined…maybe it was because the price of Marine greens came so high to a man that he never let himself get that way.
“O.K., men! Off your dead asses and on your dying feet! Hit the road!”
They dragged themselves up, cursing the day they entered the Corps. The first twenty-mile hike was always rough. I watched the sweat pouring into their eyes and soaking their dungarees as they strained at the handles of the equipment cart. Their rifles hung from the gun sling like lead weights. The two-pound helmets shot unbearable aches down the neck, the tongues were swollen with thirst under water discipline, the pack straps cut into the armpits like machete knives, the ammo belts hung like ropes pulling them into the deck.
L.Q. Jones pulled alongside Danny. “I walked into this here recruiting station. Drunk, mind you,” he puffed. “The sergeant is measuring me with a tailor’s tape and calling out my measurements to a corporal, who is writing all this down.” Seabags Brown and Andy Hookans crossed the road and joined them. “Yes sir, this bastard says, when you get to San Diego, Mr. Jones, your dress blues will be waiting for you. I’ll telegraph your measurements tonight. Just tell them who you are when you get there…now MISTER Jones, just sign here.” You just had to laugh when L.Q. told a story. “I tell you men, if I ever get my meathooks on that bastard I’ll rip him open from asshole to appetite. I’ll give him a G.I. bath. Dress blues. Ha, I’m laughing.”
“All right, you guys,” I barked. “Knock off the skylarking and file up those ranks!”
L.Q. Jones began singing:
“Oh, the sergeant, the sergeant,
The bastard of them all,
He gets you up in the morning,
Before the bugle call,
Squads right, squads left,
Front face in that line,
And then the dirty son of a bitch,
Will give you double time.”
The whole platoon joined in the chorus:
“Oh, hidy tidy, Christ almighty,
Who in the hell are we,
Zim, zam, GOD DAMN,
The fighting Sixth Marines!”
I hated to admit it, but this gang of kids was beginning to shape up. It was a damned good thing that the earth was two thirds water, I thought, because before Highpockets Huxley got through with them, there weren’t many routes they’d miss.
“Straighten up that line,” I yelled, “and knock off the singing!”
Marion hadn’t taken his eyes off Rae all evening. They had been riding back and forth nearly five hours. The first struggling rays of daylight fought their way up on the horizon. He hummed a tune,