The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [62]
“I’ll boil you, you stupid son of a bitch. Captain says there’s all kinds of diseases we can catch, typhoid, or the plague or something. I’m not being your damn nursemaid if you start crying about your guts coming out. We got our own rations, and that’s what we’re gonna eat. You got that?”
Adams saw others watching him, heard the laughter.
“Got it, Sarge.”
He started to move out toward the road, heard Yablonski call out, “Hey, Sarge! I’m grabbing these straw things. Make a good bed in my foxhole. You want one?”
It was Yablonski’s usual game, offering to share anything resembling loot with the one man who would otherwise object to him taking it. Adams had heard the lectures about that, the captain preaching about leaving the civilians alone, making friends, so the Okinawans would be more helpful. But Lieutenant Porter hadn’t said anything about the minor treasures Yablonski had found, trinkets mostly, stuffed into his backpack. It bothered Adams at first, but he was growing numb to that now, the people mostly filthy and frightened, no one offering any information where the Japanese might be.
Ferucci looked at the thin mat, woven bamboo, said, “Yeah, fine. I’m sick of sleeping on dirt. I bet there’s more of them things.” He called out now, “Hey! You guys see these mat things, grab ’em. We could use a little luxury.”
Beside the road, the lieutenant watched the scene play out, no objection, seemed as impatient as his men, ready to move on to the next village. Adams felt an itch on his leg, reached down, scratched, saw Welty coming back toward him, the other men gathering, their job complete. Adams looked again at the approaching storm, glanced at his wristwatch. It’s after five. Time to start digging again. Welty moved toward him, and Adams said, “Another day of fun. Maybe we oughta grab some of those mats too. I still got dirt in my ass from this morning.”
Welty shrugged, leaned low, scratched his own leg, said, “There was some cloth back there, maybe sheets or something. I’ll grab ’em.”
Adams felt a hint of guilt, thought, these damn people don’t have a pot to piss in … but the itching came again, and he tugged at his dungarees, tried to relieve the discomfort. Yeah, enough of this. They got beds, we got dirt.
The holes had been dug, Adams shifting the dirty white cloth beneath him, not nearly as much padding as he had hoped. He began poking through the backpack for his rations, and across from him Welty did the same. The daylight was almost completely gone, and Ferucci appeared above them, said, “Starting to rain. Grab your ponchos. One man two on, then two off.”
He was gone quickly, repeating the words a few yards away. Welty pulled his poncho from the backpack, said, “I hate the rain. You’re lucky, New Mexico and all. I’d trade Virginia for the desert any day.”
“It’s not all desert. We get rain. Monsoon season, comes up from Mexico. It’s a bitch. Can’t do anything outside but slide in the mud.”
The conversation faded away, Adams fumbling with his own poncho, sliding it over his head, replacing his helmet. He put his hands on the cardboard of a K ration box, felt a rumble in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since morning, but had no appetite for the small can of stew, or whatever else the supply people had thought was an amusing addition to their meals. There was a stinging itch on his backside, and he shifted his bottom against the ground, but the itching wouldn’t stop. Now there were more, along his belt, and he shoved his hands down his pants, said, “What the hell?”
Welty was scratching at his stomach, suddenly jumped up, said, “Ah! There’s bugs! Damn!”
Adams stood as well, looked down at the white cloth, bent low, grabbed it, tugged, said, “Get off this thing. It’s infested with something.”
Welty was scratching furiously at his legs, and Adams yanked the cloth up, tossed it out of the foxhole. He heard laughter, but now there was cursing, close by, Yablonski, “There’s damn critters all over me! Itches like hell! Hey Sarge!”
“Shut up! I got ’em too. It’s this bamboo stuff, these mats.”
Adams crawled up