The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [161]
“Thanks, Jack. Damn, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“You scared hell out of me. We hauled you off in a poncho, and I thought I’d never see you again.”
Mortensen spat out a wad of something brown, an amazing shot out through the opening of the tent.
“You two oughta have a real nice honeymoon when this is over with. Hand in hand down some main street in Tokyo. Damn! Now listen up, Nut Case.” Mortensen straightened, mock seriousness that inspired Welty to assume the same stance, an attempt at dignity. “Private Adams, as your new squad leader, I have been authorized by Captain Bennett to get you the hell out of this place, and bring you back to the company command post.” Mortensen looked around, as though expecting someone to stop him. A much older man came close now, a white coat draped over an army uniform. Mortensen said, “You the damn doctor?”
“Are you the damn loudmouth coming in here and waking up my patients?”
Mortensen’s attitude dropped a notch, and he said, “Uh, aye, sir. We have orders to retrieve Private Adams.”
“Fine. He’s yours. He’s not nearly as cracked up as some of these other boys. Get him the hell out of here. Put a rifle in his hands and let him kill Japs. That’s all he’s been talking about since he’s been here. Better yet, give him his own tank, a few mortars, and the biggest damn cannon you can find. Now beat it. You’re stinking up the place.”
Adams absorbed the scene with a swelling need to laugh out loud. Welty smiled at him, a discreet wink, and Adams watched as the doctor walked away. He swung his legs out onto the wooden floor, leaned out closer to the two men.
“Did Bennett really send you down here?”
“That’s Captain Bennett.” Mortensen scanned the large tent, seemed to focus on one particular nurse, who was bending over to attend to a nearby patient. He kept his gaze that way, said, “Just grab your gear. Let’s go.”
Adams picked up his backpack, newly stuffed with fresh everything, grabbed his boots, slipped them on quickly, laced up the straps with automatic precision. Welty said, “New boots? They gave you new boots?”
“Yep. Burned the old ones. Burned everything else too, I guess.” Adams stood now, tried to hide the slight waver, but Welty caught it, said, “You sure …?”
“Let’s get him out of here. Talk about it later.”
Mortensen grabbed him by the arm, for support as much as a strong pull out of the tent. They were outside quickly, away from the awful smell of antiseptics and sickness. Adams felt giddy, the sky a shocking blue, the heat from the sun swarming about him, sweat already in his shirt.
“They even gave me fresh underwear. Socks, the whole works. Real food too. I musta looked even worse than you two.” He grimaced, the foul air surrounding him, the smell rolling up around him from the two Marines. “If I smelled like that, it’s a wonder they didn’t toss me in the latrine. Damn, Sarge, you two ever gonna take a bath?”
He realized it was a stupid question, but Mortensen surprised him, said, “Right over there. I saw some army boys lining up for a shower. What do you say, Private?”
Welty jumped at the question.
“You betcha.”
They kept Adams between them, moved out through the sea of larger tents, distant rows of concrete block buildings and tin huts. The activity passed by them, no one seeing them at all, everyone on some kind of mission, carrying the self-importance he had always seen in the rear echelon. Mortensen slowed, held out a hand, pointing to a small open field, and Adams saw the line, a dozen men, stark naked, standing in front of a small tent. Above was perched a huge barrel on a metal stand, and beside the tent, a crude hand-painted sign: THIRTY SECONDS PER MAN—NO EXCEPTIONS.
Welty was already removing his shirt, said, “That’s more than it takes me at home. But if they got soap, I might not wanna leave.”
Mortensen said, “One more reason the army boys are so damn soft. They’re living back here in the lap of luxury. After this, I’m looking for the tent where the doggies get their massages. I got this little