Battle Cry - Leon Uris [98]
“The cesspool!”
“You’re always getting me into trouble, white man. Me and you have split the blanket.”
“Go on, you goddam renegade, blame it on me.”
“Man, that stuff down there stinks worse than limburger,” Speedy moaned.
“Rather spread a ton of manure,” Seabags said.
They trudged sadly to the rear of the mess area and adjusted clothespins to their noses. The cesspool was an aged, well-like construction. All the waste garbage and slush was tossed down it. On the bottom, some fifteen feet down, was an iron grate filtering the waste and funneling it to a subterranean runway. Generally, a hosing from above was sufficient to break loose any clogs; however, at the moment it was dammed up tight with gray slop that had backed up some five feet in the well.
They lifted the wooden cover from the opening. The vile odor blasted them back. Bravely they edged forward again and peered down.
“We’ll draw straws to see who goes down.”
“Shucks, I’m too big to fit in the opening, fellows, so I guess I’ll just have to help bucket the stuff off from up here.” Seabags smiled.
“To hell with that noise,” Speedy cried.
All eyes turned to L.Q. Jones. “Don’t look at me that way, old buddy buddies…besides, you guys always said I’m a blimp.”
“You was the one that dreamed up that bleating at Burnside, L.Q.”
“Fellows! Let’s be democratic about this. Let’s talk this over.”
“Sure, we’ll be democratic, L.Q.,” the Texan said. “Let’s vote…I vote for Jones.”
“Ugh,” said the Injun.
“Recktum you’re the unanimous candidate,” said Seabags, handing him a rubber suit and gas mask.
It was a long day for the cesspool detail. A hundred buckets were raised and run out to the boondocks before L.Q. could pearl dive for the trap. Finally, he sprung it. As he climbed up the ladder triumphantly and took off the mask, the others coughed violently, as though a skunk was loose.
“Clean out the cart,” Seabags said. “I got three days service over you. Besides, I’m a regular and you’re a reserve. We can’t stand the smell another minute.” They took off at high port, leaving L.Q. to finish the detail.
The smelly gyrene finally headed back to his tent. As he moved down the catwalk strong men cleared a path for him. He opened the tent flap and stepped in.
“Gawd! Get out of here!”
Someone hurled a helmet in his direction, making him duck out of the tent. In a few seconds, a hand reached out of the tent flap and dropped a towel, soap, and scrubbing brush at his feet.
“And don’t come back till you smell like roses!”
Dear Mom,
I’m not allowed to tell you where I am. However, I find that I have lots of new zeal and energy…
“Come in, Pfc. Jones. Did you write this letter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may go, Private Jones.”
CHAPTER 2
ANDY HOOKANS strolled listlessly through the Wellington railway station. He had missed the first liberty train back to camp and it was nearly an hour until the next one.
He walked outside for a breath of air. Across the street he saw a sign: SALVATION ARMY CANTEEN—Welcome Armed Forces Members. He entered and seated himself upon a stool at one end of a long counter.
“May I help you, Yank?”
“Coffee, please.”
The big Swede eyed her from stem to stern as she filled his cup. Not bad, not bad at all. Tall, slim, not skinny exactly…fair skin like most of the girls here…short hair, kind of honey blond. She passed the cup over the counter.
“Anything else, please?” she said smiling.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Talk to me.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t do that, you know. Against the rules to fraternize on duty.”
“Doesn’t seem like much business tonight.”
“Picks up a few minutes before train time. Fast cup of coffee for the Americans, you know.”
“Is that so? My name is Andy.”
She turned to go.
“Come to think of it, I’d like a crumpet or whatever you call those things.”
“You could just as well reach over and get it yourself.”
“Nice country you’ve got here.”
“I’m glad you like it, but of course nothing can compare with America.”
“Matter of fact, it compares very well.”
“Really,” she said in amazement.