To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [19]
He looked up, saw fading daylight, the sky still a dull gray. He focused his eyes, fought against the last bit of dirt, pulled his helmet down snugly on his head. Something grabbed his foot, and he jumped, startled, saw a man down below.
The man jumped with him, cursed, said, “For God’s sake, man. It’s just the bombs. I cleaned ’em off. Jesus, Duke, what’s his problem? Afraid he might die?” The man laughed now, disappeared down the trench.
Duke said, “I assume they taught you how to throw a Mills bomb.”
He stared at the half dozen steel balls beside his feet, each one with a small handle, the round ring of its pin protruding from the top.
“I can throw them. He just . . . surprised me.” He reached down, held one in his hand, the heavy steel that fit his grip perfectly. He recalled the training, dozens of drills, pull the pin, hold, count to three, the proper method of throwing. He glanced up again, measured the height of the sandbags, taller than what they had used at Blighty. Duke said, “If Fritz makes a dash for us, don’t just depend on the rifle. They teach you that?”
He nodded.
“Once we know he’s out there, we start throwing these things at him as fast as we can. They’ll bring us more pretty quick. Fritz doesn’t care for Mr. Mills.”
Cutter was on the far end of the parapet, saying, “Dark enough, Duke.”
“Yep.”
They raised their rifles, slid them into the sandbags, the guns resting, balanced perfectly.
“Give it a minute, Cutter. I bet Billy Boche is on duty tonight.”
The two men leaned back against the sandbags, faced toward the rear of the trench, seemed to be waiting for something. He mimicked their every move, waited as they waited, and suddenly there was a loud whack against the sandbags, then another. Duke laughed, said, “There’s one sniper over there, knows we start manning these lookouts at dark. He’s probably had his rifle sighted in on these slits for hours. Hasn’t gotten us yet. We used to post bets, whether or not he’d actually hit the center opening, had a wood target set up across the trench in case his shot made it through. He never did. Then one night a seventy-seven shell hit the target. Took four men with it.” He paused. “Took some of the fun out of the game.”
Cutter lit another cigarette, said, “I’d give a bottle of Highland brew to the bastard who could stick that bloody Boche bastard.”
“Cutter, if you ever found a bottle, you wouldn’t share it with Marshal Haig himself.”
“I would if he’d go over there and stick Billy Boche.”
He tried to share the humor, the low laughter, but couldn’t take his eyes from the opening in the sandbags. They waited for several minutes, and Duke said, “All right, blokes. All quiet.”
They moved closer to the sandbags, stared out through the opening, and he could see a low squat mass, spread all along the ground in front. The barbed wire. It was the first time he had seen no-man’s-land, but there was really nothing to see. He held his eyes wide, tried hard not to blink, heard nothing but the quick thumping in his ears, his own heartbeat. He took a deep breath, tried to calm himself, every part of him straining to see and hear something, anything. Long minutes passed, the anticipation eating at him, his hands gripped tightly around the rifle. His foot moved slightly, touched the row of Mills bombs at his feet, and he rehearsed it in his mind, the sound of the bell, watching a large hulking shadow moving close, waiting for Duke to move first, to be sure. Then, one motion, reach down, grip the bomb, pull the pin, fling the bomb up and over the sandbags. His heart was racing again, come on! I can do this! I’m ready! He felt as awake as he had ever been, his eyes like two searchlights, probing the dark, any movement, his ears catlike, ready for any small sound. He could hear breathing, not his own, and his heart jumped, his body frozen, focused, realized now it was Duke, only a few feet away. He let out a long breath, spoke silently to himself, the teacher lecturing