The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [101]
“All right, listen up! Those trucks are taking us out of here. The whole damn division’s mounting up.”
“Ha! I knew it!”
The voice came from the palm tree, and Porter looked that way, annoyed.
“Shut up! You don’t know jack. I’ve heard all the crap you idiots have been tossing around. You’re expecting hula girls and cold beer. Forget it. The army’s been getting their teeth kicked in down south, and the generals have decided they need us to move down there and replace them. That shouldn’t surprise any of you. We knew that we’d end up with the heavy lifting, and my guess is some dumbass on some ship out there had his map upside down and sent us the wrong way. The real heat’s down south, has been from the beginning. The army boys can’t handle it, so you know what’s gotta happen next. The First Division is already on the move, and we’re going in behind them. I haven’t been told exactly what they’re gonna do with us, but you know damn well it’s not gonna be pretty.”
The trucks were pulling into a wide field, the engines shutting down, the clouds of dust pouring up the hill toward the platoon. Across the field, other platoons were getting the same briefing, loosely spaced clusters of men listening to their officers. Porter glanced toward the trucks, said, “Grab your gear and mount up. Fifteen to a truck, so we’ll fill three of ’em. I’ll be up front with the radio. If you need water, there’s a truck coming up with some barrels. Fill ’em up. It’s a long drive.”
The trucks had no canopies, the dust swirling around them in suffocating clouds of heat and blinding grit. Adams had his head down, eyes closed, his helmet the only shade. Close beside him Welty did the same, and even the most vocal knew better than to open their mouths. Even if their complaints could be heard at all, the dust would find any opening, a mouthful of the crushed coral adding more misery to what was already a rumbling bouncing hell.
Adams had no idea how long they had been in the trucks, had bounced and rocked in rhythm with those around him, swaying with the turns, cursing silently when the truck hit a sharp hole. He tried to open his eyes more than once, tried again now, was surprised that the air seemed to be clearing, the dust not as bad. He felt a sharp breeze in his face, looked across to the man opposite, Gridley, the big man staring past him, his eyes ringed with white circles. More of the men raised their heads, the air clearing, and Adams saw flat fields, sugarcane, the small farms they had marched past many days ago. Beside him Welty spat a hard wad of something thick into the air, past Adams’s head, stared up and over, trying to see more of where they were, the others doing the same. Adams heard a croaking voice at the back of the truck, the last man on the bench, Ferucci.
“Airfield. Maybe Yontan. We’re stopping.”
Adams felt the truck slow, a hard squeal of brakes, could see a sea of trucks already in place, parked in neat rows. Just as quickly the trucks at the far end of the field began to move, one after the other, the caravan resuming. The truck beneath him rumbled to life, curses rolling through the men, the usual voices, Yablonski, “What the hell? Somebody can’t make up his mind?”
Adams ignored him, was more curious than angry, the truck lurching forward, following the next one in the long, snaking line. The road away from the airfield was wider, smoother than the coral trail they had endured, and he kept his gaze outward, saw another row of trucks, some with canopies, coming the other way, toward them. Beside him Welty said, “Hey, where the hell are they going?”
The truck slowed, dipped to one side, easing off the road, the entire caravan shifting over, allowing the northbound trucks to pass. Some of those trucks were covered,