To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [14]
The sergeant slid down lower in the water, one long hard breath.
“What do I do, Sergeant?”
The sergeant looked at him, then closed his eyes, his head falling back against the soft dirt, a soft whisper. “You’re a soldier, Greenie. You fight.”
THE GUARD LED HIM THROUGH A MAZE OF MUD AND WATER, A DEEP snaking ditch that led finally to an opening in the side of a low hill, and then, wooden steps, leading down into wet stinking darkness. His guide pointed the way, then followed him down. The steps made a sharp turn to one side, and he was surprised to see a large room, a cave, carved into the dirt, timbers over his head, wood planks on the floor. The room was lit by a small flicker from a candle on a low wooden table, two men sitting, officers. One said, “Who’s he, Corporal?”
His guide was still behind him, up on the steps, said, “Greenie, sir. Sergeant Cower’s squad. Only one made it through. No sign of Cower.”
“Damn!”
He could see the officer clearly, a captain, a small man, thin moustache, staring at him. The captain motioned to the guide, said, “All right, Corporal. After breakfast, find me some more, if you can. Half of them probably lost in the mud. Not like Cower to lose his way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir . . . I was with Sergeant Cower. He was badly wounded. He ordered me . . . I don’t believe he survived, sir.”
“Damn! Cower knew better than to try to come forward that close to daybreak. Fritz throws his artillery at us every morning like an alarm clock. Anyone else make it, Private?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. I didn’t see anyone else. The Germans hit a cannon.”
“Just one?” The captain laughed, unexpected. “He’s losing his touch. Those Heinie gunners know every inch of that ground back there.”
The older man moved papers on the table, handed one to the captain. He could see a map spread on the table, looked beyond into dark corners, saw a narrow bed, a small stove, a black tin smokestack, leading up through the timbers above. He studied the older officer, realized he was a colonel. He was surprised, straightened himself, reflex, had never been so close to a high-ranking officer. The captain scanned the paper, said, “Yes, here he is. Appears he’s the only one left out of a couple dozen. Christ.” The captain paused, looked at him. “Welcome to our piece of heaven, Private. This is your lucky day, in more ways than one. Company B is down to twelve men. You’re number thirteen. You will report to Lieutenant Graves. Where’s your backpack, your mess?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I lost most of my equipment in the attack.”
“It wasn’t an attack, Private. Just a little fireworks show. You’ll learn the difference. Corporal, take this man to his post.”
He saluted, waited, seemed to be ignored, and after a long moment, the captain glanced up, returned the salute, said nothing, returned to his papers. His guide said, “This way, Greenie.”
The corporal moved away, up the dark wooden steps. He followed, heard a voice behind him, the colonel, “Dammit, they’re dying faster than we can get them into line.”
THE LIEUTENANT WAS A YOUNG MAN, NOT MUCH OLDER THAN HE was, a surprise, a boyish face staring at him with a discomforting mix of anger and fear.
“One man! One damned replacement! We’re at one-tenth strength, and they send me one damned greenie. No word on when we might get more, I suppose?”
He realized it was a question, said, “I don’t know, sir.”
Graves seemed disgusted by his answer, and he felt suddenly to blame.
“No, of course you don’t know! I’m betting you don’t know much else either. Did they actually train you, Private?”
He felt his patience giving way, could feel himself sagging into the mud under his feet.
“Yes, sir. Four months—”
“Yes, fine, four months. A seasoned veteran. Let me explain something to you, Private. You are one more rifle. We needed fifty. They expect me to hold this part of the line. . . .” The lieutenant stopped, looked down.
He could see a difference in the officer’s face now, the fear growing, erasing the anger.
Graves pointed down the trench line. “Go on, there.