The Old Breed

Chapter 13

Airfield No. 2, Cape Gloucester

January 1st, 1944

Sergeant Nelson was pissed as hell when we were all summoned to him. The entire squad, lined up like on parade. Nelson's face was red, and he seemed especially mad at me. I guess I couldn't blame him. As Professor had filled me in, during the night I had spank him and call him "Sargypoo".

He lined us up, and then took slow steps down the line, pausing in front of every Marine, turning, looking them in the eye for a long minute, and then going onto the next guy.

"What the fuck happened last night?" he said, his voice low, cold, scarier than if he were yelling. His face flushed redder. "Brass does a good thing and lets you all have an extra ration of beer, and suddenly half of you are roaring drunk? Well, boys, I hope last night was fun, because that's the last time alcohol is ever getting near this squad! Do I make myself clear?" he spit the last line right in my face.

"Yes sir!" I yelled.

At least that's what I meant to come out. It more ended up being "Ye sah!"

It was worse off that I was also seeing double of Nelson, cymbals were going off in my ears, someone beating on drums in my temples. It was the worst hangover I ever experienced. Right after Sergeant Nelson walked passed me, I fell on my knees and puked my guts out. It seemed to go on forever, to the point I was surprised anything was able to come out after a while. Nelson ignored me, kept glaring at each Marine. From my perspective, looking up between bouts of vomit, Skimp and Lanky were also swaying unsteadily, and I was surprised when neither one fell to the ground also.

"I'd punish you, but orders from the brass say I'm supposed to lead your sorry asses down farther into this jungle hell of ours, and I intend to do that. More marching feels like punishment enough. All Marines on your feet and be ready in five minutes."

The Marines rushed away quickly, a lot of stuff needing to be pack up in five minutes. When I was slow to get up, Nelson grabbed my arm and pulled me up. I almost fell right into him on regaining my balance, but he put a hand on my chest to support me.

He looked as if he was trying to be mad, but his expression softened.

"Get your act together, Wilson. I've got a good impression of you in my head and I don't want one night to have ruined that. We all get drunk sometimes. I understand that. But, Wilson, a little word of advice. Drunk or not, I'd watch your mouth in front of officers and higher ranking Marines than you. You never know when someone's going to take it the wrong way."

I nodded slowly, too sick to answer. He grabbed my shoulders and turned me around. "I'd get moving before I feel it necessary to kick you in the ass for last night. And trust me, it'd be harder than your slap."

He was only half-joking.

Time seemed to fly after we captured the airfields. January brought long days of trekking along country roads, where they could be found, and trailblazing where there was nothing. We got into a few small skirmishes during the month, which mostly ended up being us firing from ditches and potholes in the thickly wooded terrain at the groups of Japs that dared fire back at us. A guy from 3rd Squad was lost from machine gun fire while we were crossing a road once, and a guy from 4th Squad was killed by a stray bullet. 1st Squad was the only squad that didn't have a casualty.

February started the same way, more walking, more talking, and a little more fighting. The days seemed to grow even longer, and morale was beginning to drop even lower. The rumors of getting off the Cape by January had obviously been dispelled and now no one was sure we'd get off the island before March. At this rate, it wasn't looking so. Whether we left in February, March, or even April, one thing was becoming blatantly certain. As February slowly passed by, we were quickly growing tired of Cape Gloucester.