To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [256]
NEAR LUCY-LE-BOCAGE—JUNE 6, 1918
THE ORDERS HAD COME THE NIGHT BEFORE, AND BY THREE IN THE morning, they were up and moving. Temple stayed close to Parker, who marched in front of him, the big man easy to follow in the darkness. Temple didn’t know the time, but gradually the darkness had given way to dull gray, the early glow of the dawn masked by a heavy mist. The ground beneath him was wet and silent, the only sounds coming from the thick moisture dripping from the trees, dull pops of dew and rainwater. The Marines stayed mostly inside the tree line, a narrow trail that snaked through the thickets. But then, the trees were gone, and the ground in front of them had opened up to a large rolling field. The guides led them along a narrow lane, and Temple heard only the sound of their boots splashing in the soft mud. There was no talking, the guides who manned each turn, each narrow intersection, simply pointing the way.
Temple knew that the sergeant was in line just ahead, separated from him by the massive shadow of Parker. In the narrow road, the gray light began to show the outlines, more detail to the shapes. The line of men extended far out to the front and rear, an entire battalion moving into position, what the officers had called the jumping-off point. Temple felt a chill from the damp air slicing through him, his heart racing, the dampness from his own cold sweat blanketing his skin. His feet were still sore from the great long march, but he ignored the discomfort now, focused on the rifle clasped tightly in his hands. They had left their backpacks behind, carried instead two extra belts of ammunition, and no one objected to the added weight. As he marched, the heavy belts bounced against him, hanging just above the only other equipment he carried: the mess tin, canteen, gas mask, and, of course, the bayonet.
He glanced out to the side, could see only the field close by, too little light to see what lay beyond. He stared into Parker’s back again, thought of the night before, the calmness of the sergeant, the final instructions before the order came for silence. Dugan had been clear and matter-of-fact, that they would reach the jumping-off point, then lie down and wait for the artillery to soften up what little opposition was waiting for them in the woods. There would not be much artillery fire, no long, drawn-out barrage that would tell the enemy too much about the assault that was coming their way. It was a lesson passed along from the French commanders, who had learned from the old mistakes, the lengthy bombardments that told the enemy exactly where you were going to hit him. Far better, Dugan said, to surprise him, to pump a short barrage into the first line, shock and confuse the front-line defenders, then mop them up quickly before anyone behind them could react. It seemed logical to Temple, especially if the woods were lightly defended. There might not even be any reinforcements to worry about. The confidence had come down to them from the senior officers, the word passing to each platoon that no grenades would be issued, no trench mortars. They simply wouldn’t be needed, and the extra weight would be more of an encumbrance than an asset. The men who had gathered around Dugan had absorbed his confidence, as the old sergeant seemed to have absorbed it from the men above him. Temple could feel the excitement in all of them, that the Marines would have the honor of making the Second Division’s first real attack, and by day’s end, they would capture a valuable piece of ground, a spear point driven right into the German position. Dugan had listened to it all without comment, the nervous chattering from the men like Scarabelli. But the words that had mattered most to Temple were the final instructions from Dugan himself, the old sergeant’s deep growling voice just soft enough that they had to strain to hear.
“When the artillery ceases fire, listen for the sound of a whistle. They’ll only blow it once. That’s when you stand up, take one good look at the woods out there, and then start walking.