To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [281]
It had taken the division more time than expected to establish the delousing stations. But the filth was gone now, and as they rode back to their camps in the village, each man savored the feel of clean clothing. The veterans were laughing, warning the new men: enjoy every moment of it. It won’t last long. As they reached the battered village, the men had been allowed some free time, precious moments to write letters, some, like Parker, wandering off to find some quiet place to add pages to his diary. Temple and many of the others had caught the astounding aroma of fresh coffee.
He stood in line, savored the smell, all the men straining to see the hands that held the coffeepots. The tables were set up just inside the wreck of an old house. The front of the house had been blown away, the rubble and stone piled along each side, someone’s effort to clear the roadway. It had been a two-story house, the upstairs walls leaning inward, barely supporting the floor that curved down into a grotesque smile. But few of the men paid attention to the house or the destruction. As he inched closer to the wrecked house, Temple could see the painted sign, wedged upright into a neat pile of old brick: SALVATION ARMY
The name was vaguely familiar, but like most of the men, Temple had no idea what they did. Now he understood. These outposts had become a marvelous oasis, a small piece of luxury in the massive swamp of men and equipment. The soldiers had learned that these places could be found all throughout the American lines, some dangerously close to the front. They were usually set up in hastily constructed shelters, temporary locations that catered to the movement of the men they served. They were staffed by American civilians, and the smaller canteens in the villages offered little more than hot coffee and a doughnut. But far more than the simple offering, the Salvation Army and others—the YMCA and the Knights of Columbus—were a reminder that somewhere, far beyond this war, there was a nation that had not forgotten them. And they offered one more bit of sunshine as well. Nearly every one of the Salvation Army outposts was staffed by a small group of women.
Temple could see them now, was surprised to see uniforms, each one wearing a hat, her hair pulled tightly back. There were four of them, one much older, stout and matronly, clearly in command. But Temple focused on the others, sweating faces and young hands, working to fill the coffee cups, passing doughnuts out to the men from a massive tin tray. He was there now, held out the cup, heard the man in front of him say something crude and idiotic to the girl, her smile fading for a brief moment. But then she was looking at Temple, held the dark metal pot out toward him, said, “Here you go, Soldier.”
Temple felt feathers in his throat, stared into soft blue eyes, a spray of freckles dancing across the girl’s cheeks. She filled the cup slowly, a slight quiver in her hand from the weight of the pot. Temple could not take his eyes from her. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She glanced up at him, and he felt scalding pain, jerked his hand back, the cup tossing more of the steaming coffee on his arm.
She said, “Oh! I’m terribly sorry. Oh dear! Let me get a cloth.”
He rubbed his arm, saw the painful concern in her face, felt suddenly guilty. “Oh, no, it’s all right.”
She shook her head, and he thought she was going to cry. “I can be so clumsy. Please forgive me. I heard your accent and . . . I’m so embarrassed.”
He heard her accent as well, the soft lilt of magnolia blossoms. He was smiling at her now, and she seemed to blush.
“Please forgive me, Soldier.” She returned the smile, and he was frozen in place, held motionless by the soft glow in her eyes.
Behind him, Scarabelli said, “Oh, for Chrissakes! Miss, he’s a Marine. If he doesn’t get hurt at least twice a day, he might as well stay in bed! Can I get some coffee?”
“Oh, yes, a