Battle Cry - Leon Uris [93]
At the end of the week there was no money left to go ashore on. Not a loose nickel in the battalion. Then we began wiring home for money to buy “essentials”—meaning, of course, for one last fling.
Almost as anticlimax, we boarded buses and trucks and moved into the city to the docks. All the crates marked Spooner Bobo were there to greet us. They had to be loaded aboard the ship. It meant another few days, and the trouble with working parties started all over. Only here they had more room to hide.
Then I set foot on the Bobo. If ever a gyrene wanted to drown his sorrows, I did. I had been in this Corps for more hitches than I cared to mention; I’d been on a lot of troop transports in my time. None of them were luxury liners…but the Bobo was the filthiest, grimiest, stinkingest pigboat that ever hauled bananas or cows to Havana. I prayed the trip would be a short run. I tried to conceal my displeasure at this floating coffin manned by the merchant marine, but it wasn’t easy. Although we had been hitting the bottle heavy for over a week, when we saw her we were ready to go and really get drunk.
Andy, Speedy, L.Q., Seabags, and Danny hit the first bar on Broadway, determined to drink their way, slop shute by slop shute, to the other end of the long street. I wanted to keep an eye on them but got caught in the middle of a Burnside vs. McQuade bout and I was in a mood to put them both under the table. So I lost contact with the squad in the second bar, and just hoped that morning would find them all aboard ship.
The warriors in forest green sat, bleary eyed, around a table in a cocktail lounge in Crescent City, on the outskirts of San Diego. None of them could coherently tell how they had arrived there. A subdued light played soft shadows on the walls of the place. On a platform, a sleepy-eyed organist trickled her fingers to fill the room with soothing melody.
“Too bad old Mary ain’t here.”
“Yeah, too bad.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s drink to old Mary.”
“Good idea.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, Andy—you still keep track, cousin?”
“Yeah, this is the twenty-third round for me. The eighteenth for the rest of you cherries.”
“Hey, L.Q.—you gonna start crying again?”
“I don’t want to cry…but I just gotta…I can’t help it….”
“Aw, gee, L.Q., if you cry, I’m gonna cry. Don’t cry, buddy.” Andy wept too.
“L.Q., Danny, ole’ cousins. I ain’t gonna let no Jap get you. You the best cousins I ever had. We stick together, we do.”
“You ain’t got to cry, just cause we’re crying, Seabags.”
“Can’t help myself…I love you so much.”
“Hey, Andy, why you crying?”
“Ain’t no law that says I can’t.”
Heads turned, some in disgust, some in pity, some laughing at the five husky Marines bawling at the table.
The drinks arrived.
“Who the hell was we gonna toast?”
“Ole Mac.”
“Naw, we was gonna toast our pal Lootenant Bryce.”
“Fugg Bryce.”
“Let’s all toast our beautiful love.”
“Yeah.”
“Here, L.Q., take my hanky and blow yer nose.”
“Thanks, old buddy.”
“Hurry, L.Q., we’re already done.”
“How many does that make, Andy?”
“Eighty-six for me…eighty twenty-three for you cherries.”
“Phew.”
“Burp.”
“Anybody here still read the clock?”
“We got fifteen minutes more. Hey waitress, survey!”
Andy wended a wary course to the organist and chatted and staggered back to the table.
In a moment “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You” blared out. They looked at Speedy. He sucked in a deep breath and fought to his feet and stood at attention. The others arose and wavered until the song was done.
Then the girl at the organ played “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” and their eyes turned to Danny. He lowered his head, a tear trickled down his cheek. He felt four sympathetic hands on his shoulders, slapping them knowingly. “Andy, ole buddy…that was nice, seeing as you hate women.”
“Buck up, Danny ole cousin…ain’t no Jap gonna get you, buddy buddy.”
“Thata mose beautiful thing I ever heard in my life.”
It was three in the morning when I found them again. They were doing close order drill right up the middle of Broadway. Fortunately the Shore Patrol wasn