Free Battle Cry by Leon Uris

gear causes dysentery. A final touch-up on the area.
     
    6:00 Sick, lame and lazy call. A straggling line of the sick and the imagined sick. The sad line outside sick bay. Their stories fall on unsympathetic ears. A day off for cat fever. Scorching tonic for crabs. Quick knife and back to duty for a blister.
    Crap details to clean heads or ride the garbage trucks.
    Fall out and be inspected. Growls and curses and punishment. Tent inspection and a wake of overturned cots.
    6:30 Drill. Drill and double time in the company area, the parade ground, the ankle deep sand of the boondocks.
    9:30 Lecture: How to stand seabag inspection. How to scout enemy terrain. The proper way to take a prophylactic after sexual intercourse. How to salute an officer. How to recognize ships of the fleet.
    10:30 Drill.
    12:00 Chow. Noon chow is getting monotonous. Three times a week ground beef with gravy on toast. A Marine Corps standby. SOS, they call it. Shit on shingle.
    1:00 Paper work. Take your picture for the record book. How much insurance do you want? Take ten thousand.
    2:00 Drill.
    5:00 Chow. The walk back is slower this time of day, but there is work to be done. Personal gear to be shined, mended, pressed. Clothes to be washed. The uniforms are beginning to fit and show vague signs of losing their newness.
    6:00 Laundry call and wash inspection. Do it over.
    6:45 Drill.
    8:00 Rest period. Study lessons from the Manual. Recite them word perfect or the platoon goes to the bay. Help a buddy.
    “Come on, Ski, try those half steps again on the column.”
    “I can’t get it, I tell you.”
    “You can. That Ziltch is a feathermerchant too, but he gets it.”
    “I’ll…try.”
    Mail call. Funny sounding word—“home.”
    “Fall out for the movies, you got to have recreation.” 10:00 A whistle. No, not reveille already. Beller in from liberty, drunk. He thinks a moonlight trot to the bay might be good exercise.
     
    Sunday, thank God for Sunday. Didn’t think the Marines recognized Sunday. Thought the D.I.s were Jesus here. “Don’t belong to a church? Well, you belong to one now. Take your pick. The Corps says you need religion.”
    All day to clean gear and write letters. Read the ones from home over a hundred times. All day to feel sorry for yourself. To ask what the hell am I doing here?
    Dear Mom,
    Everything is going swell. They keep us busy….
    Danny and Milton Norton worked down the long row of sinks, scrubbing them clean after the morning’s rush. Shannon O’Hearne leaned in the doorway warbling “Mother Machree.”
    “Professor,” Danny said.
    Although the modest man emphasized he was merely an instructor, the platoon persisted in promoting him. Norton was liked and respected. For most of them, little had been surrendered in the way of a career to join. Norton’s stature as a learned man seemed to make them feel, at times, that their plight was worth while.
    “Yes,” he answered softly.
    “I’ve been wondering, Milt, what made you join up?”
    He smiled at his young friend. “That’s a funny question, Danny. Why pick on me?”
    “I know the war and all that, but what I mean is, couldn’t you have gotten a commission?”
    “I suppose.”
    “See, after all you shouldn’t be going through all this. Hell, a teacher of economics—that’s somebody.”
    “Is it? I didn’t know.”
    “Don’t give me a snow job, professor. Seriously, I feel sort of silly cleaning out sinks next to you. Why, you know more in your little finger than those two Texans will ever know.”
    “You’re quite wrong, Danny. I’m learning a lot from them.”
    “You’re an idealist, Milt. I mean a real one. One of those guys who keeps it inside him and doesn’t blow hot and cold.”
    “Ideals are one thing, Danny. If we don’t get this head cleaned in an hour, that’s another.”
    “You know…pass me the brush, thanks…for a long time I’ve been trying to figure it out. I guess I don’t know the answer. But I’ll say one