The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [234]
TRAIN STATION, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
AUGUST 14, 1945
The train rolled slowly to a stop, the hard squeal of steel beneath him, the cars now jerking to a halt. Around him people began to rise, a burst of movement, suitcases pulled down from shelves above, a hum of activity surrounding him, keeping him pressed to the seat. He felt self-conscious about the uniform, had seen the looks, the attention of the other passengers, the long journey from San Diego seeming to take an eternity. There had been some attempts at conversation, the men mostly, curious, probing him in that carefree way, as though being male gave them some sense of sharing, that his experience was a part of their own, no matter that they had spent the war as civilians.
There had been other troops on the train as well, one sailor, who stayed to himself, two army officers, who ignored this young Marine completely, who spoke with a little too much brashness, attracting attention by the jauntiness of their caps. No matter where they had served, Adams knew it had been nowhere close to a fight.
The women had stayed quiet, one in particular, older, deep sad eyes, and he had avoided her, felt the attention coming from her as though she needed something from him, something too uncomfortable for him to offer. After so many hours it had come to him, a flash of understanding, that she had suffered a deep and tragic loss. He would not ask, would avoid speaking to her at all, and she had not tried to break that shield. But more than once he had seen her face cupped by a handkerchief, her grief ripped bare to the passengers around her. He finally understood she was reacting to his uniform. He felt some kind of responsibility, a flicker of guilt, had thought of talking to her. But his shield was solid and immovable, and no matter what inspired her tears, he could do nothing to take away her pain without bringing on his own horrific memories. Even in the crowded car he fought to keep their voices far away. He had no interest in eavesdropping on the trivial, someone’s details of a trip to the doctor, a sister’s wedding, all the while the older men seeking out some kind of story from him, something they could pass on to someone else, party conversation, chatter in a bar. Hey, I met this Marine … a hero … medals.
Even as he deflected their conversation, the question had come to him. What must they hear? Why do they care what I went through, how many dead men I saw, how many Japs I killed? This war wasn’t for anyone’s entertainment, for God’s sake.
He had heard about the military hospital, a visit by the movie star John Wayne. It was pure Hollywood, some press agent’s good idea that the star saunter into a ward of badly injured men in full Western regalia, as though by Wayne’s heroic presence, a pair of six-shooters and jingling spurs, he would brighten the mood of broken and bloodied men. The response had shocked even the doctors, the wounded troops greeting this big-time star with a chorus of boos and catcalls. If I had been there, I would have done the same thing, he thought. Blood is not ketchup, a friend’s death is not about dragging tears from the girl in the front row. Those wounded men are changed for all time, and some fake hero isn’t going to erase anything they did, or bring back anyone they lost.
Adams stood, the crowd in the aisles thinning out, gathering outside on the concrete platform. He felt strangely nervous, reached for his seabag, would never look at the heavy green canvas without thinking of Guam.
The Marines had been sent there from Okinawa, mostly to rest and refit, and Adams had witnessed a scene that had stunned him. Massive piles of the green duffel bags, what the sailors and Marines called seabags, had been tossed into a pile, doused with gasoline, and set on fire. There had been only one explanation. Those bags, and all they contained, had belonged to the men killed in action. According to some rule Adams would never understand, the seabags were simply burned. He had watched the pyre with a sickening sense of loss, had been forced