To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [267]
THEY CLIMBED AND CRAWLED, PUSHED SLOWLY THROUGH THE short crevices, moved from fresh shell hole to blasted stump. Temple was one of a dozen men now, a makeshift squad commanded more by each man’s instincts for survival than by anyone’s rank. Temple knew that at least two of the men inching their way through the brush near him were sergeants, but now, with the enemy poised in every hidden hole, orders and organization were useless. No one among them had to be instructed that if you could find the man shooting at you, or could locate the machine guns that continued to rip the air above them, simply pass the word. Then everyone would know their mission.
The sun had finally come out, a thick steam rising from the churned and blasted dirt. With the added warmth came something no one had taught Temple to expect, something no one could explain until a man found it out for himself. After four days of fighting, the woods had become a tomb for hundreds of men from both sides, and now, with the heat and the steam, came the smells. Temple had already experienced the grotesque shock of stumbling across bodies, and like any veteran of close-fought combat, had forced himself to ignore the dead who were scattered in every open space, blocking every trail. But the artillery had tossed and mangled the corpses, and had created a far greater horror for the men who now had to press forward again.
He glanced out to his left, saw Ballou peering up over a log, then ducking back down, looking at him now. Ballou nodded, the silent all clear, and Temple crawled up and over a mound of fresh dirt, pulled himself quickly down into the shallow depression of a shell hole. The smells filled him, familiar now, the sharp odor of spent explosive, stronger even than the stench of the death that infested the blasted soil, the dirt itself holding the smoky stench. He crawled down through the depression, then up the other side, pulled his way through broken branches. He looked back, saw several faces watching him, Ballou sliding up close to the edge of the shell hole. Temple motioned with his hand, side to side, spread out, thought, We should move up on either side of this. . . .
He caught motion above him, saw the fat stick drop into the shell hole, bounce once, then lodge upright in the dirt, one end fat and round, like a small tin can. He made a sharp sound, pushed hard with his feet, drove himself up and out of the shell hole, kept pushing, flipped backward, fell hard on his back. The grenade exploded, the blast throwing the dirt up in a thick cloud. He tried to see, blinked through the dirt in his eyes, heard shouts now, rifle fire, a sharp slap on the log beside him. He rolled over on his stomach, flattened himself, heard rifles all around him, deafening, felt a hard jolt in his head, his helmet punched to one side. He rolled sideways, up and over a small limb, branches stabbing his back. He searched frantically for cover, the rifle fire filling the air around him, different sounds, the Springfields, fire from the men behind him. There were sharp cries now, close to him, voices, loud and German, the leaves and branches beside him sliced and ripped. The rifle fire began to slow, and he heard more voices, behind the shell hole, a single shot, the sound of men scrambling forward, another shot. He gripped the rifle tightly to his chest, slid it forward, scanned the brush in front of him for a target. The brush was breaking now, men running, another shot splitting the air from behind him. Men were moving low beside him, and he felt a hand on his back. “He’s here!” He rolled to the side, saw one of the Marines staring at him.
“You hit?”
Temple tried to sit, felt a sharp pain in his back, rubbed with his hand, no blood.