The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [163]
The lieutenant sat back in his chair, began to laugh.
“Yeah? What the hell you think we got MPs for? You damn leather-necks pull this crap on me all the time. I might look like some shavetail to you, but I’ve been doing this job for too long. Get lost.”
“I can tell you’re a veteran, sir. You’ve been to the front then?”
“Hell no.”
Mortensen glanced out in both directions, their conversation still not drawing any unwelcome attention.
“Surely, sir, you must hear the reports of what’s going on up there.”
“Nobody tells me a thing, and I like it that way. Now, I said, get lost.”
Mortensen leaned out over the man’s desk, a scattering of dried mud falling on the lieutenant’s papers. The officer stared up at him, more angry now, his face curling even more from the sergeant’s odor.
“Sir, with all due respect. I’ve got men dying by the boatloads. Shotguns are the best weapon against what the Japs are doing up there. If you like, I can have the colonel arrange to send a jeep down, give you a tour. No trouble at all, sir. As many holes as we got in the line, a tough-looking hombre like you could help us out. The platoon leaders we’ve got coming up are, pardon the expression, sir, as worthless as tits on a boar. We could use a veteran like yourself.”
Mortensen leaned even closer, as though showering the lieutenant in as much of his essence as he could.
“I know I can smooth it over with the colonel. I bet you’re itching like hell to get out from behind this desk and get out to where the action is, right, sir?”
The lieutenant stared up at Mortensen, a long, silent pause.
“Three shotguns?”
“And ammo, sir.”
“And ammo. While I’m gone, clean up this crap you dropped all over my desk.”
The man was up now, disappeared down a corridor of steel shelves. To one side several GIs stood, watching the entire scene, all in clean uniforms. One man moved closer, older, and Adams knew the stare of an officer.
“The Marines don’t have their own supply depots?”
Mortensen straightened, stepped toward the officer, his smell moving with him.
“We don’t have shotguns, sir. The army is blessed with the best weapons, and my boys are fighting it out with knives. I’m hoping you’ll allow us this one luxury, sir.”
The officer appraised Mortensen, seemed to appreciate his age.
“Your company get pretty chewed up, then?”
Mortensen didn’t miss a beat.
“Lost most of the company, sir. Trying to do what we can with replacements. You know how that goes. Pretty tough sledding with these new kids they’re sending over.”
The older man nodded, still appraising.
“All right, Captain. Tell Lieutenant Moseby to give you what you need. Won’t be any paperwork problems on this end.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You get your new company together, well, give ’em hell up there. Just … next time, stick to your own depot. You’re drawing flies.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
The lieutenant returned, a clipboard in his hand, three shotguns slung on his shoulder, several belts of shells. He saw the older officer, said, “Major, I was going to get this requisition signed …”
“Sign it yourself, Lieutenant. Just get these stinking bastards out of here.”
“That major thought you were a captain? Hell, Sarge, you can go to the stockade for impersonating an officer!”
“I didn’t impersonate anybody. He just assumed. Sometimes a little gray hair is an asset.”
Adams sat back, shifted on the hard seat, tried to find some angle that didn’t hurt. They had hitched a ride with a truck carrying army and civilian aid workers, the kind of people who wouldn’t have any idea where three Marines were actually supposed to be. Adams examined the shotgun in between his knees, saw concern on the faces across from him, tried not to appear too menacing. Beside him Mortensen fingered his own shotgun, said to a man straight across, “Blows hell out of anything in close range. Kills Japs by the dozen. Best damn weapon man ever invented. You oughta see the guts.”
Adams tried to avoid the horror on those who stared at them, wondered just what aid workers were