To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [247]
The voice silenced them all, and Temple tried to see the man’s face, saw only the hulking shadow of the sergeant. Men were moving to their blankets all through the barn.
Ballou said quietly, “Marching where? Anybody heard?”
Scarabelli emerged from his blanket, said, “I don’t give a damn. Anywhere that don’t stink.”
Ballou moved up closer, ignored the protest from Scarabelli.
“Since nobody asked me where the hell I been, I’ll tell you. I found a place in the village that had some ving blonk. They took a wad of their money for it, but if they’re going to pay us in franks, we might as well get some good use out of it.”
The others gathered closer, sharp whispers, and Ballou pulled two bottles from his shirt.
“One with ink. The other’s clean.”
Scarabelli laughed, and Temple flinched from the volume, other men hissing him quiet. Scarabelli ignored them, said, “You dumb cowboy. You mean red? There’s two kind of wine, red and white.”
There was silence, and Scarabelli made a short grunt. “It’s not ink. It’s the grapes. It’s just . . . red.”
Temple was curious now, had long suspected that Scarabelli knew much more about the world than any of the rest of them.
Ballou handed the small man the bottles, said, “All right, Jersey, since you’re the damned expert, tell me how they make it red. If it’s all wine, how come it’s different colors? I’ve been told they do it with ink.”
“Who the hell told you that?”
Parker sat up now, the big man leaning close to Scarabelli.
“I told him, Jersey. I figured it out myself. According to the sergeant, ving is French for wine. Blonk means white. You just gotta use your head.”
Scarabelli began to examine the bottles, said, “Never mind. You bring a cork puller, Cowboy?”
There was silence again.
“How you expect to open the bottles?”
“Shut the hell up!”
The sergeant was hovering over them now, and Temple lay back on his blanket.
Scarabelli said, “Sorry, Sarge. I was just trying to educate these dumb bastards about wine.”
“What wine?”
“Um, right here, Sarge.”
Ballou said, “I bought ’em in town, Sarge. Figured it was a good way to get rid of this damned funny money.”
The sergeant squatted down, said in a low voice, “I could use a gulp. God knows I’ll never get any sleep with the lieutenant jumping my ass every half hour. What you got?”
Scarabelli held out a bottle, said, “We just need something to get the cork out.”
The sergeant pulled a long thin knife from his boot, said, “The right tool for the right job. Remember that. Now, which one we got here? With ink or without?”
MAY 31, 1918
Breakfast had been cold and quick, and at five o’clock, they were packed into the trucks. The sergeant sat in the rear, stared down at his boots, never looked up at any of them. Temple was used to it by now, that so many of them always traveled in grim silence. He passed the time by watching them, wondering about their thoughts, trying to read through the silent habits of so many. He respected the men who stayed so tightly inside themselves, knew that some were praying, others probably composing letters they may not have the chance to write. Some of the veterans seemed to think about nothing at all, rode with their eyes closed, heads bobbing, men with the amazing talent for sleeping anywhere, saving themselves for whatever effort might be in front of them. Others chatted quietly, meaningless conversation whether anyone was listening or not. Temple simply watched, if not the men, then the land they passed, the houses and farms, small villages, glimpses of old bent men, working the fields alongside their women. He glanced at Scarabelli, who sat across from him, couldn’t help smiling at the small man who seemed so annoyed at everything around him. Scarabelli still grumbled about the great mounds of manure that adorned each farmhouse, and Temple thought, This is not a place many of us will visit again.
They had ridden for nearly an hour, a long caravan of trucks. Temple imagined that far up the line, the senior officers were probably riding in autos,