To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [258]
He lay frozen for a single moment, his brain taking over again, all the training, the orders, the words of the sergeant: follow me. He stood up, saw the wheat field coming alive with men, the entire battalion, twelve hundred men rising up in their neatly formed rows. He was up with them now, a part of them, gripped the rifle with shaking hands, his whole body wrapped in a cold chill. He glanced out to each side, his heart racing, his hands shaking, pure raw excitement. Dugan stepped out in front again, and to one side, another sergeant, and more men, some holding pistols, the officers. He focused on Dugan, the old sergeant staring straight at him, a slow scan now to the rest of the squad, his words rolling through Temple’s brain: just follow me. Dugan turned, faced forward, and across the field, the entire formation began to move, a rippling surge of motion, the men stepping through the wheat, a gloriously powerful parade.
The first line crested a low hill, the wheat stretching beyond for another two hundred yards. Temple could see the trees now, their objective, the woods that they would capture. There was a curtain of smoke hanging above the tree line, the aftermath of the shelling, and he stared into the dark recesses of the woods, thought now of the enemy, invisible eyes watching them, or perhaps they were gone, brushed away by the artillery, or ordered to pull back from . . . this. From us. He felt stronger with each step, impatient energy, wanted to run, to get to the woods quickly, to see the enemy melting away. Now, we might not see him at all. He wanted to say something to Parker, share the excitement of this moment, but his eyes were fixed on the trees, and on the back of Dugan, who stepped forward just a few yards in front of him.
His mind filled with the only sound he could hear, the soft brushing of boots through the wheat, a steady wave of men, rolling forward. He glanced to the side, Parker holding the Springfield out in front of him, the oily bayonet glistening, the perfect portrait of a Marine.
There was a quick shout down the line, and Temple saw streaks of light coming from the trees, then the sounds, dull pops. It was rifle fire. His heart jumped, the cold stabbing him, and he stared at the tree line, more of the streaks. From every dark space, there were flickers of light, small flashes, the air above him now buzzing, a tight high zip whistling past his head. Men were shouting all along the line now, one short scream, and Temple glanced at Parker, the big man moving steadily forward, Dugan in front of him, slow even steps. Follow me.
He heard a sharp ping, saw Dugan’s helmet jerk, the big man turning slightly, his head cocked to one side, as if trying to speak. Then his legs gave way, the big man tumbling down into the wheat. Temple stopped, and behind him, there were shouts, “Stay in line!”
He jumped forward, stood over Dugan, saw the sergeant’s hand upright, hanging in the air, reaching out, and Temple leaned down, said, “It’s all right, Sarge. Here . . .”
He saw Dugan’s eyes now, wide, a vacant stare, a small stream of blood flowing down the man’s face. Temple felt a cold hole opening up inside of him, stared down at the empty eyes, “No! Come on, Sarge. Get up.”
The air was alive around him, the wheat around his legs suddenly cut down. He heard the chatter of machine guns, muffled by the trees, and more men were shouting, some crying out. Temple looked out toward the trees, all the dark recesses alive with the guns of the enemy. All around him the neat lines of men were coming apart, punched and staggered by the sharp streaks of fire. There was a hand on his arm now, a voice, “Keep moving, Marine! Nothing you can do for him now!”
Temple wanted to protest, No, help him, but the hand pulled him away, another hand, a hard push now into his back. He looked down the line, no line at all now, men falling, their voices blending with the growing roar of fire in the trees. Officers