To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [15]
He shook his head, “No, sir. My backpack was lost—”
“There’s food up there. There’s always something. The one thing they won’t let us do is starve.” Graves turned away, disappeared down a dark hole in the side of the trench.
He looked where Graves had pointed, more narrow duckboards bridging black muddy water, then looked up, saw a gray sky, framed by the sandbags along the top of the trench. He stepped carefully, followed the curve in the trench, saw another deep ditch branching off to the left, turned, could see a half dozen men now, a wide flat space, sloping ground, water deep on one side. Three men were squatting low, perching like filthy birds on the dry side of the trench floor. The other three were standing up above them on a shelf of boards and hard dirt, leaning up beside tall narrow openings in the fat sand bags. Farther down the trench, there were holes cut into the dirt walls, the dugouts, no more than three feet high, and just as wide, but deeper, extending back into the dark earth. Some had feet sticking out, mud-caked boots, men lying motionless. Faces began to look his way, dark eyes appearing under the rims of rag-covered helmets.
One of the sitting men said, “Who the hell are you?”
“Is this . . . Company B?”
“That’s a military secret. One more time. Who the hell are you?”
“Lieutenant Graves told me to come this way. I’m reporting to B Company. I’m a replacement.”
“A replacement for what?”
A pair of boots began to move, the legs withdrawing, then a bare head emerging from one of the dugouts, and the man said, “How many of you?” The man dragged himself out, stood up slowly, stretching his back, his shirt carrying a corporal’s stripes.
“Just me. I’m the only one who made it. We were attacked by artillery.”
The corporal moved closer to him, appraising, said, “Cower’s group? He told me last night we were getting the next bunch.”
“Sergeant Cower did not survive. We took a direct hit. No one else survived.” The words came out easily, surprising him.
“Except you.”
“I suppose so.”
The faces stared at him, were motionless, and one man said, “Windy, I’ll bet. You run, Greenie? You leave your buddies out there? Looking for your mama down here in this hole?”
He realized the man was calling him a coward. But there was no energy, no emotion in the words, and he had none himself, said only, “I didn’t run. I was last in line. The sergeant said my backpack saved me. Before he died.”
The corporal glanced at the man who spoke, said, “Leave it be, Snake. He’s here in one piece, and we’ll take what we can get. So, Greenie, you got no pack? You look like you spent the night in a shell hole. Maybe Snake’s right. Maybe you’re windy, eh? We’ve had a few, little boys who run like hell when the shooting starts. Advice for you, Greenie. They don’t run far. Fritz has a special talent for killing cowards. Safest place for you is right here in this hole.”
He looked at the others, heard small laughs, the man called Snake still staring at him with hard unsmiling eyes. Another man stood now, said, “Where you from?”
“Alston, west of Newcastle. Farm town . . .”
“Yeah, I know it. Got family near there. You need something to eat?”
“Anything you can spare.”
The corporal turned away, moved back to his dugout, said, “There’s plenty, Greenie. They still send rations up here for men who were carried outta this hole days ago. All right, Duke, he’s yours. Feed him, show him where to sleep. Make sure his rifle’s not full of crud. He’ll be on the line tonight. Give him the drill.”
He looked again at the man called Duke, now standing in front of him, tall, thin, a ragged beard, and the man said, “This way, Greenie. Watch your step. That water’s about four feet deep.”
He followed, the others now ignoring him, all except Snake.
“You go windy on us, and I’ll stick you.”
The man’s cold stare cut into him, and Duke said, “Leave him be, Snake.