Battle Cry - Leon Uris [67]
“Well, kiss my moneymaking ass. Lemonade! Wonder if General Holcomb ever heard of them there rations?”
“I think we got a warehouse full of C-rations left over from Belleau Wood and the General wants to use them up before he goes pissing the taxpayers’ money away on stuff like lemonade.”
Pharmacist’s Mate Pedro Rojas, the corpsman, moved into our group passing out salt pills. He dropped one on Speedy’s lap. “Give it to the new looey, looks like he can use something the way he’s crying to Doc Kyser.”
“Take the damned thing, Tex, they’re good for what is ailing you.”
“Can’t use your action, Pedro, they make me puke.”
“Suck them slow.”
“They still make me puke.” Pedro took the salt pill back, shrugged and walked away.
“Hey, shanker mechanic!” Speedy called. “I got a couple of crabs for you to pick.”
“You better not let me get too close with my knife. You’re liable to lose a little, and from what I hear, you can’t spare any.”
“You ought to know.”
“Hey, cousin!” Seabags called. “First on blister call tonight.”
“Hokay, Seabags.”
“You know,” Speedy said as the corpsman left, “I like that guy.”
“Best blister man in the outfit and notice how easy and sweet he is with that needle.”
“Yeah, most of them pill rollers act like they’re taking bayonet practice.”
“Damned nice guy for a Mexican,” Speedy said.
“Just a damned nice guy,” I corrected. “He’s a Texan too, you know.”
“Mexicans ain’t the same, Mac….”
I dropped the subject.
We moved out again. What we lost in speed, we more than made up on the trails moving up and down stiff little ridges. The break for chow gave our dogs a good chance to start yapping. Even I, fortified with three pair of socks and good broken-in boondockers, could still feel a blister popping up. Around the turns and drops, the comm cart began giving us trouble. We worked hard to keep the line of march from slowing and at the same time keep in contact with the line outfits.
We hit a clearing and the whistle blew. “Air raid!”
A second squadron acting as the “enemy” droned into earshot. Soon our covering squadron and the enemy were in a mock dogfight. We took off the main road and grouped ourselves in small circles, backs inward, and took a kneeling position. It seemed common logic that under air attack we should find cover. However, the Marine Corps said we had to shoot at them. A plane broke from the pack and dived at us feigning machine gun fire from his wings. We answered him with clicks of empty rifles. He bore down, flashing just over our heads, sending a strong wind through us.
“Crazy bastard! Almost ran into us!”
“Don’t worry none, cousin, I got him right between the eyes!”
Legend has it that a Marine at Pearl Harbor downed a Jap Zero with his rifle and so, ever after, we were supposed to fight back and not hide in a ditch. The planes grew tired of their play and drifted off and we took up the march again.
Pick them up and lay them down. On and on we moved until the sun’s brightness faded, taking some of its sting from our bodies.
“Rose Canyon!”
“O.K., don’t drop dead! Get the TBX in with regiment! Secure the TBY set. Telephone squad, get wires into the companies! On the double, dammit!” Far from resting, the command post became a beehive of activity. Messages flew and orders were barked.
The chow trucks and bedrolls were fouled up and late. There were slit trenches, foxholes to be dug and shelters to be pitched. My squad laid out their two-man pup tents in the wrong direction and failed to cover them with a protective mound of dirt. I made them set the whole bivouac over.
At long last the field music blew recall and we battened down and lit a final cigarette before taps. It was cold outside. We snuck inside our blankets as close as we could and moved next to our bunkies. Our site was on a rocky deck and the stones dug into us through the thin pads.
“Danny.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I’m thinking, I’m going to see the paratroops tomorrow. Pucchi said they’d O.K. the interview. Fifty per cent more pay. I got almost two hundred saved now. The way I figure, it’s about a