Battle Cry by Leon Uris Read Free Book Online

the other. He painted a number on each chest and the name was recorded by a following corpsman.
    Midnight brought them to the steps of the dispensary.
    “Oh man,” L.Q. moaned, “my lil ole pappy tole me not to leave our magnolia plantation. Oh man, I’d just love to be a settin’ and a sippin’ mint juleps…oh man!”
    “Shut up in that line, goddammit!” The tempers of the corporals grew progressively worse with each passing minute.
    At last they entered the building. In quick succession they were pricked in the finger for a blood smear, blood was taken from the arm for a Wassermann, and eyes, ears, nose, heart, and reflexes checked. Followed a hernia check, blood pressure, balance, and a chest X-ray. As the last man left they were herded to another building.
    “When you enter, take off all your clothing.”
    “Oh…oh,” Jones moaned. “Oh…oh.”
    An assembly line of needle men awaited them. Vaccination, tetanus shot in the right arm, two others in the left and a grand finale in the buttocks.
    For the last shot a well-oiled team worked. One corpsman painted the butt cheek and popped in a needle as though he was tossing darts. The next corpsman worked in flawless motion filling the hypodermic, screwing it into the needle, shooting, and removing the needle into a boiling tray.
    An exhausted Shannon O’Hearne fidgeted in the line. As the needle entered the man in front of him, a bead of perspiration formed on O’Hearne’s brow and his stomach felt queasy. The corpsman screwed in the holder and pushed in the serum. As he went to withdraw the needle it stuck in the lad’s flesh, leaving a slow drip oozing from it. O’Hearne passed out and had to be dragged back into line by two stronger-hearted friends.
    Two-thirty in the morning. They limped into the barracks and fell into their bunks. Danny tried laying on his back, then on each side. But he was swollen from blunt needles and dubious techniques. He found solace flat on his stomach and closed his eyes, too worn to feel sorry for himself.
     
    “Hit the deck!” The lights went on. Danny rolled. It must be a joke. He had just fallen asleep. He struggled his eyes open, his body ached from the plunging. He steadied his head long enough to catch the time: four-thirty. He placed his watch against his ear and assured it was still ticking, lay down again.
    The scream of a whistle split his ears and he realized it was no dream or joke. It was still dark and the sky still flooded with stars. Straining, he eased himself from the upper bunk and staggered in behind the other disheveled, half-asleep men who cursed and mumbled their way to the head. He lined up behind Jones at one of the sinks which had a six-deep waiting list.
    “My lil ole mammy told me…” L.Q. moaned hoarsely.
    The splash of cold water failed to clear the cobwebs, but another blast of the whistle did. Half undressed, they fell in outside in the darkness. Chow, but too sore and tired to remember eating, and they trudged back to the barracks, packed and fell out once more.
    With heavy eyelids and disheveled persons they awaited the next process. Their wait was not long. A tall, leathery, redheaded corporal dressed in stiff khakis, pith helmet, and glossy shined shoes stepped before them with roster in hand.
    “Ten-shun!” he snarled. The sun slowly cast light on the motley-looking recruits. The corporal’s face was freckled and his eyes steel blue and cutting. He walked the line, hands on hips. From one hand dangled a stick thirty inches long with a leather-laced thong hanging from it.
    “From now on this is platoon One Forty Three. My name is Corporal Whitlock. You’ll hate the day you met me.”
    “Hey, corporal. How about letting us get some sleep.”
    “Who said that?”
    “I did,” Dwyer answered.
    A path cleared as the corporal walked to Dwyer. For a full minute Whitlock cut him down with an icy glare. “What’s your name, son?”
    “Ted Dwyer.”
    “My name is Private Theodore