The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [47]
Ferucci moved up to the long table, his plate filled quickly. At the far end of the table, Lieutenant Porter waited, watching, and Adams saw a silent nod toward Ferucci. The lieutenant held a grim stare, a glance toward Adams, then the others as they came up behind. Adams liked Porter, kept that to himself, knew the men didn’t talk kindly about officers very often. But there was something solid about the man, the kind of energy that Adams hoped was contagious, the look in the man’s eye that Adams interpreted as concern for his men, and more, an officer who could lead. He didn’t know what kind of action Porter had seen, how many men he had led into horrible places, how many of those had gone down. The man kept just enough steel in his stare to keep the questions away, and Adams felt the same confidence that the rest of the platoon seemed to expect. They might still make jokes about officers, but in this platoon, Porter was in charge.
Behind the table, a row of sailors were dishing out the food. Behind them stood an officer, the source of the ongoing pep talk.
“Eat up! Put a steak in your pocket if you want to! When was the last time you had ice cream? There’s plenty.”
More of the men were filling their plates, and Adams smelled the coffee now, caught the officer’s eye.
“Belly up to the table, Private! Take plenty!”
Adams was close to the massive pile of steaks now, the sailor across from him holding a long, thin fork.
“How many?”
“Just one, I guess.”
Behind Adams, another man fell out, soft words, “Can’t do it.”
Adams tried to ignore him, knew it was another of the veterans. The sailor smiled at him now.
“One more for you, Marine. Here, take two.”
Adams felt the weight dropping on his tray, moved farther along the table, saw the eggs, piled high, another sailor holding a large spoon.
“Here you go. Fresh from the navy’s own chickens. Bet you didn’t know we had a henhouse. The captain gets his over easy, every morning.”
The other sailors laughed at their own joke, the food passing from spoon and fork to the tin plates on the trays, the line continuing, coffee poured into tin cups. Adams saw the heavy tubs of ice cream, stared at the mountain of food on his tray, saw a wave from the lieutenant.
“This way, Private. Through the hatch. Find a place to sit.”
The words were automatic, Porter’s face still grim, tight, and Adams followed the instructions, moved through a hatchway into a cramped mess hall, benches and narrow tables. Men were sitting tightly against one another on the benches, some on the floor, and Adams searched for a spot, saw no space, leaned toward a bulkhead beside him, put his back against the steel. He picked up his fork, probed the eggs, the steak beneath the yellow heap, hesitated, looked out across the mess hall, saw men staring down at their plates, almost no one eating. One man stood, left his tray on the table, hurried out quickly, past him. No one reacted, and Adams realized the room was silent, no sound of tin plates, no one talking at all. He wanted to say something, to ask, but something in his brain told him to keep quiet. Three A.M., he thought. Guess it’s kinda tough to eat much. I’d rather be sleeping.
He had felt the tension all night, few men talking at all. But when the mess call came, everyone had reacted as they always reacted, orderly, automatic, following the lieutenant to their designated mess. The food had been an amazing surprise, but many of the veterans were angry at that, a strange reaction. He saw the same anger now, the faces staring downward, one man suddenly throwing his fork against a bulkhead, a sharp clatter, no one responding. The man still sat with fists curled on either side of his tray, said, “Another last meal. How many more times we gotta do this?”
Adams saw movement beside him, the lieutenant coming in through the hatchway.
“Knock it off, Yablonski. You don’t want to eat, don’t eat. You got a bitch, you air it to me. Let these men eat.”
Adams had never liked Yablonski, the man always angry, always trying to pick a fight. Adams had obliged