Battle Cry by Leon Uris Read Free Book Online Page A

Dwyer, sir,” Whitlock corrected.
    “P…private…Theo…dore…Dwyer…sir.”
    “Are you chewing gum?”
    “Yessir.”
    “Swallow it.”
    Gulp.
    He paraded before the new platoon, which stood frozen.
    “Goddam Yankees,” he finally hissed. “Goddamyankee is one word in my book. All right, you people. My name is Whitlock…you address me as sir. You sonofabitches aren’t human beings any more. I don’t want any of you lily-livered bastards getting the idea you are Marines either. You’re boots! Crapheads! The lowest, stinking, scummiest form of animal life in the universe. I’m supposed to attempt to make Marines out of you in the next three months. I doubt it. You goddamyankees are the most putrid-looking specimens of slime I have ever laid eyes on…. Remember this, you sonofabitches—your soul may belong to Jesus, but your ass belongs to me.”
    The drill instructor’s cordial welcome to the Corps thunderstruck them. They were all awake now. And the dawn came up like thunder out of Coronado ’cross the bay.
    “Answer up when your name is called, goddammit.” He ran down the roster. “O’Hearne…O’Hearne!”
    “Here,” a voice whispered. Whitlock advanced on the husky, curly-haired Irishman.
    “What’s the matter? Lose your voice, craphead?”
    “Been on a drunk—my voice is gone.” He dropped a cigarette butt on the deck.
    “Pick up that butt, craphead.”
    “Don’t you call me craphead.”
    O’Hearne balled his fists. Whitlock poked his little stick under Shannon’s chin. “We got special treatment for tough guys. Pick up that butt.” The stick lifted O’Hearne’s chin slowly. Shannon unballed his hands and reached to the ground. As he bent, Whitlock’s glossed shoe met him squarely and sent him sprawling. Shannon arose and charged, then pulled up short and fell meekly back into the formation.
    The corporal launched another tirade. He cursed for ten minutes, seldom repeating an obscenity. He expanded on the group’s future status in life. Isolation from the outside world…loss of all trace of individuality…no candy…no gum…no newspapers…no radios…no magazines…speak only when spoken to…salute…address as sir and obey all men within the confines of boot camp above the rank of private.
    With each new word they slumped into increasing acceptance of the snare they now realized they were utterly trapped in. Never before had they heard such a collection of words thrown together. So this was palm-treed, blue-uniformed San Diego.
    The corporal ran them past the permanent structures to their new quarters. It was a tent city bordering a gravel parade ground on one side, with vast expanses of sunbaked sand stretching to the bay on the other. Danny, Ski, and L.Q. Jones drew a three-man tent. Then they were introduced to Platoon Sergeant Beller, a Texan also, and no less a ranter than the corporal.
    Beller cursed them for another ten solid minutes, then sent them off on a whirlwind procedure of hurry and wait. Double time, then stand in line.
    They drew seabags and passed down counters stacked high with articles of clothing. The items were hurled at their heads. Everyone was angry and every few moments the recruits picked up a new curse word to add to a fast growing vocabulary.
    The seabags became crowded with a barrage of skivvies, socks, overcoat, belts, boondockers, high-top dress shoes, field scarfs, and the rest of the wardrobe of a Marine. Everything was fitted hastily and with obvious disregard for the size of the man involved. The new gear was pocked with stickers and white tags.
    For shoes, the recruit jumped up on a platform and held a pair of twenty-pound weights. As his feet flattened on the measure an NCO hurled them at him.
    Double time. Draw cots, pads, ammo belts, shelter halves, and the rest of the field gear. They sagged under the cumbersome weight as they tried to keep up the racehorse gait.
    Now to the canteen, where a book of chits was issued, its value to be