Battle Cry - Leon Uris [92]
Danny did snap back fast. In a corner of his heart, he tucked away the memory of his furlough and drew it out only in an hour of solitude.
During these days, I watched the squad develop, slowly, into a good radio team. Not like the old Corps, mind you—I could still send code faster with my feet than they could with their fists. But they had developed in a competent way that pushed the ancient equipment to its maximum effort.
Danny wasn’t a flashy operator, but he was steady. Reliable. I felt good, knowing there would be no trouble as long as he was at the earphones. Marion had the same cool efficiency and it wasn’t long before I singled the pair out as a step ahead of the rest of the squad for added duties and responsibilities. Promotion is slow in the Marine Corps, but when the stripe did come, those two would have a jump on the field.
Shortly after Danny’s return we began the slow tedious task of packing to ship out. None of us wanted to leave the States, but yet it was welcome when the word was passed down that we were earmarked for overseas. The quicker we got out, the quicker we’d get back.
We all felt that something special was in store for the Sixth Marines. After all, we were a stalwart outfit; our name had been synonymous with trouble for many decades.
With full complement of troops aboard and all gear issued, we began crating up. On each box a white square was stenciled with the figures 2/6 on it, to identify our battalion. (White was always used for the second battalion.) On the piles of crates, too, we stenciled the two mysterious words Spooner and Bobo. Spooner would be our destination and Bobo, our ship.
Soon the camp was a mountain of boxes labeled Spooner Bobo, and for the other battalions of the Sixth, Spooner Lolo and Spooner Mumu. Then the loading and dock parties started.
In true Marine tradition, I found my platoon were first class goof-offs. To flush them out of hiding for the working parties was a full time job. They could find the damnedest excuses and the meanest hiding places that could be conceived. In this respect they matched the old Corps to a T. The platoon was doubly irked when they had to carry the load for the entire Headquarters Company. The corpsmen did no loading, the cooks none; the other sections, very little.
Burnside and me were pissed to the point of blowing our gaskets. Every time a truck pulled in to be loaded we had to go on a safari for the men. At last we commandeered an eight-man tent and put the whole squad in it and either Burnside or me stood watch on them all the time. As the pace picked up, the working parties ran around the clock.
Spanish Joe Gomez, a past master at goldbricking, got out of camp somehow and in San Diego purchased and brought back twenty gallons of Dago Red in a “borrowed” jeep. For three days and nights the squad staggered back and forth between loading details. When the wine ran out, Joe got into town again, and in spite of the scrutiny of the camp guards, returned with more of the two-bit-a-gallon poison. They drank themselves into terrible shape. Only Sister Mary remained sober enough to organize a working party.
Throughout the night, awaiting another truck to come for the gear, they lay on unmade cots in the working party tent and guzzled Dago Red. They didn’t even bother to eat. Mornings found the deck spotted with pale crimson vomit. A night of wine drinking and they were burning with thirst in the morning. One drink of water to quench the thirst and they were drunk again. I was glad to see the last crate aboard the last truck and heading for the docks. We moved back to the barracks, packed our personal gear, and waited.
A pay call came in the nick of time. We were given liberty and a chance to say farewell in good Marine style. The battalion went out and got plastered.
Then we staggered back to camp and waited. We did not move out. Another liberty—another wait—another liberty. Each nervewracking day we stood by to move out and each night found us in San Diego toasting