To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [283]
The man on the wagon seemed not to care how many they took, and Temple grabbed a tall stack, followed Scarabelli toward their camp. A stream of men was coming toward them now, smiles and anticipation, the stack disappearing from Temple’s hands in a few seconds. Most of the men dropped down right where they stood, sitting in the grass, scanningthe paper. Temple sat beside Scarabelli, who was turning the pages, searching.
“Here it is. ‘Free Advice for the Lovelorn, by Miss Information.’ This is my favorite part.” Temple tried to find the page, and Scarabelli read aloud, “Dear Miss Information. My girl serves coffee with the Salvation Army, and damned if she isn’t the most perfect angel on this whole wide earth. How many Marines do I have to whip up on before I can actually kiss her full on the lips?”
Temple found the column now, read, then crumpled the paper, looked at Scarabelli. “That’s not what it says. Damn you.”
“Well, it would if you’d sit down and write. The way you were staring at that girl back there, I figure you better do it soon. Your poor heart might flop right out of your chest.”
“Go to hell.”
Around them, the men were laughing, some reading aloud, talk spreading over the hillside. Temple looked up, saw Sergeant Briggs moving toward them in hard quick steps. Briggs was another of the veterans, not as old as Dugan had been, but every bit as grouchy, a hard square man with shoulders like rocks.
“All right! Party’s over! You boys in my squad can get moving right now. Pack up your gear, clean your rifles. The rest of you, find your gear and your sergeants. Orders have come in. Lieutenant Colvin wants everybody prepared to march in one hour. Seems Black Jack wants us to go to work.”
THE BACKPACK WAS TIGHTLY PACKED, THE RIFLE OILED TO A SHEEN, and he saw Scarabelli carrying a load of canteens.
“Here you go. All filled.” He tossed them to the others, handed one to Temple, said, “Platoon’s got lots of new faces. Still can’t remember the names. Looks like we’re close to full strength from what I can see.”
They were gathering their equipment, rifles resting on backpacks, the men checking their gas masks, sharpening bayonets. He saw Parker now, the big man trudging over the hill, a large strange rifle dangling from one arm, several belts of ammunition crisscrossing his chest. Parker saw them now, moved close.
Scarabelli said, “What the hell is that?”
Parker set the gun down, said, “Chauchat.” He paused, seemed to recite from memory: “French-issue eight-millimeter light-field automatic rifle. The lieutenant said it’s mine now. Heavy thing, so they figured a big fellow oughta carry it.”
Temple leaned down, saw a long magazine, said, “Machine gun.”
Parker raised the heavy ammunition belts up over his head, eased them down in a pile, began to pull long magazines out of his pockets.
“Yeah, sort of. Supposed to fire two hundred fifty rounds a minute, but the clips only hold twenty bullets. Goes through ’em pretty quick, when it don’t jam.”
Scarabelli lifted one of the belts, said, “A hundred rounds in each of these damned things? Glad they didn’t give it to me.”
Parker began to sift through his backpack, said, “Don’t count on it, Jersey. The lieutenant told me to pick two buddies, to help carry these belts and clips. I figure you ain’t much of a shot with that Springfield, so I picked you, for one. When the clips run empty, we need to load ’em quick. That means we gotta stick together.”
Temple said, “Well, that’s no problem. I kinda hoped we’d stick together anyway.”
Parker looked at him, shook his head. “Not you, Roscoe. I figure we need your rifle. Don’t want you weighed down. You’re the best shot in the company.” The others had gathered, several men fingering the chauchat. Parker looked around, said, “Okay. Jersey is one. Irish, how ’bout you?”
Brian Murphy had been with the squad from the beginning, a quiet man who seemed perpetually relaxed. Murphy was from New York, but carried none of Scarabelli’s nervous chatter. Four generations of Murphy’s family had been Marines, something that Murphy communicated