To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [261]
The sickness overwhelmed him, and he turned his face to the dirt. A voice in his brain cried out, No, God, no. Are they all gone? The face of Dugan filled his mind, and Temple could not hide from the other horrors now, the images of so many twisted and broken men, the agony of the wounded, and worse, the men who were simply gone, so many right in front of him, right beside him. Parker . . . he hadn’t seen the big man since he entered the woods, had no idea where he might be, if he was alive. Scarabelli he had seen, but where is he now? Ballou, Simmons, Baker, Gregory . . . how many never made it out of the wheat field? I have to find them, find out how many of us are left. There is still a fight here. Does anyone know what’s happening? Are more men coming up? He grabbed at the thoughts rolling through his brain: Stop this. One image remained, the old sergeant, Dugan’s hand reaching up to him, the empty eyes. Dugan might never have felt it, might never have known, might have been dead even before he fell. The best way to go.
He looked up the short hill, the fire continuing to roll all through the woods. The German machine gun opened up again, and he judged the distance, not more than thirty yards. I can’t stay here. But they’re ignoring me. One man’s not worth a grenade, I guess. Or they think they got me.
He climbed up slowly, kicking his boots into the soft dirt, pulled himself up by a short stout root. He peered up over the edge of the gully, saw no movement in the woods out in front of him, heard one sharp explosion, then another, thought, More grenades. German grenades. We don’t have any. He saw a brief glimpse of movement, then another, Marines making their way through the brush across the way, one man jumping into the open, tumbling down behind a fat stump. The machine gun fired, the stump coming apart, a spray of splinters, and Temple did not wait, slid close to the one thick bush, scanned the ground to the right, beyond the end of the gully, saw a large flat rock. He began to crawl that way, slow and deliberate, kept one eye on the German gun position, could see it was a pile of short logs, stumps, and tree limbs. The gun paused, then fired again, spraying the woods out behind him. He lay still, glanced back toward the one stump, saw the Marine lying flat, his face turned toward him, the man’s eyes clear, staring at him. It was the young sergeant. Temple made a brief nod, began to crawl again. The German gunner still ignored him, continued to fire at the men Temple couldn’t see. The gun stopped firing, and Temple froze, knew the gun crew was scanning the woods, would fire at any movement, or . . . they were reloading. In a few seconds the gun began to fire again, short bursts, still aimed out behind him. Temple slid forward, was safely behind the flat rock now. The gun paused again, and he lay flat on his stomach, his mind racing. What do I do? If I had a grenade! One damned grenade! Son of a bitch! The gun fired again, and pushed himself forward, his rifle just in front of him, the bayonet pointing the way. He reached the far edge of the rock, took a breath, his heart pounding, eased forward again, tried to see the pile of stumps, peered out around the rock, was shocked to see a German helmet. The man’s head jerked up, the eyes suddenly looking at him. Both men made a shout, and the German lunged forward, fell on him, punching at him. Temple rolled to one side, throwing the man off him, grabbed for the rifle, but there was a single shot, the German collapsing, and Temple looked back toward the blasted stump, saw the young sergeant’s rifle pointing toward him, a thin stream of smoke rising from the muzzle.
Temple moved his fingers, the only salute he could manage. Thank you. He lay still for a moment, his face in the dirt, choking him. He slid forward again, peered again around the edge of the rock. The machine