To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [268]
He realized he was bareheaded, saw his helmet a few feet away, and another man was there, knelt down, grabbed the helmet, examined it. Temple saw now, a neat hole through the flat rim, the leather strap cut.
“You sure you’re okay? There’s blood on your face.”
Temple realized his face was stinging, and he touched it, saw blood on his fingers.
“I’m okay. I need a new helmet.”
“Plenty to be found.”
Temple thought of the man’s name now, Murphy, a red-faced Irishman. Temple looked back toward the shell hole, said, “What happened? I saw the grenade.”
“The Huns were waiting for us. Looked like eight or ten of ’em. They hightailed it, but we dropped a few.”
More of the men were up around him, some moving forward. A low voice, one of the sergeants, called back, “We got four of ’em. Let’s keep moving. They know where we are now.”
Temple scanned the faces, said, “Where’s Ballou?”
Murphy looked down for a second, shook his head. “In the shell hole. The grenade got him.” Temple stared at the mound of dirt, crawled back that way, heard Murphy say, “No good. Come on, we gotta move. The sarge is right. They’ll be dropping mortars on us pretty quick.”
Temple ignored him, was at the hole now, a low wisp of smoke hanging low in the depression. He saw the uniform, half buried in the dirt, a wide black gash in Ballou’s chest. He couldn’t hold the tears, lowered his head, felt a hand on his back now, Murphy beside him.
“Your buddy?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw him go into the hole. I think he went after the grenade. Not enough time.”
Temple wiped his eyes with one hard finger.
“Yeah, he would do that. Dumb cowboy.”
“C’mon. We gotta get moving.”
Temple turned away, bareheaded, naked. He glanced toward Ballou’s broken body. “I’m coming. Just a minute.” He slid down into the shell hole, pulled Ballou’s helmet free, glanced at it, undamaged, put it tightly on his head, slipped the strap under his chin. He started to move away, stopped, turned again, saw the canteen on Ballou’s belt. He unhooked it, unscrewed the top, and took a long drink.
BELLEAU WOOD—DAWN, JUNE 13, 1918
The American lines had begun to solidify, the Marine brigade now spread across the wood, connecting to their positions that extended to Bouresches. For another long day, the fighting had been as confused and piecemeal as it had been for a week, small pockets of men pursuing each other, attacks launched as much by instinct as anyone’s strategy. As the Marines pulled themselves together, the Germans seemed to do the same, the two sides separating just enough so the men with the shovels and axes could go to work. Like the Marines, the Germans had pulled back into their strongest positions.
Along their strengthening lines, the Marine runners were working without rest, carrying messages from one part of their position to another, the only communication that anyone had. Gradually the cohesion returned, men responding to the efforts of the scattering of officers, companies defining themselves, the men and their commanders beginning to understand how severe the losses had been, how many men from their squads were dead or still missing somewhere in the confusion of the woods.
The Second Division headquarters had relied on disastrous intelligence provided by the French. But now the division sent its own scouts forward, probing and mapping the German positions. For the first time, the generals had a reasonably accurate picture of what the Marines were facing. With maps of the wood that were finally reliable, the artillery had been active, the gunners able to drop their shells onto what would certainly be enemy targets.
On both flanks of the wood itself, the fighting had continued, pushing toward the village of Torcy, northwest of the wood, with the Germans continuing their efforts toward pushing the Americans away from Bouresches, to the northeast. But the Germans were reinforced, and unless they could be swept out of Belleau Wood itself, the American position west of Château-Thierry would be dangerously unstable.
FOR NEARLY A FULL DAY, THE TWO SIDES