To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [318]
There was movement far down the trench, small grunts, a faint clink of tin. Temple tried to calm the cold chill in his chest, saw one man rising, close to him, thought, Osborne.
“What is it, Sarge?”
The voice was a whisper, from the parapet. Temple stared up, could see faint shadows, and Osborne moved away down the trench.
Temple heard Scarabelli, a few feet away. “Maybe it’s breakfast.”
Temple pulled himself slowly to his feet, worked the stiffness out of his legs. He could see the men on the parapet now, soft shadows growing lighter. There was movement down the trench, and he saw a tall man coming toward him. Osborne.
“Coffee, men.”
The rest of the men pulled themselves to their feet, and tin cups emerged, the odor of coffee drifting past them. Temple had learned to drink whatever they put in his cup now, waited behind Scarabelli. The orderly poured from a large fat pot, said, “More coming up soon.”
Temple put a hand on Scarabelli’s shoulder, said, “Hey, I thought you were gonna just eat the beans.”
“You eat the beans, Farm Boy. I’ll take whatever they got. The more mud the better.”
Osborne moved down the trench again, and the whispers were giving way to low voices, the sergeant speaking to someone Temple couldn’t see. Osborne was back now, said, “We got rations.”
Temple gulped the coffee, barely warm, heard the talk begin around him, energized by thoughts of food.
“I ordered eggs.”
“Me too. T-bone steak with mine.”
Osborne held up a hand. “Quiet down.” He looked up at the men on the parapet, said, “Anything?”
Temple saw Parker staring out through the lookout, and the big man shook his head. “All quiet, Sarge. The Huns stayed home last night.”
“Okay, come on down and get some rations. The food carriers are coming now.”
The men eased down off the parapet, waited with the rest of the squad. Temple saw three men moving down the trench, each man carrying a large metal can. The mess tins came out now, Temple pulling his from his belt, took another gulp of coffee, washed the crust out of his mouth. The food carriers set the cans down, large spoons appearing, and Scarabelli said, “What the hell is that smell?”
“Oh, God. It’s the food.”
The men with the spoons seemed oblivious, scooped out a mass of something into each of the tin plates. Temple stepped forward now, the smell curling his face, said, “What is it?”
One of the food carriers looked up at him, smiled, said, “Uncle Sam’s finest. This here is cornmeal mush. And, we got a real treat to go with it. Salmon. Two pieces per man.”
Temple’s plate was full, and he backed away, sat down beside Scarabelli. He saw Parker, across from him, the big man stuffing the food in his mouth, ignoring the groans from the men around them.
Scarabelli said, “He calls this salmon? Salmon’s a fish.” He tasted it now. “Now I know why they had that sign at the pond. This is what happens to fish when you drop a bomb on it.”
Temple probed the food, mashed the two mounds together, saw Parker watching him.
“That’s it, Roscoe. Mix it up. Better that way. Jersey, you can gripe all you want. But where I come from, this beats a hole in your gut. Now how ’bout you shut up long enough for me to eat my breakfast.”
Osborne was standing above them now, said, “Finish up quick. We need lookouts on the firing line. Temple, you’re up. Scarabelli, Smith, Gruner.”
Temple plunged the last mass of food into his mouth, washed it down with the last of his cold coffee. He set his tin plate on the ground, said, “I’ll leave that there. Clean it later, okay, Sarge?”
“Clean it now. You might not be anywhere near here by tonight. Wipe it clean with a handful of dirt.”
Temple obeyed, thought of the canteen. Nope, don’t bother rinsing it. Save your water. He packed the mess kit away, followed the others up to the parapet. He felt the familiar chill in his chest, leaned the rifle up against the sandbags, stared out through the slit. The ground in front of the trench was strangely uneven, rolling shallow pits, a