To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [265]
The man squirmed around, and suddenly Temple felt another canteen pressed into his hand, could tell by the weight it was full. “I have two more.”
Temple unscrewed the top, hesitated, could hear the man gulping water. He raised the canteen, began to drink, warm and wonderful, washing the thickness from his throat. He handed the canteen back to the man, who pushed it toward him.
“We can get more. You hungry?”
The man held his hand out to him, and Temple felt something hard and square. It was hardtack.
Temple took a bite, the old stale biscuit breaking into thick dust, choking him, turning to glue in his mouth. It was delicious.
The man waited for him to finish the meal, said, “They say it’s left over from the Civil War.”
“I don’t care. Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Private Henry Ballou.”
Temple wanted to laugh, grabbed Ballou’s shoulder.
“Henry, it’s Roscoe.”
“Oh God! Thank God! I thought the whole platoon was dead!”
Temple said nothing for a long moment. “I think . . . most of ’em are.”
Ballou sat for a moment, then said, “We best lie down.”
The two men were side by side now, and after a long silent moment, Ballou said, “I saw the sarge go down.”
“Yeah.”
They lay in silence for another minute and Temple said, “They got the lieutenant.”
“I figured that. They got most of the lieutenants. I saw a lot of officers go down. Poor bastards.”
Temple tried to push the image of Ashley’s body out of his mind.
Ballou said, “Only officers worth a damn are the lieutenants. Everybody else just sits back there and keeps score. I always figured the lieutenants were just killing time until they got promoted higher up. Never realized they’d be out here, that they had to do . . . this.”
“Ashley was okay.”
Temple waited for some response, and after a moment, Ballou said, “Doesn’t matter now.”
HE JUMPED, REALIZED HE HAD BEEN ASLEEP. HE RAISED THE RIM of his helmet, could see a faint gray haze in the sky, the distinct shape of tree limbs, broken and shattered treetops. His felt a cold chill, his uniform wet, the mist dampening his face. He lay still for a long minute, could hear Ballou breathing beside him, and now he heard low sounds, and a sudden sharp clang of metal. He sat up slightly, realized the woods were a mass of activity, low voices in every direction, unmistakable, metal tools, sharp chops and dull thuds as men worked the ground. There was a burst of machine-gun fire, the Germans seeking a target, and the work stopped, silence for a long moment. Temple raised his head, tried to see up over the rock, thought, The gun . . . not too far away. If they fire again, might see where it is. All around him, the work began again, the tools working, the sharp sounds of an axe.
Beside him, Ballou said, “What? What the hell?”
“Wait! Listen!”
The machine gun opened up again, streaks of fire spraying out through the woods. He focused on the direction where it had begun, marked the spot with the edge of the rock in front of him. All right, now we’ll wait for some daylight. I’ll find that son of a bitch.
The tools began their work again, and Temple began to see it in his mind now, realized that all the new commotion could have only one explanation. If the Germans were shooting at them, the sounds came from Americans. Someone must have sent engineers into the woods, the men who carried the entrenching tools. As the sounds of shovels and picks and axes pierced the silence, Temple felt a wave of relief, that someone back there knew what was happening after all. When the dawn came, their first priority would be accomplished: cover.
The Germans began to fire again, some farther away, the distance impossible to gauge. He heard a twig snap in the brush behind his head, out past the end of the trench, and Ballou put a hand on his arm, a tight grip. Temple tapped his hand, then turned slowly, silently, eased his head up, tried to see. A man was pulling himself with his elbows, sliding on his stomach, and Temple waited for him to get close, saw the man’s helmet, a glimpse of the