To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [316]
Temple moved that way, saw the sign now, a white plank of wood, black letters:
NO FISHING WITH BOMBS
Parker moved up beside him, a low quiet laugh.
“Gotta be a Yankee officer. Back home, a stick of dynamite’s the best fishing lure I know of. Fish’ll float right up. The Huns probably dropped a few seventy-sevens here already. I’ll bet the poilus have already had more’n one fish fry.”
Scarabelli stared at Parker.
“You fish with dynamite? I can see it now. Invite the whole damned family, scoop the pond dry, fish and all, and boil it up with a hundred gallons of your homemade liquor. Mountain Man stew. See? I’m figuring out you damned southerners.”
Parker laughed at Scarabelli’s joke, and Temple said, “Actually, it’s called moonshine. Lots of folks around the farms have their own stills for making whiskey. One neighbor close by us had one.”
Scarabelli shook his head.
“A still? Only thing still is your brain. Both of you. Too many years living in the woods.” He scratched at his shirt now. “Aagh. Cooties coming back. Hell, we just went through delousing.”
Parker pointed at the pond. “There you go, Jersey. Take a bath. Drown ’em.”
Scarabelli continued to scratch, and Temple could feel the itch as well, had been able to ignore it until now. Scarabelli shook his head.
“Tried that. Water just makes ’em happy. Guess the little bastards need a bath too.”
Temple heard voices, could see a column of troops moving on the road above them. “We got company.”
Parker began to climb the hill, looked toward the road. “They’re Marines. Green uniforms. Replacements.”
They all moved up to get a closer look, Scarabelli jogging out in front. They were within a few yards of the road now, and Temple could see other men gathering as well, some flowing out of the camp across the road, construction crews watching from the rooftops of the new storage sheds. The line of Marines seemed to inflate under the gaze of their audience, and a sergeant gave a crisp shout, the men suddenly breaking into a discordant song.
“Hell’s got nothing we ain’t seen
Hide your women if they ain’t clean
Army boys go back to class
Marines have come to save your ass.”
The men across the road were laughing now, and Temple could see the Marines holding themselves stiff, marching with hard footsteps on the roads.
Scarabelli said, “Hey! Are you fellows really genuine Marines?”
They began to answer, competing for the chance to announce themselves.
“Damned right, army.”
“You can go back to your mamas now.”
Scarabelli stepped forward, close to the column, and one man moved past him, said, “Hey, army! What unit is this? You look like you can’t wait to go home!”
An officer was there now, a young lieutenant, marching beside the column. “Eyes front, Private. We’ll show these army boys why we’re here soon enough.”
Temple felt an angry explosion building in his chest, others across the road moving closer to the column, men starting to respond to the arrogance of these raw troops. He saw a sergeant coming toward them from the camp, and the man called out, “Did I hear singing? What the hell we got here?”
“Replacements, Sarge. Gonna show us how it’s done.”
The sergeant moved out into the road, pushed his way into the column, was suddenly in front of the lieutenant, blocking the man’s way. The lieutenant stopped, and Temple saw uncertainty, questions on the man’s face. The sergeant said, “Excuse me, sir, but someone should show you a proper reception. Welcome to the Fifth Marine Regiment. You boys are here because the men you’re replacing have been killed.”
The lieutenant seemed surprised at the sergeant’s lack of formality, said, “Well, Sergeant, perhaps you can tell me where we can find Major Turrill?”
“Straight ahead, sir. Right up by the place where you’ll be climbing outta those uniforms. Couple hours, you’ll look just like these boys here. Like I said, sir. Welcome to the Fifth.” The sergeant moved away, pushed through the column, moved back toward the camp. The lieutenant