Quickly, Deke strapped on the sheath. With that knife and his rifle, he was equipped for anything that the jungle — or the Japanese — could throw at him.
Deke would have thought that no one back home really gave a damn where he was or what he was doing to help win the war. It looked as if he’d have to change his thinking on that.
Along with the mail, a shipment of USO refreshments had arrived, including bottles of soda pop nestled in ice. The exposed necks of the cool bottles dripped with condensation in the tropical heat. It was such a strange sight, considering that just a few days ago, they had been fighting for their lives in the jungle. The refreshments were already drawing quite a crowd, considering that most of the men were sick and tired of drinking nothing but canteen water — usually flavored with the lingering taste of halazone tablets.
“I’ll be damned,” Philly said. “Let’s get a bottle of soda before it’s all gone.”
He and Deke headed for where the sodas had been set out. Another clerk had attempted to form the men into a line, but the thirsty combat veterans were having none of that. Instead, they had descended in a scrum around the soda pop tubs, where they plucked a bottle or two from the ice and hurried off to gulp it down. One thing for sure was that the supply wouldn’t last long. There were far more soldiers than there were bottles of pop.
“Hey, one to a customer!” the clerk shouted, but he was generally ignored.
“I think we’re actually going to get one of those,” Philly said as they surged closer. There was some pushing and shoving as men jostled to move ahead, but so far no actual fights had broken out. The truth was that after several days of combat, most of the men simply didn’t have the energy to fight. “I never thought I’d want a soda so bad. I can almost taste it. The only thing better would be a cold beer.”
“Philly, if that was beer, I reckon there would be some shooting going on.”
But Deke knew what Philly meant. It wasn’t just soda. It was a taste of home.
There were two marines directly in front of them, recognizable from the camouflage coverings on their helmets, which they hadn’t taken off despite the heat. Considering that this was an army sector on the beach, the sight of two marines was a little unusual. What were they doing here?
From their grimy uniforms, it was clear that these marines had seen some action. Both carried M1 rifles slung over their shoulders. Deke couldn’t help but notice that one of the marines was quite tall, well over six feet, while the other couldn’t have been more than five eight. What the shorter marine lacked in height, he made up for in width. The guy had shoulders like a bull. Seeing them together, Deke was reminded of a baseball bat and ball — or, better yet, a bowling ball.
“Almost there,” Philly said, fending off an attempt by another soldier to slip in front of them.
Just ahead, the two marines had reached the tub of cracked ice that glittered in the sun. The tall marine reached in and plucked out the last two bottles of soda, handing a bottle to the short marine.
The tub was now empty. A sigh of disappointment went up from the crowd. Some soldiers cursed. Others contented themselves with grabbing a handful of the ice and rubbing it over their hot faces and necks.
The marines had turned away from the tub, carrying their prized bottles of pop. Angrily, Philly confronted them.
“Hey, you took the last one!” he blurted.
The tall marine looked down at him. “What about it?”
Philly glared at him, not moving out of the marine’s path.
Deke nudged him in the ribs. That was one big marine. “Let it go,” he said quietly.
Finally, Philly stepped aside.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the marine said, giving Philly a smug smile. His gaze fell on Deke, and his smile faded as he met Deke’s eyes, which were every bit as cold and colorless as the ice in that tub. Maybe it was the scars, Deke thought, but some of the marine’s attitude ebbed, and he turned away into the crowd, followed closely by the shorter marine.
“Damn jarheads,” Philly said.
“Damn big jarheads,” Deke pointed out. “Did you want to get punched in the nose over a bottle of pop? Here, grab some ice.”
Some of the soldiers were now flinging the rapidly melting ice at one another, laughing at the novelty of the cold stinging their faces. It was the next best thing to a snowball fight on a Pacific island.
Deke popped ice into his mouth, sucking on the cold. For an instant, he was transported to a winter’s morning in the mountains back home. He thought of all the chores on the farm, carrying heavy buckets through the snow to water the cattle. The trees would still have snow frosting the branches, with the sun just coming up over the mountains beyond.
He remembered Sadie coming to help him, her breath steaming so much in the cold that she resembled a locomotive following its tracks through the snow. “You don’t have to do everything yourself,” she said. “How long have you been out here? You look half frozen. You can ask for help, you know.”
Deke had shrugged. “It don’t bother me none.”
Sadie had fixed him with one of her see-right-through-you stares, the kind their mother had been so good at before she had taken sick. “You don’t let anyone else in that head of yours, do you?”
Deke hadn’t been sure how he was supposed to answer that — if his sister even wanted an answer. He just liked to do things himself, was all. There was no point in counting on anyone else when you needed something done.
He’d picked up his buckets again and started toward the barn. With an exaggerated sigh, Sadie had headed back toward the house.
At the time, Deke had to admit that hauling water out to the barn seemed like an onerous task on that winter’s morning. But now, he’d do anything to be back on that farm. Not that it would ever happen, because the property that the Coles had farmed for generations was now owned by a greedy banker. He clenched his jaw and cracked the ice between his teeth.
Slowly, the men drifted away from the tubs of ice and back toward their various bivouacs. Foxholes had been dug everywhere in the sand, with shelter halves strung up to provide protection from the beating tropic sun, which seemed to disappear just long enough for a downpour before the sun came out again, leaving the very air steaming.
By some miracle, Rodeo had scored a bottle of pop. He passed it around so that each man in the squad could take a drink. When it was his turn, Deke took a sip of the pop, letting the cold, sugary taste linger. Growing up in the Depression era, a bottle of pop had been a rare treat.
The empty bottle was placed atop the rim of the foxhole like a trophy. But the men did not have much time to appreciate it. Lieutenant Steele had reappeared, having finally received their orders.
“What’s the good news, Honcho?” Philly wanted to know. To avoid being targeted by Japanese snipers, Lieutenant Steele had insisted that his men never salute him or call him sir. Instead, they called him “Honcho,” even here on the relative safety of the beachhead. “Are we finally going home for that Victory Bond tour?”
Lieutenant Steele opened his mouth to speak, his face grim. He had only one good eye, the other covered by a leather patch that Deke had made for him. Clearly, Lieutenant Steele was not about to deliver good news. But he seemed to change his mind about saying anything and just shook his head.
“Get some sleep,” he finally announced. “What I’ve got to tell you can wait until tomorrow.”
“I reckon we ain’t gonna like it?” Deke speculated.
“No, you ain’t gonna like it.”