The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [48]
Porter waited silently for a response, kept his eye on Yablonski’s back. Yablonski seemed to ignore the lieutenant, said, “I’m sick of this! How many times they expect us to do this?” He turned, faced the lieutenant now. “I made it this far … how many lives you think I have left? Any of us? We’ve lived through fight after fight, and the ones who made it this far are just plain lucky. So, they’re gonna keep sending us in until we get it? Is that the way this goes?”
“Outside, Private. Now.”
The lieutenant stayed calm, the order coming without anger. Adams felt a cold chill in Yablonski’s stare, the man rising slowly. Yablonski stepped back away from the bench, moved away from the lieutenant, toward the far hatchway. Adams waited for the order bringing Yablonski back, sending him below, but the lieutenant said, “That’s right. Go topside. Get some air. All hell’s about to break loose, and you might wanna watch that. See what we’re doing to those yellow bastards.”
Yablonski didn’t respond, disappeared through the hatchway, and Adams felt the cold still, the man’s anger hanging in the room. Most of the men kept their stare on their untouched food, no one looking at the lieutenant. Adams couldn’t look at the tray, his appetite gone, could feel it now, more than ever before. Men were shivering, hands shaking, one fork rattling in a manic chatter against a tin plate.
“Easy, boys. We’ll be on that beach soon enough. You start shooting Japs, you’ll feel a hell of a lot better.” Porter paused. “Look at me! All of you!”
Heads turned slowly, and Adams saw the eyes, some with tears. The lieutenant stepped close to one table, reached over a man’s shoulder, picked up a steak from the man’s plate, held it in the air, grease dripping from his fingers. Porter seemed to wait, had their full attention, then made a quick shout, pulled at the steak with both hands, ripping it in half. He stuffed one piece in his mouth, ripped away the excess, threw it hard over their heads, a wet slap against the bulkhead. Adams stared at the lieutenant with wide eyes, saw a glimmer of madness, and now Porter finished chewing the meat in his mouth, then began to laugh, a low chuckle. He held his hands out, the juice still dripping, “That’s what I’m going to do to the first Jap bastard I see! How about you!”
He pointed at one man closest to him and the man responded, “I’ll rip those sons of bitches in half!”
The mess seemed to explode with voices, the others responding. The lieutenant kept up the calls, one fist pounding the table, and Adams knew it was calculated, but he couldn’t help himself, was caught up in the flow of emotion, the curses and shouts, the anger and fear turning outward. Men were ripping meat from their teeth, more steaks thrown against the bulkheads. Adams grabbed a blob of melting ice cream, held it out toward the lieutenant, then threw it hard to the deck, straight down, a splash of white on his boondockers. Porter watched him, the same steel in the man’s eyes, the lieutenant poking his finger close to Adams’s face, the words in a low, hard hiss.
“What are you going to do on that beach, Private?”
“Kill Japs, sir!”
“How many Japs, Private?”
“All of them, sir!”
Porter looked back across the mess, the faces changed, the tears gone, men standing, no time for food now. Porter gave them direction, harnessing the outburst, pointed toward the hatchway, the only order they needed. Plates clattered, food falling to the