Free Battle Cry by Leon Uris Page B

you or any other craphead that calls his rifle a ‘gun’!”
    Danny felt a tinge of excitement as his hands reached for the weapon. He felt powerful. The guns came from cases which had held them silent between two wars. Awaiting a warrior’s hand to grasp them again, as they knew it must.
    He took the grease-packed weapon and bayonet and marched to an open-air cleaning stall. Instructors raced up and down issuing screwdrivers, brushes, and cans of gasoline as they barked instructions on how to dismantle the piece. The entire day was spent elbow deep in gasoline, brushing cosmoline from the parts. Twenty years to get it in and one day to clean it out. So they scrubbed and scrubbed under dire threats from Beller.
    “Private Forrester.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “What is the name of your piece?”
    “United States Rifle, Caliber .30, model 1903.”
    “Jones.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “What is the serial number of your rifle?”
    “1748834632…sir.”
    “Private Chernik.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Describe your rifle.”
    “It is a breech-loaded, magazine-fed, bolt-operated shoulder weapon, sir. It holds five rounds in a clip and the weight is 8.69 pounds without bayonet.”
    “Private Zvonski.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “What is the effective range?”
    “Six hundred yards, sir.”
    “Private Dwyer.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “What is the muzzle velocity…”
     
    Danny put down his manual, sighed and crossed his fingers.
    “Going to take the test, Danny?”
    “Yes.”
    “Man, I ain’t got past the butt plate yet.”
    “Sir, Private Forrester requests permission to speak with the drill instructor.”
    “At ease. What is it?”
    “Sir, I’d like to take the test for nomenclature of the rifle.”
    “Go ahead.”
    He held up his rifle, drew a breath and began pointing out the parts. “Butt plate, butt plate screw, stock, oil and thong well…” Methodically he worked up to the barrel, calling out a hundred parts, then came to attention.
    “Is that all?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “You forgot the lower band spring, Forrester.”
    Danny’s face reddened. “Get some canvas, tie the rifle to your leg and sleep with it tonight.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The platoon started from scratch once more to learn the manual of arms. The positions were pounded in with the same mercilessness of the other lessons.
    Every day after morning chow now, there was exercise with the rifle, by the numbers. From extended order they lunged in unison to Whitlock’s count.
    “Side lunge…left side first…one two, three four…up and out by the numbers…up and on shoulders by the numbers…”
    They exercised till they felt their arms would fall off, till numbness set in. A minute’s rest and through the exercises once again, until they staggered from formation. Then once more.
    One day Dwyer dropped his rifle. In the middle of the parade ground he knelt, bowed and kissed the weapon for three hours, declaring, “I love my rifle…I love my rifle.”
    “Up and on shoulders” from the exercises was a standard punishment. When one roamed the Recruit Depot, he was sure to see at least a dozen boots standing before their D.I.s shoving the rifle up in the air and to the back of their necks. Until they swooned from exhaustion, but fought to keep from dropping it—the cardinal sin.
    Platoon punishment. Standing at attention, arms extended forward. Palms down and rifles on fingertips. They stood till every muscle danced and trembled, red-faced and sweating, praying some other man might drop his rifle first.
     
    Mr. Dickey, the principal of Forest Park High, walked to the rostrum of the flower-decked stage. Behind him were the black capped and gowned boys and the white capped and gowned girls of the graduation class. Before him sat the sniffling mothers and the straight-necked fathers of the seniors. He took the pince-nez from his nose and held them dramatically as he spoke slowly into the microphone beside the long table filled with rolled diplomas.
    He babbled