To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [263]
THE MARINES HAD MARCHED INTO A FIGHT WITH AN ENTIRE REGIMENT of German troops, who had fortified Belleau Wood with a perfect network of interlocking machine guns and rifle pits, field cannon and barbed wire. As night fell, both sides settled down on the rugged ground they had fought for all day.
At the headquarters of the Second Division, the commanders were still in the dark as to what kind of fight the Marines were involved in, still believed that the German resistance had been too light to offer any real challenge. The chaos and confusion of the fight was so complete that the officers in the field weren’t certain how far their men had been able to advance, or exactly where their various units were positioned. Gradually, as reports filtered out from the chaotic horror of Belleau Wood, the commanders, especially Harbord, realized that instead of sweeping the enemy out of the woods, the Marines held a precarious grip only on the southernmost fringes. Worse, now that the Americans understood the truth about the strength of the German position, it was even more critical that the Marines complete their mission. Despite the loss of more than a third of their strength, there could be no retreat, no backing away.
BELLEAU WOOD—JUNE 7, 1918
HE USED HIS HELMET TO DIG, SCOOPING THE SOFT GROUND, CREATING his own trench in front of a mass of rock. Beside him, other men dug as well, tried to silence the metal as they worked their tin cups and mess plates, anything that would cut into the ground beneath them. The Germans had seemed to back away, but not so far that their machine guns could not still find the careless. As Temple worked the ground, he realized what they all knew now; in the darkness, in the confusing tumble of the wood, there would be no relief. Regardless of what might be happening out beyond the trees, around the one small village of Bouresches, where other Marine battalions were making their own fights, in Belleau Wood, the confusion was absolute. Even if reinforcements or relief troops could be sent in, there were no front lines, no convenient stretches of defensive positions. The confusion lay not just with the Americans. In the tangle of the forest, some of the German machine-gun nests were still operating forward of their own primary line, isolated pockets of men who held out with what ammunition they had left, some still dug in to the dense brush and rocky crevices. Like the Americans, the Germans could only wait for the dawn, and begin the fight again.
TEMPLE LAID FLAT IN HIS SMALL TRENCH, STARED UP AT EMPTY darkness, no stars, the night sky as thick and cloudy as it had been all day. He tried to ignore the clench in his gut, the hollow emptiness of hunger. When the order had come to leave the backpacks, he had grabbed a tin of rations, stuffed it in his pocket, another of the veteran’s lessons taught to him by Dugan. But with all the crawling and tumbling along the ground, the tin had somehow slipped away, the empty pocket now a gaping cavern in his thoughts. His canteen was empty, a last splash drained in the darkness, barely cutting the dust in his throat. He knew there were more canteens scattered in the woods around him, and it was another lesson as well. Every man had been taught by the veterans to scavenge the dead, water and rations and ammunition. He had not thought of that until after dark, and now, he wasn’t sure where any of the bodies might be, close by or . . . out there, where any sound would bring the German response. Despite his hunger, some part