To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [257]
Temple felt the familiar comfort from the big man’s words: follow me. You’re damned right.
The gray mist was lighter still, and there were whispers up ahead, Parker stopping in front of him. Temple halted as well, saw men moving up alongside the column. As they passed by him, he tried to see in the dull light, thought, Officers, probably. With the march halted, he felt himself shivering, pulled his rifle close to his chest, clenched his arms in tight, fighting it. He saw men raising their arms, a silent signal, and the column began to move up out of the narrow roadway. He moved with the flow, stepped into tall soft grass, taller than his knees. The first section of the column was out in the grass now, and he saw a man out in front, facing him, the man holding his arms straight out to the side, silently marking the place they would halt, spreading out into a precise line. Behind him, another line was formed, and Temple turned, watched as the officers moved the men into the attack formation, the old drill straight from the training grounds. In a few short minutes, there were four lines of men, nearly three hundred men in each line, every man silent, staring hard into the mist in front of him.
Dugan was there now, another hard whisper: “Fix bayonets!”
The order had been repeated all through the formation, and Temple reacted with automatic movements, so many weeks of training. On both sides of him, the men began to kneel down, another silent hand signal from the men out front. He did the same, felt the wet grass beneath him, brushing his face. Dugan moved out in front of them, said something to the other man, then came toward Temple, stood a few feet in front of him, held his hands out low, the silent order, lie down. Temple lay flat on his belly, adjusted his helmet to cover the back of his head, put one hand between his face and the wet grass that was soaking through his already damp uniform. His breathing came in hard short gasps, his mouth open, desperately dry. He clenched his jaw shut, forced himself to breathe slowly, felt angry at himself: Stop this! Something touched his shoulder, and he jumped at the shock, heard a hard whisper.
“Quiet! Easy, Private. Just a few minutes.”
The man was gone, and Temple knew it had been Dugan. He was embarrassed now, thought, He must have heard me breathing. He thinks I’m afraid, that I can’t do this. Temple raised his head, wanted to find the man, tell him, No, dammit, I’m all right. Just . . . excited. He peered up over the top of the tall grass, felt a sharp cold stab, turned, frantic, looked the other way. There was no one there, no sign of anyone. Where did they go? What the hell? They left me here? He heard another whisper now, the same voice. “Get your damned head down, Private.”
Temple dropped down again, realized, They’re hidden in the grass. Just like me. He felt like laughing, thought of Scarabelli’s teasing: Roscoe, you are one dumb farmer. He adjusted his helmet again, the cotton in his mouth drawing him to the canteen. No, better wait. His breathing was slower now, his mind taking charge, calming him. He let go of the rifle, flexed his stiff fingers, reached out into the grass, felt the wetness, thought, It must be wheat. It’s a wheat field. Of course, makes sense. Good cover. Someone thought of that, I guess. There was a sudden sharp clap of thunder, the ground beneath him jumping as he jumped, the air above him ripped by a short high scream. Across the wide field, the shell impacted, the ground bouncing under him again. The guns began to fire in rhythm now, and he could tell that they came from behind him, our guns. The screams of the shells were erased now by the sounds of their impact, the shells coming down much closer to him than the distant guns that fired them. The thunder grew to a continuous pounding roar, and he felt himself flattening down against the dirt, hugging tightly to the earth as it rolled and tossed him. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. He blew dirt out of his nose, felt a hard dull