To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [259]
He began to step again through the wheat, his brain holding tightly to the dull shock, Dugan’s eyes, the single hand upright. Follow me. He looked to the front, men advancing, still falling away, the dull crack of lead on steel, lead on bone, the air around him alive with whistles and shrieks, the cries and grunts from men all around him. Some of the men were dropping down to fire their rifles now, shooting at unseen targets. He saw another sergeant shouting at a man in the wheat, grabbing him, pulling the man up, and just as quickly, the sergeant was struck down, the rifleman falling with him into the wheat. More men were dropping down into the blessed protection of the wheat, lying flat, frozen in the only cover they could find, but others kept moving forward, what remained of the advance pushing past the men who had seen enough, who clung desperately to the earth beneath them. Temple quickened his pace, kicked through the wheat, saw another man tumbling right in front of him, curling into a heap. Temple did not slow, stepped quickly over the man, stared ahead, would not see the man’s face. The trees were close now, the dark spaces opening up, the light finding its way into the trees, revealing the rocks, stumps, broken limbs, small cuts and ravines that hid the enemy.
What remained of the first line had reached the edge of the woods now, some of them stopping to fire, the targets still back in the darkness, flashes of light. Temple reached a tall thin tree, saw a splattering of bark, another, lowered his head, felt the spray of wood on his helmet. The voices were around him now, “Move forward! Take cover in the trees!”
One of the voices was his own, automatic, no one left in front of him, and he was running, moved into the dark shadows, shouted again, “This way! Follow me!”
The second line was moving into the trees behind him, the rattling of fire constant in front of him, and he saw a gap between two fat rocks, jumped that way, heard sharp clicks and smacks on the stone around him. He glanced back, saw a line of men pushing him from behind, seeking the cover of the rocks, and he drove ahead, dropped into a narrow crevice, heard voices behind him, “That way! Into the rocks!”
He glanced back again, saw a man pointing toward him, men streaming down into the crevice, bunching up, wide eyes staring at him. He turned to the front again, moved farther into the gorge between the rocks, saw the ground rising again, broken trees now hanging out over the rocks. He pushed forward, was suddenly in the open again, climbed a short dirt bank, saw a fat stump, a tree beside it, small rocks piled into a low wall. Behind the wall came blinding flashes of light, the hard rattle of the machine gun. The men were coming up the bank behind him, and Temple crouched, lowered the rifle, moved forward quickly, was at the wall now, only feet from the gun, saw four men, Germans, a hard shock, unreal, one man firing the gun out to the left, the others crouched low around the gun. The Germans had not yet seen him, and Temple stared at them for a long second, saw one man turning slowly, could see the man’s face, dirty, the man’s eyes suddenly aware, wide, staring at him. The German tried to swing toward him, and Temple saw the rifle, but the Springfield burst to life, Temple firing into the mass of men, the machine gun suddenly silent. He stared at the Germans, one man moving slowly, new sounds, a soft groan, and a Marine rushed by Temple now, jumped down into the gun pit, rammed his bayonet into the wounded man. The Marine looked back at Temple, said, “Good work! Let’s go. Keep moving!”
It was Scarabelli.
They climbed through the debris of the woods, small valleys cut between more of the fat rocks, tall thin trees, some broken and bent across the trails that cut all through the woods. The machine-gun fire was continuous, a sharp roar that engulfed him, the flashes of fire coming from all directions. He continued to move forward, crawling now,