To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [244]
It had been the AEF’s first offensive assault, a strike engineered by Pershing against a bulge in the German line. The apex of the bulge had engulfed the French town of Cantigny, and Pershing had insisted to the Allied commanders that the First Division be allowed to recapture the town. Though the town itself held no major strategic significance, the value lay with the test that the Americans would face confronting the Germans for the first time. The attack began on May 28, and after two days of bloody combat, the men of the First Division succeeded in capturing and holding the town. Though the Americans suffered heavy losses, the cost was measured more by the extraordinary boost in morale that spread through Allied soldiers all along the Western Front. To every commander on both sides of the barbed wire, the First Division’s accomplishment was enormous. The Americans had shown they were ready to fight.
To the men of the Fifth Marine Regiment, many of whom had been in France since the preceding June, it was about time. To Private Temple, and the others who had barely completed their training, it meant their first real opportunity to find out if all they had been taught about the pride and legacy of the Marine Corps had actually made them soldiers.
The trains had been in motion all morning, a continuous stream of bouncing cars and coughing locomotives. The Marines were to follow close behind the Ninth Infantry Regiment, mostly recruits who had barely completed their training. The Ninth had already spent time in front-line positions, gaining valuable experience in what the French had said was a quiet sector. But the Germans had not ignored this new presence along their front, and the trench raids had begun almost immediately. The Ninth had suffered from German artillery as well, a carefully targeted barrage that cost the division its first significant casualties, dead and wounded who were swept out of the war before the rest of the division could even reach the front. In every regiment, every company, the Marines and infantrymen of the Second Division accepted the news with silent tributes, knowing that the time for training had passed.
The next train in the long procession belched its way forward, and Temple heard the voice of the sergeant, the sharp growl that brought the platoon to stiff attention. There was no hesitation, the entire company falling into double file, climbing up into the first of the empty rail cars.
Temple had been fascinated by the odd cars from the first time they had been herded onto the trains, only hours after they had disembarked the great ships. They were a strange sort of cattle car, a single axle in the center, so the car rocked slightly like a child’s teeter-totter. There were no seats, no hint of anything that suggested comfort. The men would stand, pressed tightly together, their gear piled high in cargo boxes that trailed behind the cars. Beside the wide sliding door of each car had been a sign, bold and distinct, the same sign that Temple saw now:
Hommes 40
Chevaux 8
Temple imagined it had something to do with weight, like the bridges back home, a warning in case the train was too full. But every man had his own theory on the meaning, the men gathering their nervousness to focus on this one odd bit of French lore. None was more vocal than Scarabelli. The short man was close behind Temple, making his way forward with the rest of them, said in a low voice, “I still think it’s a ball game. Some French team everybody’s proud of. Must have been some kind of national championship, and the Homs boys kicked the hell of the Cheevax. Wonder how they’d do against the Giants?”
Beside Temple, Parker said, “You are one dumb—”
“Quiet in ranks!”
The sergeant was glaring at them, and Temple stifled a grin, had heard Parker’s own theory, knew that Scarabelli wouldn’t leave it alone.
“So, Mountain Man, you