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By Root 2312 0

of him was thankful that there were no bodies close to him. Throughout the day, he had seen horrors that no one could have prepared him for, had done all he could to keep himself apart from the shock of that. But the idea of digging into a dead man’s pockets, or drinking the dead man’s water, was a horror of another kind, born of some childish fear of disturbing the dead, the defiling of the sacred. He argued with himself, thought of Dugan, knew the old sergeant would have dismissed his hesitation with a profane laugh. If you’re starving, and the man has food . . . well, perhaps tomorrow. By then, whether or not you defile anything may not matter. In this place, it’s hard to find the presence of God anywhere. He thought of Parker. No, he would disagree. He would see God’s hand in all of this, the punishment of the sinful. My mother would feel the same way. Who in these damned woods is not a sinner? How many men did I kill today? His mind froze at the question. Stop that, Roscoe. If you didn’t kill them, then you would be dead now, someone would be going through your pockets, a German perhaps, and he wouldn’t be waging this stupid argument with himself.

He could hear muffled sounds, movement in the darkness. There were faint whispers, men finding each other, exhausted and nervous, rifles and bayonets pointing forward. There had been brief bursts of fire, single pops down through the woods, places where no Germans should have been. It was yet another horror, men whose minds had surrendered to the fear, who would shoot at any kind of target, the first hint of a whisper, a rustling in the brush. But the men still gathered, the Marines seeking out their own, strangers mostly, companies and their platoons tossed into each other in a confused mishmash of commands. Temple focused on the sounds, clung to the hope that someone from his own squad would find him. He had thought of shouting, calling out, a ridiculous fantasy. Any sound brought a burst of fire from some German gunner. The voices he heard now came mostly from the wounded, helpless, immobile, desperate pleas for water, some of the soft screams in German. Temple could not shut them out, knew what some had already learned, that the Germans were listening as well. Every few minutes a hidden machine gun would send a chattering burst of fire toward the voices, streaks of light whistling through the rocks and trees, or there would be a single sharp blast, a German grenade, sometimes finding the wounded man, a blessed end to the cries.

He heard movement in the brush, a few yards away, freezing his thoughts. The man was moving closer to him, and Temple lay flat, imagined the muzzle of the man’s rifle pointed right at him. He took a deep breath, eased his rifle across his body, the bayonet ready, his arms cocked. The man crawled forward, and Temple raised his head up slowly, could see the dull shadow, caught the shape of the man’s helmet . . . American. Thank God.

He whispered, “Here!”

The motion stopped, and Temple closed his eyes, oh God, please make him understand.

The whisper came back to him, “Where?”

“Here. By the rock.”

The man was a few feet from his makeshift trench, and Temple tapped his hand flat on the ground. The man was there now, reached out, and Temple felt the man’s hand, crusty fingers gripping his.

“Is this a good place?”

“Big rock right in front here. Soft ground. You can dig okay.”

The man began to scrape the ground with his mess tin, and Temple slid up out of his shallow trench, put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Helmet works better.”

“No. Not taking it off.”

The man kept digging, and Temple removed his helmet, began to dig as well, widening his own trench. They worked the ground for several minutes, Temple using his helmet to toss the dirt up onto the rock, adding height to their shelter. The man stopped, sat, and Temple heard a clink of metal, could tell that the man was holding his canteen. Temple felt the dusty cotton in his mouth, said, “Can you spare any?”

The man handed him the canteen, and Temple could feel it was almost empty. He returned