Battle Cry - Leon Uris [95]
“Yes, Mac.”
“You’ve got a nice boy, we all like him.”
“Are…are you leaving soon?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“Look, Kathy…don’t worry.”
“Keep an eye on him, will you?”
“I’ll do my best.”
I shoved Danny into the booth again and whispered into his ear, “Say something nice, you bastard.” A dim sobriety seemed to cut through his alcoholic fog.
“Kitten, you’re not sore at me?”
“No, darling, of course not.”
“Kathy, Kathy. I…I love you.”
“I love you too, my darling.”
“Good…good-by, Kathy.”
“Good-by, Danny…good luck to all of you.”
PART THREE
Prologue
TROOPSHIPS are not designed for comfort, unless you happen to be an officer. I’ve been on plenty of them but never found worse than the Bobo. Whoever converted this freighter must have thrown the drawing board away. Sadists had designed the quarters. There were four holes, two forward and two aft. Each was two decks deep. We were at the bottom of the well. Canvas cots six and seven high, spaced just about as far apart as flapjacks on a platter. You had to lay on your back or stomach, flat. A roll sideways and you’d hit the cot over you.
Lighting was almost nil. The ventilation was a laugh—if you could call it funny. Space between the tiers of cots was so narrow you were forced to walk sideways, over crammed aisles of seabags and packs, to your miserable piece of canvas. The covered section of each hold was massed with crates. It was terrible, even for an old-timer like me.
At long last we saw green hills looming over the horizon one morning. The horrible journey was over. The hated Bobo slipped into the bay and we looked, in awe, at the rolling hills, the quaint, brightly colored houses and the still, beautiful calm of the land. We had reached Spooner, New Zealand!
There were about four thousand of us in New Zealand and the land was ours. Our chow was beefsteak, eggs, ice cream, and all the milk a man could hold. And the people opened their homes to us.
That was one of the wonderful things about being a Marine. The feel of a new land under your feet. As you marched down Lambdon Quay in step with a buddy, your greens sharp and your leather shiny, you saw them turn and smile. The strange smell of foreign cooking and the new and wonderful odors of ale and tobacco; the funny way of talking and the funny money, and the honest merchants who gave baffled Marines a square shake. The beauty of the rolling hills and the gentle summer and the quaintness of the Victorian buildings, matching the slow, uneventful way of life. We were happy in New Zealand. As happy as a man can be six thousand miles away from his home. And my boys were tough and ready. Huxley’s Whores—the whole Sixth Marines were like nails.
My squad was fast becoming radiomen, like the speed merchants of the old Corps. Their fists were certain as they handled the keys. Our walkie-talkie net amazed the entire regiment. Mary knew his business. If I could only stop them from sending dirty messages—someday we’d be intercepted and the boom would be lowered on us for fair.
Our skins were turning yellow from the daily dosages of atabrine, but I kept close track to see that it wasn’t ditched. I had had malaria on the islands ten years before when I was in Manila and I’d have been damned glad to have had atabrine, turn yellow or not.
CHAPTER 1
IN NO time at all, the word was all over Wellington and the sidewalks were lined with smiling gawkers as the Sixth went by.
“Hi, Limey!”
“We aren’t Limeys. We’re New Zealanders.”
“Let me see that penny. Man, look at the size of it.”
“Hi, Yank,” a girl called from an office window.
“Toss your name and phone number down, honey. I’ll give you a ring.”
“Fine, Yank—and I have some girl friends.”
“You boys from the Fifth Regiment of Marines?”
“Naw, we’re the Sixth.”
“You wear the same braid.”
“Them guys is just cashing in on our glory,” we said of the boys who were even then fighting for the life of New Zealand on Guadalcanal. Yes, they were glad to see us. The tentacles of the Japanese Empire were reaching down to snatch at their country. Every man and woman had