Battle Cry - Leon Uris [65]
“Fall out!” I ordered. “Communications…Burnside, set up the TBX and get in with regiment! Hodgkiss, help me lay out the panels for air identification! Let’s go! Gomez, get on that generator!”
As they flopped to the roadside a crescendo of cursing and bitching arose. Marion and I laid out the panels and I advanced towards the party of officers kneeling around Huxley. Ski came up to me.
“Hey, Mac. How is gone. He’s using set number fifty-two. It’s on the blink.”
“Dammit anyhow!”
There was shouting up and down the line. “Easy on the rain-juice! All men crapping, get away from the area and cover it up with your trenching tool!”
I saluted Marine Gunner Keats, the comm officer. “Panels out, sir, for aircraft. The walkie-talkie to How Company is shot.”
“Did you try them on CW?”
“No, sir, but I don’t think the key will work either.”
“O.K.,” Keats moaned, “use the alternate set.”
“The alternate set is no good either.”
“Aw piss.” Keats turned to Huxley. “Major, the radio to How is out of operation.”
“Can you use semaphore?”
“Not very well while we’re marching, sir.”
“Well, have message center keep two runners working,” he said angrily.
“Major Huxley,” Keats said, “those TBYs aren’t worth the crap they’re made of. They were designed by some goddam sailor for use over water. Every time we pass a good-sized tree it blocks reception. I think we should jam them up the Navy’s ass sideways…sir.”
Huxley arose and faced the fiery warrant officer. Keats, an old mustang from the ranks, generally expressed his thoughts in plain English, which the Major admired—at times.
“Mister Keats,” he said, “do you feel you are incapable of operation with the present equipment?”
“Major Huxley, sir. My switchboard was outdated in the Civil War. My men are rolling hundred-pound reels of motheaten wire while the Army has ten-pound spools of combat wire. My coding machine was discarded by General Pershing and my goddam radios couldn’t have helped Custer at the Little Big Horn.”
The rest of the officers stood back at a safe distance. I was washing out my mouth, trying to pick up as much grit as possible. I spit a swig out, drank a swallow, snuck another, replaced my canteen, and edged in closer.
“Mister Keats! The United States Army also carries Garand rifles and we carry 03s from World War I. The Army flies P-38s and we fly F4Fs. I’m not going to read the roster of combat gear at this time. However, Mister Keats, keep this in mind at all future outbursts: the Marine Corps has managed to get by, and damned well, on the crap we buy with leftover Navy appropriations. Until such time as we can execute this war on the grandiose scale of the Army we shall develop men in such manner that their personal conduct and training will overcome any fault in equipment. We will get a hundred per cent efficiency out of every last piece of gear we have. Is that clear, Mister Keats?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are the communications officer—start communicating!”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Bryce, the company commander, stepped up. “Begging the Major’s pardon, could I advance the Major a suggestion?”
“No!”
“Beg your pardon, sir.”
Huxley brushed past him in a huff.
Keats turned to me. “You are the sergeant in charge of communications. Communicate,” he said.
Blow it out, Jack Keats, I thought. “Yes sir,” I said.
Sam Huxley paced the road followed by his puppy dog, Ziltch. “Dammit,” he muttered, “the air cover was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. They can’t get anything straight.”
That is correct, I thought. The sharp blast of a whistle pierced the air.
“Aircraft!” We scattered from the roadside. Five thousand feet above, a squadron of Gruman F4Fs droned in, in elements of threes. They were slow, clumsy little ships, packing little punch as fighters go. But the snubnosed Wildcats were manned by men, the same as those on the ground, who had to do the best they could with what they had and would probably give a good account of themselves.
We could almost see the squadron leader, a grizzly-faced man, shift the cigar stub in his mouth