To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [16]
They eased around a curve in the trench, and he saw more dugouts, but no signs of men.
“Take any of these. Make it your own. Mine’s right here. Château Duke.” Duke sat, reached back into the small cave, pulled out a heavy backpack, then leaned farther inside the dugout, dragged out a wooden crate. “Here you go. Duke’s Fine Eatery. Used to be Duke’s Pub, but the rum’s been scarce for a while.”
He sat, watched as Duke picked through the crate, all sizes of metal tins, some with labels, some unmarked.
“Only have what comes in the tin cans. Rats get everything else. I’d offer you a spare backpack, but the rats chew those up too. We lose a man and before he’s even to the ambulance, the rats have cleaned up any sign of him. Supply pretty good about replacing equipment though. I’ll make sure the lieutenant sends word back.”
“Thank you. Your name really Duke?”
The man kept searching, examining the tins, said, “Doesn’t matter. The only man who needs to know names is the lieutenant, so your mama can get her letter.” He shoved the crate back into the dugout, spread the variety of food on the ground in front of him. “Take your pick. Bully beef, jam, canned biscuits. More bully beef. Never run out of that. Great factories all over England devoted to turning a perfectly respectable cow into this bloody swill.”
He was suddenly very hungry, reached for a tin of the beef. Duke said, “We can heat it up. Got a Tommy cooker back here somewhere.”
“No, it’s all right. This’ll do.”
Duke laughed, said, “If you say so. You passed your first test, Greenie. A rare display of courage.”
He felt around his belt, drew his bayonet, stabbed at the tin. The thick brine sprayed out, the pickle smell now overpowering. He kept cutting the tin, finally ripped a large hole in the top, stabbed at the dense wad of meat, held it up, the salty liquid dripping down the dull blade of the bayonet. He took a large bite, and Duke laughed again, said, “Slow down, Greenie. This isn’t Blighty. They trained us to eat a whole meal in ten seconds. Out here, you have all day. If Fritz hasn’t attacked us by now, we have the rest of the day off.”
He could feel Duke watching him, felt genuine warmth in the man, not like any of the others. He took a long drink from his water bottle, felt a dent in the tin, realized now the bottle had been hit by shrapnel. Duke saw him fingering the dent, said, “The bloke who led you up here, Cower. A good man, you know. He’d volunteer to bring up the replacements every time. Finally, the captain stopped asking the rest of us, just gave him the job for the whole battalion. He used to fetch a hundred at a clip, but lately, we might see a couple dozen. Or . . . one.” Duke paused, gathered up the empty food tins. “Supply will probably refit you, new backpack and all. Could take a while. I can loan you a few things.” Duke pointed. “You still got the important things: bayonet, gas mask.” Duke ran his fingers down both sides of his stomach, scratched hard, dug fingers into his filthy shirt, made a small grunt. “Got him. Little bastard. They got to you yet? Too soon, I bet. Give ’em a day. One thing about cooties: you’ll never worry about being alone.”
He had heard all the stories about cooties, that every man in every trench was infested. It was unavoidable, some kind of lice that found its way into your clothes, and multiplied until it tormented every part of a man’s body. At Blighty, they had issued each man a small container of Insect Powder, and the sergeants were quick to point out the description on the label: Good for Body Lice, with the assurance that indeed, it was. The cooties loved the stuff.
“You best clean your rifle. I’ve some oil here, a pull-through. Digger says you’re going up on the line tonight. Your rifle better be clean. Only thing that makes Digger mad.”
“The corporal?”
“Digger. Word of advice. When they issue you a new pack, store the gun oil with the cheese ration. Makes the cheese taste like sardines. You smoke?”
“Uh, no.”
“You will. I have a good bit of shag here. Not sure