Part 8 (1/2)
”I'll boil you, you stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h. Captain says there's all kinds of diseases we can catch, typhoid, or the plague or something. I'm not being your d.a.m.n nursemaid if you start crying about your guts coming out. We got our own rations, and that's what we're gonna eat. You got that?”
Adams saw others watching him, heard the laughter.
”Got it, Sarge.”
He started to move out toward the road, heard Yablonski call out, ”Hey, Sarge! I'm grabbing these straw things. Make a good bed in my foxhole. You want one?”
It was Yablonski's usual game, offering to share anything resembling loot with the one man who would otherwise object to him taking it. Adams had heard the lectures about that, the captain preaching about leaving the civilians alone, making friends, so the Okinawans would be more helpful. But Lieutenant Porter hadn't said anything about the minor treasures Yablonski had found, trinkets mostly, stuffed into his backpack. It bothered Adams at first, but he was growing numb to that now, the people mostly filthy and frightened, no one offering any information where the j.a.panese might be.
Ferucci looked at the thin mat, woven bamboo, said, ”Yeah, fine. I'm sick of sleeping on dirt. I bet there's more of them things.” He called out now, ”Hey! You guys see these mat things, grab 'em. We could use a little luxury.”
Beside the road, the lieutenant watched the scene play out, no objection, seemed as impatient as his men, ready to move on to the next village. Adams felt an itch on his leg, reached down, scratched, saw Welty coming back toward him, the other men gathering, their job complete. Adams looked again at the approaching storm, glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch. It's after five. Time to start digging again. Welty moved toward him, and Adams said, ”Another day of fun. Maybe we oughta grab some of those mats too. I still got dirt in my a.s.s from this morning.”
Welty shrugged, leaned low, scratched his own leg, said, ”There was some cloth back there, maybe sheets or something. I'll grab 'em.”
Adams felt a hint of guilt, thought, these d.a.m.n people don't have a pot to p.i.s.s in ... but the itching came again, and he tugged at his dungarees, tried to relieve the discomfort. Yeah, enough of this. They got beds, we got dirt.
The holes had been dug, Adams s.h.i.+fting the dirty white cloth beneath him, not nearly as much padding as he had hoped. He began poking through the backpack for his rations, and across from him Welty did the same. The daylight was almost completely gone, and Ferucci appeared above them, said, ”Starting to rain. Grab your ponchos. One man two on, then two off.”
He was gone quickly, repeating the words a few yards away. Welty pulled his poncho from the backpack, said, ”I hate the rain. You're lucky, New Mexico and all. I'd trade Virginia for the desert any day.”
”It's not all desert. We get rain. Monsoon season, comes up from Mexico. It's a b.i.t.c.h. Can't do anything outside but slide in the mud.”
The conversation faded away, Adams fumbling with his own poncho, sliding it over his head, replacing his helmet. He put his hands on the cardboard of a K ration box, felt a rumble in his stomach. He hadn't eaten since morning, but had no appet.i.te for the small can of stew, or whatever else the supply people had thought was an amusing addition to their meals. There was a stinging itch on his backside, and he s.h.i.+fted his bottom against the ground, but the itching wouldn't stop. Now there were more, along his belt, and he shoved his hands down his pants, said, ”What the h.e.l.l?”
Welty was scratching at his stomach, suddenly jumped up, said, ”Ah! There's bugs! d.a.m.n!”
Adams stood as well, looked down at the white cloth, bent low, grabbed it, tugged, said, ”Get off this thing. It's infested with something.”
Welty was scratching furiously at his legs, and Adams yanked the cloth up, tossed it out of the foxhole. He heard laughter, but now there was cursing, close by, Yablonski, ”There's d.a.m.n critters all over me! Itches like h.e.l.l! Hey Sarge!”
”Shut up! I got 'em too. It's this bamboo stuff, these mats.”
Adams crawled up out of the foxhole, fumbled through the laces on his boots, yanked them off, ripped at his socks, scratching furiously at his legs. More men were coming up from the holes, and now the lieutenant was there, kneeling low, an angry shout.
”Get your a.s.ses back in your holes! What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you?”
Adams dropped down, Welty beside him, still scratching, and Ferucci said, ”I don't know! I got bugs on me!”
From the other foxholes, the chorus was the same, and Welty shouted out, ”It's fleas! Sir, it's fleas! I know it.”
Adams froze for a silent moment, heard more cursing, the mystery of their ailment suddenly explained. But Adams ignored that, stared at Welty, felt a hot burst of fear, the word punching him. Sir.
”d.a.m.n, Jack. Don't ... do that.”
Welty seemed oblivious, was rubbing furiously at his legs, and Adams eased his head up, looked for the lieutenant, wanted to do something to correct the mistake. It was full dark now, the curses still coming, and he heard rustling, the sounds of the mats tossed up onto the ground, everyone's mistake.
”Don't do what?”
Adams lowered his voice to a whisper.
”You called him ... sir.”
Welty stopped moving, but only for a brief second. But he lowered his voice as well.
”Sorry. No harm done. No j.a.ps around here, least not any we've seen today.”
”Yeah, well, you know the order.”
Welty said nothing, rubbed his legs again, and Adams said, ”I'll take the first two, okay? I'm not gonna eat. My gut's kinda messed up.”
”Sure.”
Adams stood slowly, knew that all across the rocky ground, the others were doing the same, the two men in each foxhole dividing the watch duty between them. If there was sleep at all, a man could get close to two hours while his buddy kept his eyes out for any j.a.panese infiltrators. The orders had been specific, the lieutenant pa.s.sing on what came from above, that the j.a.panese had already been tormenting some of the army and Marine units by slipping into their positions at night. Makes sense, he thought. If they're that d.a.m.n good at hiding in this stuff, they could be anywhere. He thought of Welty's error. That could be real bad. If something happens to the lieutenant because one of us singled him out ...
His knees were bent under him, raising his head up to just above the level of the foxhole. He felt the rain now, the ground around him splattering with hard, fat drops. d.a.m.n, this is gonna be one c.r.a.ppy night. He knew the orders, had no choice but to watch the darkness, knew that all out across the stretch of low hills, the other platoons were doing the same, an entire company holding positions alongside the fields beside this one road. The rain was growing more intense, muddy drops splas.h.i.+ng into his face. He pulled at the hood of the poncho, the plastic sheeting noisy, made noisier by the rain, small rivers of water finding their way in, slipping down his s.h.i.+rt. Some army guy had to invent these things, he thought. And the ones that didn't work, they gave to us. The itching was still there, and he fought it, thought, maybe the rain will drown those little sons of b.i.t.c.hes. Fleas. Who in h.e.l.l would think the Okies carried fleas? I haven't seen a single dog yet.
His knees were soaked, the water pooling in the bottom of the foxhole, and he tried to lean back, felt soft mud everywhere he touched. He glanced toward Welty, knew better than to say anything, thought, you'll be asleep in minutes. Never saw anything like it. I could be beating h.e.l.l out of you with a baseball bat and you'd sleep right through it. How'd you even eat in this stuff? The d.a.m.n stew is bad enough without Okie rainwater ...
The short quick steps moved right past him, sharp splashes in the mud, and now another, one behind the other. He felt a stab of panic, started to call out, the sounds choked away by the shock. More steps came, quick, running, and he reached for his rifle, tried to bring it up, his hands wet, clumsy, the barrel jabbed into the side of the foxhole. He kicked Welty, but the man had already heard, was up as well, his M-1 pointed back to where the sounds had gone. Out to one side, the shots came, blinding flashes, a spray of fire from a foxhole close by. Adams hesitated, thought of the mud in his barrel, dangerous, but the fear was overwhelming, men shouting, more shots coming farther down. He strained to see anything in the dark, steady rain, and he held his breath, turned his head away from the rifle, fired. There was no clog in the barrel, and he aimed now, fired again, kept his aim low along the ground, kept firing, blinded by the muzzle blast, by the flashes of fire around him. The shooting spread, contagious, the fear in every man pouring out through the weapons, two dozen rifles firing all across the rolling ground. As the magazines emptied, the shots began to slow, and he heard one voice, loud, the lieutenant.
”Cease fire! What are you shooting at?”
The silence came now, no one responding, and Adams heard a hard whisper, a question from Welty.
”j.a.ps?”
Adams wanted to respond, but he didn't have an answer. He stared into the rain, no sounds at all but the gentle splashes around him, the swirling wind, the men all watching, as he was, blind and desperate fear that the enemy had finally come close.
The rain had stopped, but the misery of the foxhole had only grown worse. Adams felt the stiff aching in his knees, his back, his skin raw from scratching at the plague of fleas. The endless night had finally given way, a hint of detail, small b.u.mps appearing in the ground around him, the helmets of the others, men starting to move in the dim light. He could feel the water in his boots, the bottom of the foxhole inches deep in soft mud, every part of him wet beneath the poncho. Welty was up now as well, neither man making any effort to sleep. Welty whispered close to him, ”No coffee this morning, that's for sure.”
The joke wasn't funny. Adams hadn't had coffee since they left the s.h.i.+p.
He saw one man rising up, crawling toward them, knew by now it would be Ferucci, the sergeant pulling them awake, as though anyone had been able to sleep after the small-scale war they had waged. There had been other shots, scattered farther along the road, panicked men too eager to see enemies in the rain. Ferucci said in a low voice, ”Anybody shoots me, I'll kick your a.s.s. Wake up your buddies.”
Men responded, the foxholes close by coming alive, low talk. Ferucci stood now, and Adams watched him with a hint of alarm, thought, easy, Sarge. What the h.e.l.l are you doing? The sergeant moved toward Adams, didn't look down, stepped past in the slop of deep mud, held his rifle low, pointing it forward, and Adams heard Ferucci laughing. Beyond the brush, others were up, and more laughs came, one man calling out, a mocking sound.
”Baaaaah.”
Adams heard the familiar voice of the lieutenant, moving through the foxholes, hard whispers, closer now.