To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [389]
HE HAD GONE BELOW JUST LONG ENOUGH TO GATHER HIS BACKPACK. The officers had not ordered the men to their bunks, and like so many, Temple stayed out on deck all night, the gray mist soaking him. The ship had slipped quietly into New York Harbor at dawn, and all along the rails of the ship they had cheered, passing close to the Statue of Liberty, deep emotions rising up in so many of the men. Temple had tried to feel their mood, share their tears, so many men so grateful to be coming home. It made him miss Scarabelli again, knew that the magnificent statue would inspire something deep and meaningful in the small Italian, something he would share with his whole family. As the ship drew closer to the Hoboken docks, Temple began to feel the fear again, terrified of what home would mean, of what he would find, terrified of losing all that he had left behind him.
The tugs had come, the ship pushed gently to its mooring, the ropes securing her to the pier. He stayed against the far rail, waited while the men were lined up, the long procession now marching slowly from the ship. He stared instead out toward the New York skyline, tried to focus on the tall buildings, the marvels of engineering, the voice in his head nervously chattering, distracting him.
“All ashore, Private!”
He turned, saw an MP, felt paralyzed by the cold in his gut. He forced himself away from the rail, hoisted his backpack up on his shoulders, moved to the end of the column. He saw now that the pier below was filled with people, small clusters of family gathered around men in uniform. They were drifting away now, happy crying people, the pier slowly emptying. He reached the gangplank, the men in front of him mostly officers, and as they stepped down onto the dock there were more cries, wives and small children coming forward, arms out, the men moving down as quickly as the line would allow. The gangplank ended, and he stepped onto the hard wood of the pier, stood for a moment, felt utterly lost. He moved past officers holding children, couples locked in hard embraces, saw the sign directing the men away from the pier, toward the billets, where the men who had no one to meet them would find a temporary base. There was a voice now, a high shout.
“Temple!”
He stopped, heard it again, “Temple!”
He looked toward the thin crowd that still lined the ropes to one side, saw a man with his hand in the air, waving.
“Temple!”
He moved that way, stared at the man, curious, saw now he was in a suit, a size too small, a small round man, dark, the man now smiling at him through tear-filled eyes.
“You are Temple!”
“Yes. Roscoe Temple.”
“My son wrote me so much about you! I am Gino’s father. I am Scarabelli.”
Temple was suddenly frozen, confused, thought, Doesn’t he know? My God . . .
“You were Gino’s best friend. You were with him, yes? Will you tell us about him? What kind of soldier he was? I want to know everything about my boy.”
“How did you know me . . . ?”
The man stood to one side, and Temple saw her, the rail-thin woman, the simple dress, a wide hat. She stepped forward, and Temple stared for a long silent moment, then said, “How . . .”
“Mr. Scarabelli sent me a train ticket. We weren’t sure which ship you would be on.”
Temple moved past the ropes, close to her, “Mama . . .”
He saw her soft smile now, took her hands in his, felt her strength, the tears coming to both of them, the quiet words flowing deep inside of him, pushing the fear away.
“Welcome home, Roscoe.”
The questions rose up, how they found her, why she had come. But he had no words, it was not the time. She held tightly to his arm, and he saw more of Scarabelli’s family, older women, a boy, sadness and smiles,