The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [102]
The men on both benches rose up, and Adams heard the calls coming from the trucks in front, the usual hoots, insults and joking, and now the men around him began the same routine.
“Hey, doggie, doggie! Woof!”
“Too tough for you boys down here? You doggies need some men to take over for you?”
“Hey! You scared of those little Japs?”
The calls continued, and now the convoy moving past slowed even more, then stopped, engines still running, a jam in the traffic somewhere up ahead. Adams tried to think of his own insult, something appropriate, unique, knew that every army man everywhere was thought of as a doggie. The barking took over now, a chorus of insults, and through it all, he heard a voice, Ferucci.
“The Twenty-seventh! Those guys are the Twenty-seventh! You bastards!”
There was hesitation in the catcalls, some of the Marines hearing the words, comprehending. The shouting erupted again, different, far more hostile, even Welty, standing now, surprising Adams.
“You yellow sons of bitches! You no-good yellow bastards!” Welty continued, the volume of his fury growing, and after a long minute he dropped down, seemed exhausted by his own anger, repeated the words quietly. “Worthless no-good bastards. Worthless. We oughta shoot every one of them.”
Adams looked at the redhead with driving curiosity, wanted to ask the question, but the shouts of the Marines stifled him. All along the caravan the wave of menace seemed to grow, furious cursing, insults and jeers. The trucks were no more than a few feet apart, and when the words were not enough, the Marines began to throw things, cartridges, pieces of scrap from the floor of the truck, anything they could find. There was nothing playful, the objects hurled with baseball precision, a rain of debris into the army trucks in a one-sided assault. Adams stared in horror, saw one face from the other truck, a quick glance outward, fear in the man’s eyes. The face disappeared now, ducking low, and now the trucks began to move. Another truck crept past, canvas hiding the men, no one looking out, the shouting from the Marines still relentless. Adams felt a strange fear, thought, this is stupid. Somebody’s gonna start shooting. What the hell’s going on? The trucks kept moving, picking up speed, belching smoke, kicking up clouds of dust and gradually the noisy display from the Marines began to quiet. Welty seemed much more subdued than the men around him, and Adams leaned close to his ear.
“What the hell?”
“Yellow bastards. The Twenty-seventh was on Saipan. They just fell apart. Ran like hell.”
Adams heard the words drift away, knew the sign, that Welty wouldn’t say anything else, and Adams knew not to ask. But he was deathly curious, had heard only bits and pieces of the scuttlebutt about Saipan. He had heard the insulting descriptions for the army divisions, the Twenty-seventh in particular, had assumed the insults had been just another one of those rivalry things, all Marines giving grief to all GIs, sailors giving grief to them both. But this was different, far more intense than any rivalry. On the other side of Welty, a face leaned out, looked at Adams, the older man, Gorman.
“They’re no good, pal. Worst division in the army. A lot of Marines died because of those sons of bitches. I heard Howlin’ Mad had their general fired. I don’t know what the hell they’re doing here. They shoulda been sent to MacArthur, where they belong. If they’re moving north, it’s cause they screwed up again. We sure as hell don’t need ’em here.”
Ferucci joined in.
“Pop’s right. That’s gotta be why we’re going south. Replacing those bastards. I bet they’re either going up north or they’re getting hauled out of here altogether. They do a little dirty work and