Free The Med by David Poyer Page B

scuttlebutt. But the Navy condoms were thick as fire hoses. You had to work, and work … he had to repent, cease following the way to damnation … his mind droned on like an uncoupled motor, fueled by alcohol.
    A while later Washman came out, face flushed, and sat wordless beside him. They stared together at the dead television. “You make out okay?” Will asked him.
    â€œShe was awful fat. But I needed that bad, man.”
    â€œIt isn’t our fault. They keep us at sea too long.”
    â€œNo shit, man. Any longer and I would of butt-fucked one of those whimpy squids.… You got your other one, Will?”
    â€œOther what?”
    â€œYou know. Your rubber.”
    â€œOh. No, I used ’em both.”
    â€œMe too. If I had another one I could go back.”
    They stared at the television and the potted plants. Will suddenly got up. “I’m going down and keep old Hernandez company.”
    â€œYeah. Good idea.”
    They found the small marine squatting on the grass. They sat at one of the tables for half an hour before Silky and Liebo and Harner came down the stairs, their ties loose, laughing. Silkworth saw them and came over. “Well, is my squad satisfied? Bores clear?”
    â€œRounds complete, target destroyed, Sarge.”
    â€œLet’s get something real to drink, then.”
    Suddenly noisy, caps canted and ties loosened like Sergeant Silkworth’s, they ambled down the street. Liebo suggested Judito’s, but after a couple of turns they discovered that they were lost. Silkworth seemed unworried. “The whole fucken Med’s built on a slant,” he told them. “Any port in it, you get lost, just walk downhill and you’ll hit water. It’s real convenient when you’re shit-faced.”
    â€œBut we ain’t drunk nothin’ yet,” said Harner.
    â€œWe’ll get you screwed up as a sprayed roach, Kentucky Buck. How about that place on the corner, there?”
    â€œWith the commie posters all over it?”
    â€œThey’re all over Italy, my man. Don’t sweat it. Wops love marines.”
    There were a dozen men in shirtsleeves and black trousers outside the bar. They stared at them as they approached, taking their hands out of their pockets.
    â€œWait a minute,” said Will, stopping. “This don’t look right.”
    â€œIt’s a bar, fella. These guys are just waiting around for something to do.” Silkworth seemed to be right; as he approached the door the loungers parted, glancing at one another. The other marines followed him. Just inside, though, the sergeant paused. Past him, in a smoky light, Givens saw a man speaking in front of a red flag, saw sweating faces turn. When he looked back the Sicilians were closing in.
    â€œI think we just fucked up,” muttered Liebo.
    Givens never saw who swung first. Two men came for him, he was hammerlocked and punched. Hernandez was shouting in Spanish. The street staggered; there was a crunching sound, and he tasted bricks. Then combat training took over. He kicked out, hooked a man, and got halfway up before Harner tripped over him, knocking him down again. A Sicilian tried to run and he grabbed him around the waist and got a couple of shots to his back before he broke free.
    A flurry of shoving, a sweaty face above him, the smell of garlic. He battled viciously now, hitting as hard as he could. A hand jerked him round and he found himself back to back with the others, facing a hostile but now wary ring of men. Two of them lay on the street. They were moving to retreat when Liebo said, “The Sarge. He’s still in there.”
    They looked toward the tavern. The Italians, seeing them pause, moved in again. “Jesus,” said Hernandez. “Will, go get him.”
    He took one step forward, and then the door opened and Silkworth came flying out. They pulled him into the circle. He looked undamaged, but confused.
    â€œYou