To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [315]
Temple finished his mother’s letter, folded it up, slipped it into his pocket. He looked at Scarabelli’s growing stack, said, “You gonna keep those? You might wanna read ’em again.”
“Nah. Most of ’em say the same thing. People getting married, or sick. Don’t compare to yours, though. Not one of my cousins has any new cows. You’re three thousand miles from home, good chance you’ll get your ass shot off, and your mama makes sure you know about somebody’s new cows. You come from one damned strange place, Farm Boy.” He laughed, opened another letter.
Parker sat down beside him, said, “A lot of letters, Jersey.”
“You’d think they’d have something more interesting to say. Mostly dumb questions. ‘Have you talked to any Germans? Why are they mad?’ What the hell are the newspapers telling those people?”
Temple stared at the open letters piling up beside Scarabelli, said, “Tell me what your papa said.”
“All right. You wanna know?” He reached down, picked up the paper. “ ‘Remember what Father Moretti said. If you think you might get killed by a big cannon, stay in a hole.’ ”
Scarabelli tossed the letter aside again, and Temple said, “That’s it? What’s wrong with that? He doesn’t want you to get killed.”
“No, Farm Boy. You don’t get it. When I left home, the priest made a big commotion. Told my father that if I was blasted all to bits, and they couldn’t find my body, there’d be no way to administer last rites. I guess the priest knows something about artillery. But he had no business telling my father that. They were worried enough already. After that, my mother couldn’t stop crying, was convinced if something happened to me, I’d go to hell. According to the priest, it’s okay if I get killed. But just make sure it’s a bullet. Something that keeps me in one piece.”
Parker said, “That’s how I want to go. Bullet. Like Sergeant Dugan. Quick and clean. I can’t say I understand your priest, though. God don’t care how many pieces you’re in. Getting blown to bits don’t affect your soul.”
“Catholics, Mountain Man. You gotta die by the rules. My whole family goes to church so they know what the rules are.”
Parker said, “Don’t you?”
“I guess so. Once I joined the Corps, I stopped thinking about a lot of that. Considering how this might end over here, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Tell you what, Mountain Man. Next time you talk to God, remind him about me. He can check in with Father Moretti, in case He’s forgotten.”
Parker said nothing, and Temple knew he kept his religion to himself, did not find Scarabelli’s humor amusing. Temple said, “You get some writing done, Dan? I’m guessing with all that’s happened, you could fill a whole diary.”
Parker looked at him, shook his head. “I’ve given it up. Thought it would be interesting, maybe pass it along to my kids someday. Changed my mind. Nobody needs to know what’s happened here, what we’ve seen. I wrote all about Belleau Wood, how scared I was. Wrote what it felt like to run a bayonet into a man’s chest.” He looked at Temple again. “Why would anyone want to tell that to his own kids?”
Temple heard the sound of an engine, and they looked across the pond, could see three men emerging from a truck. The men moved down to the edge of the water, began scooping the filthy water, filling barrels that filled the truck bed.
Scarabelli tossed a rock out into the water, said, “That’s how they make our coffee. Now I know why it tastes like that. From now on, I chew my own damned coffee beans, and drink outta my canteen. Let my gut make the coffee.”
Parker stood again, moved down toward the edge of the pond again.
Temple said, “Any signs of fish?”
“Nope. Funny smell in the mud. Like chemicals. Probably from gas.”
Temple stood, saw Scarabelli gathering his letters, both men following Parker down toward the dark still water. Temple said, “Makes sense I guess. No reason to think fish could survive the gas any more than soldiers can.”
Scarabelli had moved away, moved into a stand of tall tree trunks, said, “Hey! Look here. Somebody must