To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [282]
Her smile lit every dark place in his soul, and he formed the protest, shook his head, suddenly felt a hand gripping his arm.
“Move along, Marine! Got a whole company back here.”
Temple snapped awake, saw the growling frown on the sergeant’s face. He backed away, watched as Scarabelli had his cup filled, saw her glancing up toward him, a sharp dart that clenched his gut.
Scarabelli was beside him now, said, “Jesus, Farm Boy. You got no girls at home?”
Temple let Scarabelli pull him away, turned with him now, balanced what was left of the coffee in the tin cup. He took a sip, hot and bitter, no sugar, and it curled his tongue.
“Oh . . . this is terrible.”
Scarabelli cradled his cup in both hands, stared into the black liquid. “You’re crazy. This is mother’s milk. You don’t want it, pour it in here.”
“I like it sweet. Back home, we use a lot of cane sugar. My mother liked it like syrup.”
Scarabelli laughed, drank from his cup. “Damn farm boys. I’m never going to the South. You people have some strange damned habits. Coffee has one purpose. It’s the gasoline that starts the motor.”
Temple looked back toward the wrecked house, the Marines still in a long line, the women working to keep it moving. He looked at the girl, saw her smiling at another man, nodding, talking. He felt bruised, a sharp punch to his thoughts. Of course. It wasn’t just you. She’s like that to everybody. He turned away again, his momentary love affair crushed.
Scarabelli was looking at him, said, “I bet you haven’t ever been with a girl, huh, Farm Boy?”
Temple said nothing, pretended to drink the coffee. He was embarrassed now, the usual result of his encounter with girls. He thought of the night in Tallahassee, shortly before he left for Quantico. It had been his first long ride in an automobile, several of his friends daring to make the thirty-mile trip to some kind of social gathering in the capital city that few in Monticello would have approved of. There had been music, and girls who knew something besides life on a farm. His eyes had locked on a dark-haired beauty, and he had stared at her for hours, furious at the boys who danced with her, who dared actually to touch her. It had been a miserably painful night for him, made worse by her glances, curious, inviting, and terrifying. All he had to do was walk across the room and talk to her. But the fear had beaten him, and when the music ended, he had ridden home depressed by the laughter of the others, the good time they would speak of for days. To Temple, it had been a lesson in misery. Some people were meant for the city, so many of his friends had the courage it took to say the right things to the girls. He had convinced himself that when it came to women and marriage, he would simply grow old and die alone. It was far simpler. He glanced at Scarabelli, said, “Hell, yes, I’ve been with girls. Back home the farms are full of ’em.”
Scarabelli finished his coffee, wiped the grounds out of the cup with his finger. “Right. The farms are full of something.”
They moved across the wide roadway, and Temple eyed the company flag, a slow ripple in the distance. They moved out into the open ground, could see the MPs flanking the path that led to the encampment. Scarabelli led the way, and Temple followed without talking, moved past the guards, crested the low hill, saw a wagon towed by a scrawny horse. A man stood up high in the wagon, tossed out bundles of white paper, and Scarabelli ran forward now, said, “Heeyoo! Stars and Stripes!”
Temple had not thought of the newspaper for weeks now. He enjoyed reading the news, the army’s own version of events tending to be less ridiculous than what he read in the occasional glimpse from some American paper. Stars and Stripes had first been published a short time after Temple arrived in France, and many of the men, especially Scarabelli, treasured every page, scoured every word. Scarabelli had his own copy now, held it up toward Temple.
“Come on! Get you one! Let’s get a bunch of ’em! We’ll take em back to platoon.