The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [73]
“Use it all, every bit. Nothing wasted. It’ll do a man far more good in his veins than on the ground. Any questions? Good. Now, on to the last matter. The division is issuing every one of you a prophylactic. At least one, though I’d like to see you each carry a dozen. We’ve been dealing with enough cases of venereal disease that you’d think someone upstairs would appreciate the need for the damned things. They will be included with your other equipment.”
“Hey, Doc, we won’t be needing those things anymore. They locked the gates, and all the Red Cross girls went home. There’s not a gal anywhere around here. You know when they’re coming back?”
Adams looked toward the voice; Marley, a broad smile on the big man’s face. Beside him, another man spoke.
“You chased them all away, Dex. They get one look at the size of those boots and run like hell.”
Adams was in no mood for this kind of fun. “All right, shut the hell up. Doc’s got a lot to do. He can’t waste his time listening to you morons.”
“Actually, Sergeant, your man asks a good question. The Red Cross has withdrawn their personnel from this base and, as I understand it, other bases as well. The ladies did brighten the place up. I doubt they’ll return before—um—before we receive our assignment.”
There was no response.
“You get that?” Adams said. “The girls are gone. You should be paying attention to that. Same reason no one’s going to town anymore. You idiots think this is a game? Put your mind on one thing and one thing only. We’re getting orders soon, and when those orders come you’ll find out what all this training has been for.”
“Hey, Sarge, is that why they’re feeding us better?”
Adams looked at Marley and thought about the food. I’ll be damned. He’s right.
“Could be. I figure the officers were getting pretty sick of cabbage and brussels sprouts. But maybe they think we need fattening up.”
There were more laughs, and another man spoke: Buford, one of the newer replacements.
“Sounds like they’re treating us like hogs going to slaughter, Sarge.”
“All right, shut up. Let the doc finish.”
The doctor was leaning low, close to Unger. “Oh, dear me. Private, are you conscious?”
Adams moved closer, saw Unger’s mouth open, heard slow breathing, the hint of a snore. The doctor looked up at him.
“This happens every now and then. The morphine affects some people more severely than others. It appears Private Unger will be sleeping for a while.” He stood up, stretched his back, rubbed a hand through the short gray beard. “I didn’t realize he was so thin. My mistake. Very sorry.”
Adams saw Unger’s eyes twitch, heard a low grunt. He looked at his watch. “All right, it’s close to chow time. Hit your quarters for ten minutes. I’ll take care of this idiot.”
The men were up and running, the usual routine, a double-timed jog everywhere they went. Adams bent low. With the doctor helping from the other side, Unger was hoisted up and over Adams’s shoulder. He began to move away, Unger’s head flopping against his back, the words of the doctor behind him.
“Truly sorry. Actually, he looks a bit young.”
They stood in the usual chow line, a crackling chatter of music from a radio, some bouncy tune Adams didn’t know. He didn’t pay much attention to the popular songs, heard the names tossed around, Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller, the men speaking lustfully about the girl singers. Their posters draped the walls of the mess hall, movie stars as well: the leggy Betty Grable, a sultry stare from Rita Hayworth. Adams ignored most of that, didn’t attend the occasional films, tried not to pay attention to the noisy speculation that Bob Hope would come. No one is coming now, he thought. The gates are locked. No time for dance parties.
The kitchen staff was lined up behind large steel bins, spooning out what seemed to be some sort of green vegetable, beside a large bucket of what Adams guessed to be creamed corn. But every man had picked up the new smell and stood in reverent silence, watching the last server digging a long fork into a huge pile of thick steaming