The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [42]
Monroe Pullman had come to Benning from the Virginia Military Institute and never hesitated to mention that General George Marshall had passed through the same historic hallways. The men in the platoon weren’t nearly as impressed by that as Pullman himself. Adams knew that Pullman was barely his own age, twenty-two, and the fact that he had made lieutenant was an eyebrow-raising surprise. The lieutenants were the most unpredictable group in the army, some earning the label ninety-day wonders and never rising past it. Adams scanned the hangar, searched for Pullman, didn’t see him. Probably getting coffee. Man drinks more damned coffee than anyone I’ve ever seen. Not sure what that means about his leadership, but if he does that in combat, at least he’ll be awake.
He moved close to one of the long tables, scanning the rows of packs, the chutes mostly secured, a few of the men still struggling with the folds. He had no patience for the slow ones. How many times had they done this? And they still can’t do it right?
“Speed it up! It’s almost time for chow, and no one in this squad goes to the mess until every chute passes inspection!”
One man spoke, unfamiliar, from the far end of the table.
“Hey, Sarge, I didn’t come all the way over here just to stand in the rain. Does it ever stop? I heard them planes out there are just fakes. I coulda stayed home if all we was gonna do was go swimming.”
Adams stepped that way. One of the new men, Dexter something. He saw the man’s chute still on the table, saw the smart-assed smile as the man turned away from him. Adams felt the anger rising. I have no patience for this, he thought. No patience for anyone’s bitching, no patience for anything at all.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Private Dexter Marley, Sarge.”
“Marley. You’re new.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“Look at me, girlie.”
The man turned toward him. Adams ignored the others, knew they were all watching.
“Name’s Marley, Sarge.”
“Not in this outfit. Not until you learn to get your chute packed as quick as the rest of us. And not until you learn that bitching about the weather just pisses people off. You ever actually jump out of a C-47, girlie?”
Adams saw the man inflate, preparing for an argument, the man’s pride taking over. Beside him, a hand gripped Marley’s arm.
“He’s OK, Sarge. Dex doesn’t know the drill yet.”
Adams knew the voice: Unger, the kid, pimples and all.
“Shut up, Unger.”
Marley was looking at him now, and Adams saw the glint of defiance, a big man who believed he could stand up to his short stocky sergeant. It was another spurt of fuel on Adams’s fire.
“So, girlie, you’ve made some friends here. Well, right now you don’t have any friends. I think you’re a screwup, and in this company, we handle screwups one way.” He was pulsing mad, saw a hint of fear on Marley’s face, more fuel. “You listen to me, Private. The next time we jump, you’ll be right next to me, I’ll be the one checking your gear. I’ll be the one who shoves you out the door of that damned plane, and I’ll be the one who might accidentally unhook your line.”
He stopped, hollow silence in the massive hangar, felt himself sweating, knew he was being abominably stupid. Marley’s defiance was gone, replaced by blinking fear, and Adams held his stare, the man several inches taller, broad-chested, thick arms. Adams felt the fight coming, felt his hands balling up, focused on the man’s chin, the target.
“Morning, Sergeant. Everything all right here?”
The voice