The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [162]
They released Adams, and he stood guard over the pile of stinking clothes, wondered if there was some way to discreetly haul them to a fire barrel. But this was army ground, no Marine uniforms in sight, and likely, no place to find any. He watched them fall into line, their bare skin as dirty as their uniforms, both men with the smiling anticipation, as though they were getting away with something naughty. To one side Adams saw a group of army officers, a casual conversation, mostly ignoring anyone else. Adams felt a pang of nervousness, thought, this might not be a welcome spot for Marines. But the two men were already at the tent, next in line, the gangly Mortensen taking the lead, and Adams laughed, reached down and dragged their clothes and weapons away from the traffic, a shady spot beside a supply tent. Guess no one will know they’re Marines, he thought. Hard to tell once they’re naked. Unless Marines smell different.
The men were clean but in their uniforms there was no way to tell. They moved quickly through the bustle of the supply depot, the three men knowing it would be best if they seemed to be on an urgent mission, no time for chitchat. Adams had left the field hospital with no weapon but his K-bar, and Mortensen had reassured him, no problem at all. The sergeant led the three-man parade, seemed to know exactly where he was heading, and Adams brought up the rear, just followed, trying not to catch the eye of anyone who seemed important. Mortensen suddenly turned, like a hound on a scent, stepped up to a concrete building, paused, a quick glance back at the other two, said, “I’ll do the talking. Both of you … try to look a little nuts. Like you can’t wait to cut some doggy’s throat.”
They moved through the open door, past a sign that was much less crude than the shower: ORDNANCE SUPPLY.
The building was mostly a vast open space, the thick odor of gun oil, men with clipboards, others moving crates in through a gaping doorway in the rear. Mortensen led them to a desk, a lieutenant busy at some papers, his single gold bar polished to a high sheen. Mortensen said softly, “You in charge here?”
The man did not look up, said, “What do you think?” The odor of the two uniforms caught him now, and he backed away from his papers, said, “Good God, you boys fall in a latrine?”
Mortensen kept his voice low, leaned close.
“This is what the front lines smell like, sir. The fellow behind me in the clean shirt brought us off the line in G sector, and the colonel’s hopping mad. Says unless we get some shotguns right away, he’s coming down here to rip the asshole out of anyone who gets in his way. Sir, I don’t have to tell you what the colonel’s like when he’s that pissed. We got Japs dropping down in every damn foxhole, and the boys are going nuts up there, taking shots at every officer who walks by. This guy’s clean uniform and all, he damn near started his own firefight. Those boys up there are so whacked-out, they’re shooting anything that don’t look like one of them. The colonel got the word that a bunch of our boys are ganging up to come down here to take care of business with more of you army lads in clean uniforms. My crud-covered buddy here keeps wanting to run his bayonet through this guy, and if I wasn’t bigger than him, he’d have done it.”
As though on cue, Welty reached down, withdrew his K-bar knife, and fingered it with affection, staring at Adams as though ready to carve a roast. Mortensen grabbed Welty by the shoulder, jerked him around.
“Later! This man’s an officer!”
Welty slumped, twitched nervously, the K-bar still in his hand, and Welty seemed to notice the lieutenant for the first time, a broad, lustful smile. Mortensen looked at the officer again, said, “Sir, I’m hauling this one down to the hospital right now. He’s done for. You ever see hair turn that red? The colonel said I’m the only one who can handle him, so here we are. But there’s fifty more headed down here, and the colonel sent me to load up on riot gear. Shotguns are the best we can do, so I need your help, sir. Three