The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [63]
“Get your asses back in your holes! What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Adams dropped down, Welty beside him, still scratching, and Ferucci said, “I don’t know! I got bugs on me!”
From the other foxholes, the chorus was the same, and Welty shouted out, “It’s fleas! Sir, it’s fleas! I know it.”
Adams froze for a silent moment, heard more cursing, the mystery of their ailment suddenly explained. But Adams ignored that, stared at Welty, felt a hot burst of fear, the word punching him. Sir.
“Damn, Jack. Don’t … do that.”
Welty seemed oblivious, was rubbing furiously at his legs, and Adams eased his head up, looked for the lieutenant, wanted to do something to correct the mistake. It was full dark now, the curses still coming, and he heard rustling, the sounds of the mats tossed up onto the ground, everyone’s mistake.
“Don’t do what?”
Adams lowered his voice to a whisper.
“You called him … sir.”
Welty stopped moving, but only for a brief second. But he lowered his voice as well.
“Sorry. No harm done. No Japs around here, least not any we’ve seen today.”
“Yeah, well, you know the order.”
Welty said nothing, rubbed his legs again, and Adams said, “I’ll take the first two, okay? I’m not gonna eat. My gut’s kinda messed up.”
“Sure.”
Adams stood slowly, knew that all across the rocky ground, the others were doing the same, the two men in each foxhole dividing the watch duty between them. If there was sleep at all, a man could get close to two hours while his buddy kept his eyes out for any Japanese infiltrators. The orders had been specific, the lieutenant passing on what came from above, that the Japanese had already been tormenting some of the army and Marine units by slipping into their positions at night. Makes sense, he thought. If they’re that damn good at hiding in this stuff, they could be anywhere. He thought of Welty’s error. That could be real bad. If something happens to the lieutenant because one of us singled him out …
His knees were bent under him, raising his head up to just above the level of the foxhole. He felt the rain now, the ground around him splattering with hard, fat drops. Damn, this is gonna be one crappy night. He knew the orders, had no choice but to watch the darkness, knew that all out across the stretch of low hills, the other platoons were doing the same, an entire company holding positions alongside the fields beside this one road. The rain was growing more intense, muddy drops splashing into his face. He pulled at the hood of the poncho, the plastic sheeting noisy, made noisier by the rain, small rivers of water finding their way in, slipping down his shirt. Some army guy had to invent these things, he thought. And the ones that didn’t work, they gave to us. The itching was still there, and he fought it, thought, maybe the rain will drown those little sons of bitches. Fleas. Who in hell would think the Okies carried fleas? I haven’t seen a single dog yet.
His knees were soaked, the water pooling in the bottom of the foxhole, and he tried to lean back, felt soft mud everywhere he touched. He glanced toward Welty, knew better than to say anything, thought, you’ll be asleep in minutes. Never saw anything like it. I could be beating hell out of you with a baseball bat and you’d sleep right through it. How’d you even eat in this stuff? The damn stew is bad enough without Okie rainwater …
The short quick steps moved right past him, sharp splashes in the mud, and now another, one behind the other. He felt a stab of panic, started to call out, the sounds choked away by the shock. More steps came, quick, running, and he reached for his rifle, tried to bring it up, his hands wet, clumsy, the barrel jabbed into the side of the foxhole. He kicked Welty, but the man had already heard, was up as well, his M-1 pointed back to where the sounds had gone. Out to