To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [260]
The man was reloading his rifle, looked at him, then past him, seemed to count the men close to them, then said, “It’s hot, boys. The enemy’s right up ahead. They’ve shot hell out of us.”
The man was young, seemed to be shaking, and Temple felt a hot fury boiling up inside of him, saw nothing of Dugan in this man, none of the hard experience. He reached out, grabbed the man’s shirt, the sergeant’s eyes showing his fear.
“The enemy’s out there, Sergeant! There’s no reason to stay here!”
Temple rose up, saw the others looking at him, made a quick count, thought, Ten of us, at least. He looked at the young sergeant, saw no sense of command on the man’s face. There is no time for this, for this kind of weakness. He raised up slightly, said in a low voice, “Three men stay here, keep aim on the trees in front of us. The rest follow me forward. If you see a target, take him. We can slip along until we find more of them. If we start firing, then the other three come up with us.”
The men stared at him, some with wild eyes, others absorbing his words, grim determination. The young sergeant said, “There are too many of them. They’re in every direction!”
“Sergeant, if you think you oughta stay here, then you stay here. If there’s too many of them, then we have to change that.”
The man stared at Temple for a long moment, seemed to gather himself, rolled over, looked at the others, said, “All right. You three . . . cover us. The rest, let’s move out together. Follow the lieutenant. . . .”
Temple was surprised by the word, said, “I’m not an officer.”
The sergeant rolled back toward him, said, “I thought . . . you seem . . .”
“Sergeant, I’m just a Marine.”
The young man looked at him again, nodded. “All right then, Marine. Let’s go to work. Move out!”
The sergeant rose up, launched himself out over the log, and Temple followed him, the others as well, each man spreading into some low place, crawling through whatever cover he could find. The sound of the guns rolled over them, the deadly zings and zips slicing branches, cutting leaves, splattering rocks around them. Temple moved up to another log, too small, heard a shout from out in front of him, voices, German voices, the brush bursting into fire. He rolled to one side, saw a fat thick bush, kept rolling, the fire from the German gun following him. He rolled behind the bush, dropped off a short ledge, fell a few inches, felt a sharp stab in his ribs. The Germans had changed their aim, were ignoring him now, and he lay still for a long moment, probed the pain in his side, felt a rip in his shirt, but no wound. No, they didn’t get you. He rolled over on his back, jerked his helmet down over his face, held his rifle across his chest. He turned his head to the side, saw a narrow gully below him, sand in the bottom, like a dry streambed. He slid his legs that way, eased down the short hill, his boots landing in the soft sand. His breaths came in short painful bursts, and he probed the pain in his side, looked back along the sandy ground, saw dark shapes, felt a cold shock. The gully widened as it flowed away from him, and in the sand, a dozen bodies were scattered, torn and bloody, uniforms ripped. Grenades. He fought through the sickness, looked back up in the direction of the German gun. They thought they had cover, but the Germans knew they were here. They had nowhere to go. And . . . neither do I. He scrambled back up the