Battle Cry - Leon Uris [61]
The squad fidgeted uncomfortably on the platform. “O.K. fellows, here we are, on the poop of the U.S.S. Tuscarora. All we have to do is get down into the boat with our radios.” There was a feeble ripple of laughter. I showed them how to tie and lash guide lines on the heavy gear.
“Line up four abreast at the rail and go over right leg first. That’s important because it will set you all in the same position. Unstrap your helmets, put your rifle muzzles down, unfasten your ammo belt and if you fall, dump your gear the way we practiced in the pool. Unless you throw it off, the weight is going to pull you under faster than a stripe-assed gazelle.” I went to the rail. “Always keep your hands on the vertical rope so they won’t be stepped on by the man above you.”
“What’s the vertical?” Lighttower queried.
“The rope going this way.”
“Oh, that’s vertical?”
I climbed back onto the platform. “Finally, and the most important phase, is getting from the net into the landing craft. On open water the boat is going to be bouncing around like a cork. You approach to a point near the boat and wait until it rises on a swell and then jump in. There will be swabbies to hold the nets as rigid as possible. If you go down too low and the boat rises suddenly and slams the side of the ship with you in the middle, you are apt to get a survey out of this outfit—feet first. On your feet. Andy, Mary, Joe, Tex, hit the side. When you get into the boat grab the nets and hold them fast. Next two men take the guide lines as we lower the gear.”
They paused a second and then went over the rail, promptly kicking each other’s fannies.
“Right leg first, dammit!”
I watched them descend. “Let that goddam helmet drop—we’ll buy you another one.”
Brown screamed. “Keep those hands on the vertical and they won’t get stomped on. Jump into the boat…grab the net, Andy…lower the guide lines…lash the ropes on the rail so the radio won’t go down on their heads…. Over the side, the rest of you.”
I hit the net last and scampered down a free side ahead of the last relay. L.Q. Jones almost came on top of me with a loud thud. The puffing squad ran over and helped him to his feet.
“What the hell happened?” I asked.
“My foot got tangled, so I reached down to loosen it,” he groaned.
“With which hand?”
“With both hands.” He smiled meekly.
“Give me strength. O.K., girls, back up to the platform.”
Corporal Hodgkiss circled anxiously around the promenade deck of the Coronado ferry. He spotted her sipping a lonely cup of coffee at the snack counter.
“Hi, Rae.” The redhead turned quickly at his voice, smiled, then looked away from him.
“I ought not to talk to you. You stood me up.”
“I know.” He grabbed her by the arm and led her outside. “It’s been two weeks, Marion, don’t you think…”
“I want to show you something.” He half dragged her to a deck chair and sat her down and strutted about in front of her.
“Golly, fellow, what is it?”
“Look.”
“What is it?”
“Go on, open it up to the first page, what do you see?”
Her slim fingers unwound the cord about the flap of a large Manila envelope. She opened it and read slowly, almost spelling out the words in the dim light. “Mister Branshly’s Retreat, a short story by Corporal Marion Hodgkiss, USMCR… oh, Marion!”
He sprang down beside her. “I didn’t want to see you till I finished it. It’s about San Diego, the city gone mad…about a banker who had retired and come to San Diego to roll over and die in the sun. And then the war comes along and upsets his pretty palm trees and his serene static existence…and he finally wakes up and…”
“Darling, it sounds wonderful.”
“Rae, you called me…” He grabbed his cap from his head and wrung it around. “When I left you the last time, Rae, I was angry. Then all of a sudden…”