Battle Cry - Leon Uris [66]
“Headquarters! Hit the road! Off your dead asses and on your dying feet!”
“Fresno White to all companies. Move out. Easy move up and assume the point. George, bring up the rear, over and out.”
Pick them up and lay them down, pick them up and lay them down. Into a cloud of dust again. A second break and we stole another extra sip of water. A third break and we guzzled two or three swallows.
Huxley kept his Whores moving briskly, blowing at every minor failure along the line of march. Numbness sets in and it starts getting easier…another three miles and it will be just like on a cloud.
Every now and then we passed an exhausted form at the side of the road, hiked into the ground. He’d shake his head sadly with a look of defeat and apology in his eyes. I could read Huxley’s mind as he glared fiercely. There is no place for stragglers in the Marine Corps. Survey to cooks and bakers—but my cooks and bakers must hike too, by God, or my name isn’t Sam Huxley. This is only the beginning, lad.
Lieutenant Bryce was griping to Doc Kyser about his feet and starting a phony limp. I would have given a night at the slop shute to see again the expression on Huxley’s face when they told him his new officer was an assistant professor at Stanford. Bryce didn’t fit into the picture. He had only been with us a week, but his unpopularity had already spread like wildfire. You can’t teach a bunch of gyrenes the articles of war by quoting Bacon and Ben Jonson. It was different with Sister Mary. He was sincere. Bryce was just using it to show how goddam smart and superior he was. I’ve seen officers come and go in this lash-up and the good ones respected their men, and got respect in return. Guys like Huxley knew that it would be the privates who finally settled this or any other war.
Pick them up and lay them down. The full sun was on us now. The sweat gushed. I peered anxiously to a grove of trees and a wooded area ahead…about two miles, I judged. Sensing an hour break for chow, the point bore down on the area and in an almost double time surge we hit it before break time.
“Fall out! Chow time! Easy on the water.”
“All right!” I shouted. “Let’s go on that TBX, get in with regiment. Gomez! On that generator!”
The weary crew found a clump of trees, eased the weight, and sank to the deck stretching, bitching, and groaning with relief. We opened our packs and took out chow. Two cans of C-ration. One can contained three hardtack biscuits, two pieces of hard candy, a lump of sugar, and some soluble coffee. The second can had either hash, stew, or pork and beans. The hash was foul; the stew was vile. Only the pork and beans tasted almost edible. Theoretically, every third ration was supposed to be pork and beans, but it seemed that the gods were against us. It was a rare day in June when any man was lucky enough to draw pork and beans.
Spanish Joe rested against a tree. He opened his dungaree shirt and let a small breeze take some heat of his wet body. He opened his can of pork and beans and smiled at us. He always managed.
“Think Highpockets is just a little rough for the first forced march, huh, Mac?” Burnside said, taking a spoon of hash and screwing up his face in pain.
“Maybe he’s got a broad waiting in Rose Canyon,” Seabags offered.
“He’s got plenty more where this came from,” I warned.
“Man, I done thought I was a goner when that damned point started running to the woods. That ass pack near beat me to death.” Seabags rubbed his sides. “Looks like I been beat with a bull whip. I hear say, cousin, they got a newfangled ration in the Army, K-rations, they call them. Come in a wax box. Got ham, cheese and even chewing gum and cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes and gum! Honest to God?” Gomez said.
“Man,” Speedy Gray said, “that Army goes first cabin.”
“That ain’t all,” Seabags added. “Some of them even got