To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [13]
The sergeant closed his eyes for a moment, said softly, “Direct hit. The first shell . . . there are no others.”
“You’re mad! Twenty men!”
He scrambled to the edge of the shell hole, eased his head up, searched the dull gray. His heart was pounding again, the cold returning. He climbed up farther, pulled himself out of the hole, crawled slowly away. The smoke was mostly gone, the air now thick with wet mist, a light rain beginning to fall. He paused, listened, tried to hear voices, heard only the faint hiss of the rain. He glanced beyond the shell hole, toward the front lines, the place where the trenches were supposed to be. He raised his head up farther, felt suddenly naked, no rifle, nothing in his hands, no heavy mass on his back. He felt light, like an animal, stood up slowly, bent low, began to move back, followed the shattered trail of the duckboards. He could see the muddy ground broken into round patches of water, shell holes in every direction. He crouched low, saw a rifle, thought, mine . . . but the butt was missing, useless. He eased close to a shell hole, said in a low voice, “Anyone . . . ?”
He peered over the edge, saw an arm in the water, fingers curled in a loose grip around a rifle. He fought the sickness rising inside him, reached down, pulled at the rifle, the hand giving way, the arm now rising slowly, the man’s body pulled free of the mud below. He tried not to look, but the face turned up in the water, familiar, the name digging into him, Oliver. He turned away, pulled the rifle close to him, held it for a long moment, fought the tears, the panic. He tried to breathe, his throat tight, said in a low voice, “Sorry, old chap. I’ve lost my Enfield. Don’t expect you’ll tell the captain.”
He felt his belt, the ammunition pouches still full, his bayonet still in the scabbard, his gas mask there as well. He could hear a hard thump in the distance, more artillery, and he crouched low, ignored the mud beneath him, the rain dripping from the rim of his helmet. He searched through the mist, saw the cannon now, the big gun still hunched low in the mud, but the barrel was pointing straight up, the carriage a shattered mass of steel. The cold panic began to rise again, and he shouted, “Anyone?”
The cannon in the distance had quieted again, and the steady hiss of the rain filled the air around him. He stood again, looked for his own shell hole. The ground was a maze of craters and ragged holes, but he could see his own tracks, still fresh in the deep mud. He kept low, followed them to the great wide hole, could see down, the sergeant still perched against the side, head and shoulders above the water. He felt relief, the sight of the big man, the professional, reassuring. He knelt, said, “No one else! We have to go! The trenches . . .”
The sergeant looked up slowly, soft tired eyes, said, “You made it, Greenie. The rest . . . direct hit. Tell them up front. They’re expecting you. Company B.”
He waited for the sergeant to move, to crawl up out of the hole, but the man closed his eyes again, a long deep breath. He understood now, slid back down into the water, moved closer to the man, said, “You’re wounded! Let me help. . . .”
The sergeant’s hand came up, pushed against his chest, holding him back.
“Get out of here, Greenie. They need you up front.” The hand dropped, disappeared into the black water.
“Let’s go, sir. I’ll carry you.” He reached around the sergeant’s back, tried to grip his shirt, pull him up out of the mud. He looked up toward the edge of the shell hole.
“I can pull you up here. Come on.”
He felt his grip loosening, the shirt tearing free, and he grabbed again, tried to hold the sergeant from behind. His hand touched something soft, hot, and he released the grip, raised his hand out of the water, saw a strip of cloth, a piece of shirt, soaked with thick red blood, darkened by the muddy water.
“God! Oh God! We’ll get help!”
The sergeant slid back against the soft wall of the shell hole, said, “Get out of here, Greenie.