The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [12]
He pulled his hand away, felt his fingers twitching, his heart pouding. That’s why the ground is so damned soft, you bloody moron. You’re in a minefield. He looked to the side, saw no one, no motion, thought, Two hundred steps. That was the drill, where I’m supposed to be, and that’s where I am. No one said anything about a minefield. But those damned Jerries came up here…. Well, hell, they knew the trail, even in the dark. Something about land mines makes you pay attention to that sort of thing. He backed away now, retraced his knee prints. The ground was harder, and he let out a breath, closed his eyes, thought, The lieutenant won’t mind if I just…take a bit of a break. He felt the cold again, a breeze on his face, clenched his fist around the top of the cloth bag. A dozen. All right, mate, keep looking.
The bag began to fill, and Dundee raised up, searching, saw the shadow of the lieutenant again, the man huddled low, watching him. He began to back slowly down the flat draw, his mind locked on the number of rocks in the bag, and now his hand gripped one more, perfect and round. Bloody hell. That’s twelve. He slipped silently toward the lieutenant, saw the man’s hand come up, Yes, all right then. Slow it down. He thought of the timetable, how long has it been? Well, that’s his job. Mine’s done.
He was beside the officer now, heard the soft whisper.
“Bag full?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go, back down to the rocky ledge. Henley might be there already.”
Dundee followed the lieutenant, both men crouched low, soft steps. They slipped down into the tank trap, then up again, and he could see the rock ledge, lining the shore, remembered the lecture, some geologist, so many years of pounding surf, the ocean spitting out these small bits, pressing them up on the sand. The lieutenant went over the ledge, dropped down, still silent, waited, Dundee doing the same. He felt his breathing again, relief, the bag of rocks heavy at his waist. Bloody engineers. Ought to keep one for myself, a souvenir.
Above them, up in the draw, there was a sudden flash of blinding light, the sharp echo of a blast. He looked up, over the rocks, saw nothing, heard a tumble of rocks, the low voice of the lieutenant.
“Land mine. Henley. Son of a bitch.”
And now, loud voices, up high, straight above them. Dundee felt a hard hand on his arm, steel grip, low voice:
“Go! Now!”
The lieutenant was up and moving, and Dundee followed, jelly in his legs, quick steps, realized he could see the tape. He stared down, ran in step with the lieutenant, his brain taking over, counting, one hundred, but the thoughts were swept away now, no need to count, the tape visible even in darkness, some toy invented by some engineer, the stupid joke from training: Your line of bread crumbs. His chest was burning, hard breathing, and now there were shots, blasts of machine-gun fire, arcing lights streaking over the beach. He wanted to stop, to lie behind the cover of the rocky ledge, but the lieutenant kept moving, and Dundee knew to follow, could not forget the training. Never stop. The streaks of tracer fire popped close overhead, a shattering of rock behind him, fire well out in front of them. His brain screamed at him, They don’t know where we are! Firing blind! Thank God! The lieutenant suddenly turned, ran toward the water, and Dundee saw now, the tape had ended. He followed, felt the soft sand, glue-like on his feet, slowing him down. Behind him, at the draw, men were calling out, the rattle of machine guns filling the darkness, more tracers arcing into the open water. The lieutenant was leaving him behind, a faster runner, and Dundee focused on the man’s back, lit by the tracers, the sand harder,