To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [12]
“Let’s go! Move!”
The hand released him, and he reached down for his rifle, saw only water, the voice again.
“Move!”
The man was running out ahead, and he followed, pumped his legs through the churned-up mud, the backpack bouncing wildly. He saw the man drop down, a large round hole, more black water, and he followed, stumbled down, splashed hard, water up to his waist.
“Down!”
He rolled to one side, the backpack sinking beneath him, could sit now, water to his chest, the muddy rim of the hole above him, protection. The shells still came over them, but fell farther back now, the impact jarring him in hard rumbles. He wiped at his eyes, but the mud on his hands made it worse, and he blew hard through his nose, dislodging mud and water. His hands were empty, a new burst of fear, so many days of drill, of screaming sergeants, the routine pounded hard into every man, the punishment. Never lose your rifle. . . .
“My rifle . . . I dropped it! I have to go back. . . .”
The hand clamped hard on his shoulder again, and he saw the face of the sergeant.
“Stay put! There’s more rifles to be found. You wounded?”
The question confused him, and he looked down, saw only water, said, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“You better check, Greenie. But keep down.”
He moved his hands along his sides, was suddenly terrified of what he would find. He felt for his legs, his hands probing slowly beneath the dark water, said, “I don’t know. It doesn’t hurt.”
The sergeant did not laugh, said, “Roll over. Let me have a look. You could bloody well have a hole somewhere. There’s no pain, sometimes. Just a piece . . . goes missing.”
He turned, the backpack rising up beneath him. Now there was a short laugh, and the sergeant said, “No, don’t appear you been hit. But the quartermaster’s gonna be mighty ticked. You let Fritz blow the hell out of your pack.”
He slid the pack off, moved it around, saw shreds of cloth, the contents, his clothes, food rations, ripped to small bits of cloth and metal. He stared at the useless mass, pushed it away from him, watched it disappear into the water.
“Say a prayer, Greenie. Probably saved your neck.”
He probed again, his hands feeling his chest, stomach, and the sergeant was serious now.
“Naw, Greenie, you’re fine. If I hadn’t gotten you into this shell hole, you might have joined your mates. Direct hit . . .” The sergeant paused, looked up into the thick gray sky. “Shelling’s stopped. For now. You best get moving. Trenches should be ahead, if there’s still anything left. Chances are, those boys fared better than you greenies. Take a look. See if anyone’s moving.”
He slid to one side of the shell hole, adjusted his helmet, eased his head up slowly, and the sergeant said, “Go on, there’s nothing to fear now. Fritz can’t see you back this far. If they start shelling again, you know where to find me.”
He glanced up out of the hole, saw low drifting smoke, mounds of dirt, duckboards scattered, splintered. “I don’t see anything.” He turned, saw the sergeant staring at him, saw the man shivering, the water around him moving in low ripples.
“You best go on. They’re waiting for the greenies up ahead. You’ll see the trenches, a hole bigger’n this one, pile of sandbags. Tell the guards you’re a replacement for B Company. They’ll know where to put you.” He paused, took a long breath, spit something out into the black water. “Double-time it, though. Fritz could start his guns again.”
“I don’t know the way. I’ll wait for the others. You have to lead the way!”
He felt a small cold panic rising, stared at the sergeant, who said, “Go! I’ll be staying here.”
“But the others!”
He was angry now, furious at this man, this bully, the big man with the temper and the hard hands, quick to punish, quick in his abuse of the replacements. From the beginning of the march, the sergeant had been on them, cursing them, finding fault with every step. He moved through the water, closer to the sergeant, said, “Damn you! You cannot