To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [253]
“Three. A little after.”
Temple lay back, stared at the small wisps of clouds in the treetops above him. Throughout the day, the artillery had continued their thundering duels, one battery in particular located not far behind them, beyond the protection of the trees. The battery seemed to launch its shells in some kind of regular interval, predictable now, Temple instinctively bracing himself when the moment was close. The guns would fire four times each, sharp shattering blasts that shook the ground and rattled the limbs of the trees.
The men stayed mostly quiet, coached by Dugan to keep ready, a warning that the order to move again could come at any moment. He watched the clouds, felt a strange calm, long silent minutes. He might as well have been home, the woods near his mother’s house, imagined the massive live oak trees, old and crooked limbs draped in Spanish moss. But the daydream didn’t last, was swept away by the sounds, a sudden screech of a small artillery shell, poorly aimed, falling out in front of the trees, throwing plumes of dirt and rock up in a cloud that would hang for a long second, the debris falling, the dust carried away by the breeze.
He tried to make himself comfortable, did as the others did, using his blanket for a pillow, his rifle resting on one side of his leg, his backpack close by the other. He felt protected, nestled by his two thick tree roots, but still he flinched from the sudden burst of machine-gun fire, then more, but different, a slower rhythm to the chatter. He had drilled with artillery and machine guns at Quantico, but the sounds were very different now, so much of the thunder coming from farther away, a vast drumming wave, many more guns than he ever expected to hear. There were the single pops as well, scattered and indistinct, snipers perhaps, or men who were just too nervous, firing at nothing. His right hand wrapped around the Springfield, and he felt the oily film on the steel, had passed the first few minutes in the trees doing what so many of the Marines always did first: clean the rifle. It was so much of the training and the pride of being a Marine. Even on the march, there would be that moment set aside to clean the rifle, to be sure every part was perfect, the words that Dugan always used, the right tool for the right job. He glanced at the end of the barrel, the old habit, made certain it was clear of any obstruction, no leaves or dirt. That lesson came from his grandfather, the story repeated so often, some long forgotten friend of the old man’s whose musket had ruptured in the man’s face, blinding him.
Temple looked over toward Dugan, saw the sergeant sleeping against his tree. Yep, Sarge, don’t worry. We know how to take care of the tools.
He heard a droning hum again, had heard them all day long. He could see some of the men rising up slightly, staring skyward, through the treetops. The aeroplanes were mostly observers, and were mostly German. But the fighters had come as well, and the drone would suddenly become higher pitched, louder, the plane diving low to pour machine-gun fire on any target that unwisely appeared on the main roadway.
Dugan shouted, “Get down! This ain’t a damned country fair!”
Temple looked at the sergeant, thought, No, I guess he wasn’t asleep after all. Or maybe he just knows what we’re doing whether he’s sleeping or not. He obeyed Dugan’s command, dropped his head back down on the blanket, stared up through the treetops. The droning was growing faint now, and he felt the familiar disappointment. Temple had yet to see any of the planes, the clouds growing thicker as the day passed. He knew the others were as disappointed as he was, just wanting to catch a glimpse of the wondrous flying machine, swooping in fast and low, close enough to