To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [296]
“You an officer?”
Parker didn’t respond, and after a moment said, “You’ll be okay. Just sit quiet. You just need some rations.”
The word drilled into Temple, rations, his brain focusing on the hollow chasm in his gut. They sat in dark silence again, the artillery barrage a constant rumble, aimed at some distant target.
After a long quiet moment, Scarabelli said, “Pretty amazing watching those Moroccans. Good damned fighters. Never seen Frenchmen fight like that.”
Another voice came through the darkness, down to the left.
“I heard they enjoy it. They don’t shoot much. Rifle’s nothing more than the butt end of a bayonet. Vicious sons of bitches. Cut a man to pieces for the fun of it.”
“Glad they’re on our side.”
Temple heard a commotion down the trench, whispers flowing up toward them.
“Rations! Food carriers are here!”
Scarabelli said, “I’ll be damned. You were right, Mountain Man. Maybe you oughta be an officer.”
Parker said, “Jersey, they were either gonna get some food up here, or I was gonna send you back to get it. You just got lucky, that’s all.”
Temple leaned forward, stared down the trench, could see flickers of light, cigarettes, heard footsteps in the mud. There were low voices, men working along the trench, curses from trampled legs, the sound of bayonets and tin. The men were there now, three of them, standing upright, carrying boxes.
“Rations. Take two cans. There’ll be more in the morning.”
Temple reached up into the darkness, the cans pressed into his hands, the men past him now, the words repeated. He felt for the rifle beside him, pulled the bayonet off, wiped the blade against his shirt. He stabbed the first can, and a new smell filled him, meat and grease. He sliced through the lid, then poked with the bayonet, didn’t hesitate, plunged the meat into his mouth. He felt his stomach turn over once, fought it, swallowed the lump of meat whole, stabbed at the can again.
Across from him, Scarabelli said, “Never thought I’d look forward to monkey meat. I’m betting they don’t grow this stuff in Texas.”
Murphy was beside Scarabelli, had been silent since they entered the trench. He seemed to grunt, made a choking sound, said, “You read the label?”
“What label?”
“I saw crates piled up, grunts unloading a truck back at the village. They have labels. It’s from Argentina. It’s supposed to be beef.”
Temple had finished the first can, stared into the darkness at the second, debated saving it. He remembered the words of the food carrier now, more in the morning. The debate was settled, and he cut into the lid, and Scarabelli said, “Argentina? What kind of sick-assed cow they got there? Probably isn’t a cow at all. They call this stuff monkey meat for a reason.”
“Sir?” The voice came from the man beside Parker. “Sir? I can’t open the rations.”
Temple leaned forward, tried to see the man’s face, Parker opening the cans.
“There you go. Eat it slow. You got water?”
“Not sure, sir. Can’t find my canteen.”
Parker leaned that way, dug into the mud, said, “Right here. You got plenty. Here. Drink.”
The other men around them were silent, and Temple guessed that all eyes were on the wounded man. He leaned close to Parker, said, “Strike a match. Get a look at his face. See how bad he’s hurt.”
“I seen it already. I’ll take care of him.”
There was nothing Temple could say, knew the tone of the big man’s words, that Parker would not argue.
The rations were gone now, the men tossing the cans up out of the trench. Temple took a long swig from his canteen, then shook it slowly, measuring. He leaned back against the dirt, thought, A long damned night. He felt an itch on his leg, scratched slowly, stared up at the night sky, stars, saw a stick poking out of the bank above his head. He scratched again, felt something move in his groin, a sudden sharp pinch. He jumped, splashing the mud, said, “Oh hell! Dammit!”
He was up on his knees now, scratched feverishly, heard curses down the trench. Scarabelli said, “What’s wrong with you, Farm Boy? You got cooties again?