To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [262]
He looked back toward the stump, saw the sergeant scrambling forward, more Marines emerging from the low places, men moving toward him. They were around the gun pit now, the sergeant crawling inside, two other men as well, and the young sergeant said, “We should use the gun right here. Good cover. Swing it around that way. Cover our flank. There’s probably more of these bastards in those big trees ahead. How much ammo did they have left?”
Another man rolled a German over, reached for a large metal box, said, “This one’s full, Sarge—”
There was a sharp crack, and the man fell straight down on the German. Temple saw the pistol now, the German soldier trying to free his arm. Temple shouted, raised his rifle, shoved his bayonet hard into the man’s chest. The sergeant was yelling now, “Bayonet the bastards! All of them!”
The others obeyed, completed the gruesome task. Temple put his foot on the German’s shoulder, pulled his own bayonet away. He stared at the man, the pistol still in the German’s hand. The man’s eyes were clenched shut, then opened slowly, dull and empty, the same vacant stare as he had seen on Dugan’s face. The sergeant knelt down, probed the Marine’s wound, cursed loudly, leaned down close to the man’s face, searching for a breath.
Another man said, “He okay, Sarge?”
The sergeant rolled the Marine back over now, shook his head, said, “Shot him in the heart. Dirty sons of bitches! Bayonet every one of them! Don’t leave any wounded!”
Temple sat down now, ignored the others as they began to work the machine gun, the sergeant directing their fire. The dead Marine was beside him, the Germans at his feet, and Temple cradled the rifle, felt the instinct taking over, cleared the bolt, reloaded, wiped the blood from the bayonet. The sergeant shouted something to him, and Temple understood now. Behind him, the Germans had piled their ammo boxes, and he reached back, dragged one forward, slid it in the soft dirt toward the man who fed the belt into the German gun. The gun was firing again, and Temple tried to see, but the smoke and mist had filled the open spaces. He wanted to do something to help, but the sergeant was in control now, the makeshift gun crew doing their job.
He leaned close to the sergeant, said, “We should keep moving. Use this gun to cover us.”
The sergeant looked at him, said, “You sure you’re not an officer? All right, I’ll stay here, at least for now. You push forward. Fritz must have a main firing line somewhere up ahead, his main defense. We need to find it.”
Temple crawled up out of the gun pit, the others gathering close, and the sergeant said, “No prisoners, Private. You boys . . . follow him.”
FOR THE REST OF THE LONG DAY THE FIGHT CONTINUED, AN UNENDING hell of rifle fire, grenades, and machine guns blending with the fury and screams of men. As the night began to fall, Temple and the Marines around him settled into blessed cover, every man seeking the safe place, out of the line of fire, where they would endure the darkness so close to the guns of their enemy.
As they scraped and dug their way into some kind of sanctuary, none could escape the perfect horror of what they had tried and failed to do. Like the men around him, Temple could not escape the harsh judgment of his own arrogance, his casual expectation that their unstoppable wave would simply push away the weak enemy. In the terrifying