To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [252]
With the dawn, the officers had come, orders flowing all through the regiment. After one more brief breakfast, they began to move again, but there were no roads now. They marched through dense patches of timber, deep ravines that cut into green hillsides. All the while, the artillery duels continued, the air above them thickening to a stifling cloud of gray. Temple followed the man in front of him again, the only routine that mattered, passed by sergeants and men with maps, the occasional officer making sure they were on the right trail. The shelling continued for most of the day, but the Marines were not the target, the activity staying out to one side, or in front of them. They moved out of a patch of trees and began to climb a long grassy rise. Temple could see out into wide fields, distant patches of trees, the land cut by fat stone fences and dirt lanes. The farms seemed to be larger here, wide gardens bordered by more of the stone walls, farmhouses of stone and mortar, some rising two stories, huge barns that squatted in great open pastures, hillsides that fell away into the dense brush that hid small streams.
He saw a long ridge in the distance, draped by the spreading cloud of black smoke, saw flashes of fire, his heart jumping. He guessed the distance, a half mile perhaps, artillery shells bursting in great clusters, the smoke now obliterating the ridge. He strained to see, but the march led them down again, a well-trodden path, the men now stepping over a low wall, moving into one of the narrow dirt lanes.
“Keep close! Quickly!”
The voice came from an officer, a lieutenant, the man pointing the way. Temple glimpsed the man’s face, saw he was young, his voice breaking, the man seeming to flinch with the sounds of the shelling. Temple was past him now, felt infected by the man’s fear, stared at the back of the man in front of him, pushed the image of the officer away. They began to slow in front of him, and Temple saw a hand go up, halting the march. He saw Ashley now, the tall man showing none of the other man’s fear.
Ashley pointed to a patch of trees, said, “Sergeants, move the company into the trees. Spread ’em out, lie low.”
The sergeants were moving all along the line now, and Dugan pointed, said in a hiss, “Right here! Move down the hill. Squad keep in sight of me.”
The men flowed down into the tree line, and Temple followed Parker, the big man dropping down beside a fat stump. Temple moved beside him, felt a hand on his arm. He turned, saw Dugan, who said, “Keep apart! Space out a few steps.”
The sergeant’s words stung him, some old lesson from training. Keep apart. Of course. He saw the men of the company flowing down the hill, another company behind them, hundreds of men spreading all through the woods. He scanned the trees and stumps around him, men in every gap, and he heard Parker, who pointed, said, “Roscoe. Sit there. Good spot in those tree roots.”
Temple saw a V of two thick roots as they spread away from the base of a fat tree, sat down quickly. Most of the platoon was down low now, and he saw Ashley, more officers, one older man, a colonel, hushed voices, arms pointing out to the east.
Dugan moved toward him now, said, “Good spot, Temple. You can fire around the tree. Keep low, though.”
Temple glanced down at his rifle, thought, Yes, fire around the tree. Good. Fire at what? “Sarge? How close . . . where are the front lines?”
Dugan looked at him for a brief moment, no expression on his face. Then he smiled, something Temple had never seen. “Private, we are the front line.”
THEY HAD STAYED IN THE TREES FOR SEVERAL HOURS, THE SERGEANT prowling among them, advice