The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [164]
He had no idea why Mortensen had wanted shotguns at all, and even now with the heavy piece in his hand, he wasn’t sure why it was any better than the M-1, or Mortensen’s Thompson. But the sergeant showed perfect certainty, and Adams had accepted Mortensen’s authority, as much as he had respected Ferucci. Just like Welty, Mortensen was a longtime veteran, and from the grim efficiency in the man’s authority, Adams assumed the sergeant had seen and done more than anyone in the platoon, maybe the company. He didn’t actually know that, of course, but he understood what that supply officer had seen, why the major had assumed Mortensen to be a company commander. Yep, a little gray hair goes a long way. There’s a whole hell of a lot of us that ain’t making it that far. Mortensen was a graphic contrast to the replacements, the men who came forward with what seemed to be utter brainlessness, an affliction apparent even in the new lieutenants. In the same truck, four of those men sat in the rear, two across, crisp new army uniforms, the faces of panicked children. They wore the insignia of their units, something any veteran sergeant would immediately rip away when they reached their destination. Their boots were even shinier than Adams’s, one man a sergeant, his stripes newly sewn onto a jacket that had never seen the outdoors. Beside Adams, Mortensen seemed to share his thoughts, leaned forward, said, “Any of you boys shave yet?”
They tried to respond by haughty silence, as though their training made them seasoned, too grizzled for such abuse. But one of them broke ranks, stared at the filthy uniforms of Mortensen and Welty, said, “Marines, huh? I hear you boys had it kinda rough. How many Japs you kill?”
The voice betrayed the man’s age, and Adams guessed, seventeen, if that old. Mortensen sat back, ignored the man, Welty keeping silent as well.
“Maybe you haven’t killed any? That it? Might explain why you’re riding up to the line. They grab you for running away? Heard Marines don’t like it when their own shag ass.”
Adams stared at the sneer on the chalky face, the sound of snottiness in his voice. Something cold and nasty suddenly rolled over in Adams’s brain, the man not even looking at him, focused more on the men with the dirty uniforms. He thinks I’m just like him, Adams thought. Clean uniform, so I’m one of them, another man who thinks he knows everything, who thinks he knows … the thoughts were overrun by his anger, and he slammed the shotgun down between his knees, said, “Listen, you little turd. We’ve all killed Japs. We’re not done killing Japs. If I can, I’ll kill every damn Jap on this island, and when I’m done, I’ll go to Japan and kill every damn one there. Those sons of bitches killed my sergeant, they killed my lieutenant, and they killed half my company. I killed one with my knife. I blew one up with a grenade, and they nearly did the same to me. They dumped mortar shells on me until I couldn’t take it anymore, but I’m taking it anyway! I’m going back up there because my buddies need me, they need every damn one of us who knows what it takes to kill Japs! You hear me?”
He was shouting now, ignored the hand pulling on his arm, tried to stand in the rolling truck, fought the grip from Mortensen, the sergeant silent, pulling him back to the seat. But the words wouldn’t stop, the four replacements leaning back away from him, obvious fear. Adams pulled free of Mortensen’s grip, leaned closer to the man with the attitude, the attitude erased completely.
“I’ve seen them kill people I’ve known since training, and I’ve seen them kill corpsmen