To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [271]
Temple looked up, saw the tall hulking form of a sergeant standing up on the edge of the trench.
The man was laughing, said, “Get used to it, boys! They’ll scrub you off back at the delousing station, but while you’re up here, you’re gonna have lots of company! Do what you gotta do, but put your damned shirts back on. Nobody out of uniform, not up here.”
There was a high scream, and Temple saw the sergeant looking up, the scream suddenly louder, a piercing whine, the shell suddenly impacting just behind the trench. The dirt blew high, and Temple covered his face, felt the shower of rocks and debris, looked up, saw no sign of the sergeant. The scream came again, then another, the shells coming in all along the trench line, falling mostly behind them. Temple felt the ground lurching beneath him, saw Parker rolling toward him, the big man shouting, “Stay up against the side! Stay low!” The screams were constant now, thunder rolling over them, and Temple curled up tightly, his helmet low on his face. Each shell shook the ground, the sides of the fresh trench crumbling, dirt falling on him. He could hear the different kinds of shells, the heavy tumbling roar of the big one-fifties, the higher whine of the seventy-sevens. There was a new sound now, and he heard a low whistle, the shell cracking into a tree out in front, landing with a hard thump on the ground.
There was a strange hissing sound now, and now a loud frantic voice: “Gas!”
He looked up, heard the word again, repeated all down the line, could hear more of the odd whistling shells. The men seemed to freeze for a long moment, and now he saw it, a thin yellow mist, rolling into the trench, tumbling in a soft cloud around the shadows of men. He jerked at the gas mask on his belt, the lessons again, the drill repeated so many times, the mask pulled open, sliding quickly down over his face. He jerked, straightened it, could see through the dull glass eyepieces, the yellow wave filling the trench, drifting toward him. Men were scrambling up out of the trench, some without masks, and the screams began now, shirtless men running in the trench, one falling close to him, the man twisting in the dirt. Temple stared at the man, helpless, suddenly felt a hand on his arm, pulling him hard. He followed, was up and out of the trench now, could see Parker following a wave of men back into the woods behind them. Men were falling, the air still screaming with the explosive shells, blasts of dirt sweeping men away. He ran past the bodies now, some wounded, some burned by the gas, writhing agony, the barefaced men, no masks. He forced himself to look past them, followed the wave, saw men dropping down now, jumping and tumbling into another trench line. There were officers, men in gas masks shouting close to him.
“Keep the masks on! Don’t take them off!”
Temple looked out toward the first trench, the yellow haze drifting across the ground, clouding the woods in front of them. Beside him, a man ripped off his mask, said, “I can’t . . . I can’t breathe!”
Temple shouted at the man, “Put it back on! Didn’t you hear?”
The man stared at him with wide-eyed shock, then suddenly curled over, fell at Temple’s feet. Temple dropped down, grabbed the man’s mask, tried to slip it over the man’s head, but the man fought him, was screaming, twisting away from him. Temple backed away, could do nothing, saw the man rolling in the dirt, the face bright red, hands covering his eyes. Temple turned away, stared down into the sweaty mist of his own mask, felt himself shaking, dropped to his knees. He realized the explosive shelling was falling far out in front of him, blanketing the first trench, and he peered out, saw rising clouds of fire and dirt blackening the air where he had just been. The officers were still moving by him, the flow of men from the trench slowing. Those who could make it were already in their new cover, those who could not escape the gas already choking in their