Battle Cry - Leon Uris [96]
The Fifth Marines had come and left for Guadalcanal. And then we had come, and the Kiwis gave a happy sigh, like they could get a good night’s sleep. A gang of cocky, spoiled Yanks—but they loved us.
And after the Bobo, how we loved them!
“Fall in, goddammit, on the double!”
We were off on our first hike in New Zealand. A half mile to the camp gate, then two miles down the highway and a right turn up the slowly winding dirt road. It twisted in a slow rise for nearly four miles. We called it the Little Burma road. From the top, fifteen hundred feet up, we could see the rolling green hills, small dotted farms, and in the distance the ocean.
Then we raced over the hills, through ravines and gulleys, over wire fences, along sheer sheep trails, sliding and falling in sheep drop. Through the woods until we wound up in back of Camp McKay, and Paekakaraki, which we could see far below us. Then down a treacherous cliff on our backs and guts until we descended into camp.
On alternate days we reversed the course. Climbing the cliff in the rear of camp first and through the hills and trails and sheep farms to reach the top of the Little Burma. Then, down hill for four miles, to the highway and back to the camp gate.
The Little Burma run was only twelve to fifteen miles, depending on what route was taken, but I felt it was the meanest course I’d ever gone. It was November in New Zealand and the middle of summer and it was hot. The long stretch up the Little Burma was plain wicked. The slow rise sapped the juice out of our legs and the weight of the gear hung like a heavy burden. Then came the sweat, the eternal sweat. Soggy, drenching sweat—and plenty of bitching from the men. Sweat from the feet irritated the blisters.
We’d pause to eat C-rations at the top where the road leveled off. You had to keep an eye on the water. It was a long way back to camp and we didn’t have any place for stragglers in this outfit. A sweating Marine who drinks too much pukes, and can’t hike.
If the climb up Little Burma was rugged, the hike down her was worse. Going downhill the impact hits you with every goddam step. Your legs act like brakes for four miles and the weight of the pack slams into you with every pace. The downhill runs were the ones that make your knees buckle and your legs feel like they were turning to jelly.
Salt pills. I could never figure how a little pill could replace ten gallons of sweat. Suck them slow or you’ll puke. And lay off the water. Salt makes you thirsty, and too much water will fold you like an accordion.
On the days we carried heavy equipment we’d pull hard on the awkward carts till our hands cracked. We’d throw our bodies against them to keep them from running down the trails. The walkie-talkies made fifty more pounds to lug. Downhill we’d strain and dig our heels into the deck to keep from running away.
On the days we went with just combat packs, Burnside set a murderous pace. He was a hiking fool. The case of beer he had drank the day before worked out of every pore, till he looked like he was floating. As we hit the camp gate he’d yell, “Double time!” We’d run a hundred yards, then quick pace a hundred and run another hundred till we reached the foot of Little Burma.
One day, we went clear from camp to the peak of the road without stopping. And downhill too, we’d hit the bottom of the road and run all the way into camp, straight to the parade ground.
“There go Huxley’s Whores!”
Huxley had the time he had bid for; he had the conditions he wanted and he spared no rods on us. And then we began to pass outfits along the route, crapped out and exhausted. “Candy-ass Marines,” our boys would shout as we flashed past them.
Highpockets Huxley, for reasons known only to himself, went on trying to make a Marine out of our company commander, Lieutenant Bryce. There was an intense rivalry between the Intelligence Squad and our platoon. On alternate days Bryce was assigned to hike with us. On the