To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [251]
Close beside him, he heard the sergeant, a low hard grumble. “Rations. Dig out whatever you got. Lieutenant says we still have a ways to go. Might be nasty when we get there. No kitchens up here, boys.”
Dugan moved past, repeated his words down the line, and Temple felt a sharp stab of cold, drilled into him by the tone of Dugan’s voice. He looked to the side, tried to see Parker, saw only dull shapes, the rustle of backpacks, the men following Dugan’s advice. He slid his pack off his shoulders, reached inside, put his hand on the ration tin, heard the others opening the cans, the sounds of men eating. His hands were shaking, and he gripped the tin, was grateful for the dark, that no one could see he was nervous.
Dugan’s voice was there again, low and calm. “Five minutes. Then into the road.”
THE SUN WAS RISING IN FRONT OF THEM, A HARD ORANGE GLOW. The poilus still came by them, and Temple could see the faces now, a flow of men that seemed unending. The French were as curious of the Marines as the Marines were of them, but Temple had seen too much of these people by now, too many of the ragged uniforms and bloody bandages. Many of them seemed to be uninjured, marching aimlessly, without purpose, seeking only to go anywhere there was no fight. They stared at him as they passed, filthy faces and black empty eyes, expressions of pain and loss and defeat. There was no talk, no one on either side offering to converse. The Marines were exhausted from their all-night march, many of them ignoring the poilus completely, just staring into the back of the man in front of them. Temple was doing the same now, could not ignore the pains in his back, the weight of his rifle and backpack, straps cutting into his shoulders, the gnawing agony of the blisters growing more painful on his feet.
With the dawn, he had eagerly scanned the land they passed, was surprised that there seemed to be no signs of war at all. He had heard the talk of no-man’s-land, blasted desolation, the earth stripped bare of life. But the hills and woods along the road were green, patches of red flowers draped across the open fields. They had gone through more intersections, and Temple had lost track of how many turns and changes of direction there had been. The road they were on now was wide with broken pavement, but pavement nonetheless, more signs at more intersections. They were on something called the Paris-Metz Road, names that for the first time had meaning to him, and one significance in particular. Metz was . . . over there, on the German side. The men who marched might be told nothing of maps, but it was obvious to Temple that they were marching right toward the enemy.
NEAR CHâTEAU-THIERRY—JUNE 3, 1918
They had spent the night in bivouac around several small villages, and for the first time, Temple had seen signs of the war. Most of the villages had been shelled, most of the houses and buildings damaged, great mounds of rubble spilling out into every street. For a full day the men had been allowed to rest, food finally reaching them, makeshift kitchens that served cold meat, cheese, and hard bread. They did not complain, could see that the officers were eating the same rations, heard the simple explanation: there could be no fires. Smoke would only offer the enemy artillery a target. And the enemy was very close.
Temple’s squad had found another barn, another haystack, whose owner had long gone. The land was still surprisingly green and tranquil, rolling fields of wheat, clusters of fruit trees, so many of the small farms perched so near the war, but somehow spared by the destruction. But throughout the long night, the thunder of artillery took their sleep away. Temple found himself huddling deeper into the haystack, sharing the same thoughts as the rest of the men around him. The fire from the big guns seemed to erupt in long bursts, first one side, then the other, as though there were rules to the game, so many shots to be fired before the enemy could respond. In the silent moments,