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By Root 2400 0

HAD SEEMED CONTENT TO engage in a sporadic artillery duel that, during long pauses, had allowed the men to search for someone who might tell them where they should be. Temple had begun to find familiar faces, or they were finding him. As the platoon drifted together, the men met each other with hard handshakes, firm grips on sagging shoulders. Others sat alone, absorbing the names of the missing, quiet tears for best friends, for men who had known each other since training, or long before. The tears came even from the old veterans, the men who had so inspired Temple, the men with so much grit from experiences in bizarre corners of the world, the men who Temple had come to believe were invincible. After a week in Belleau Wood, the arrogance, the overconfidence, was gone. Now, they were all veterans.

Rations had been delivered, were distributed now by a lanky corporal named Appleby. As the food tins were passed through the shelters in the dense thickets of underbrush, Temple had stayed close to the corporal, a few others doing the same, a silent creeping vigil, searching the faces, who searched them as well.

Appleby didn’t seem to mind the others tailing behind him, dropped down now into a wide trench, looked back at Temple, said, “You boys could save me some time. A couple of you go back to the wagon, grab another case of tins. Tell the mess sergeant I sent you.”

There was hesitation, quiet protest, and Temple looked passed Appleby, could see a dozen men spread out along the floor of the trench, one big man hunched over, sharpening his bayonet on a flat stone.

“Dan!”

Temple jumped down, moved quickly past the corporal, saw the big man look up slowly.

“Hello, Roscoe.”

Temple knelt down, saw Parker focus again on the stone, grabbed the big man’s shoulder, said, “Dan! You okay? Damn, I’m glad to see you!”

Parker nodded, stared down at his work. “You too, Roscoe. Worried about you.”

Temple felt a strange creeping fear, scanned Parker’s dirty uniform, said, “What’s the matter, Dan? You hurt?”

Parker shook his head, ran his finger along the glistening blade of the bayonet, slid it into his belt. He looked at Temple now, dark, sad eyes, said, “I’m glad you’re okay, Roscoe. We lost a mess of good people. Some say half the company. You seen anyone else in the squad? I figured I was the only one left.”

Temple reached out, put a hand on Parker’s shoulder again. “I thought the same thing. They got Ballou. I was there. The sarge, Lieutenant Ashley.”

Parker shook his head, looked down again. “I knew that cowboy would get himself killed. I prayed for him. Just . . . had a feeling. Never thought the sarge, though. Saw you trying to pull him back up.”

It was a memory that Temple had put far away, and he fought it now.

“What about Scarabelli? You hear anything?”

Parker shook his head, and down the trench, a man turned, said, “Scarabelli? You mean that big-mouth Italian?”

Temple stood, said, “That’s him. You see him? Did he make it?”

The man smiled. “You could say that. He’s back here in the hole, sound asleep. You wake him up, he’s your problem. Never saw so much mouth on such a small man. He talks while he fights. Talks to every German he shoots. Gotta hand it to him. He shot a hell of a lot of them.”

Temple leaned down, looked back into the brush, saw the bottom of a pair of filthy boots. He crawled into the hole, grabbed a boot, shook it, gave a short shout. “Hey!”

Scarabelli raised his head slightly, peered from under the rim of his helmet. “What the hell . . . Farmer Roscoe! I’ll be damned!”

Temple backed away, and Scarabelli slid out of the makeshift cage, took Temple’s hand, said, “I knew you’d make it, Farm Boy.” Scarabelli was smiling, broad and toothy. Temple said, “Parker’s right over there. Come on.”

Scarabelli followed him, and Temple saw Parker watching them, the big man leaning back against the side of the trench. Scarabelli said, “Well, I’ll be damned. I figure you were too big a target to miss, Mountain Man. It’s good to see you.”

Parker nodded, unsmiling. “Gino. God protected us. We’re the blessed.”