To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [272]
“UP! KEEP YOUR MASKS ON! MOVE FORWARD, FIND A PLACE TO shoot!”
The officers were driving the men from behind, the Marines climbing up and out of the safety of the trench. The shelling had stopped, and now, the scouts had come scrambling back from the woods in front of them, the word quickly passed to the officers. It was predictable, the intensity of the shelling not merely an accident, so much fire focused on one narrow section of the line. The enemy was coming.
When the shelling stopped, there was a long silence, and Temple waited as they all waited, slowly peered up out of the fresh trench, a strange smoky calm. In front of him, the yellow mist had begun to drift away, but there was still a sharp burn in the air, enough gas lingering to choke a man, or blister the skin, and so the masks stayed on. Temple climbed up with the men beside him, checked his rifle, felt the weight of the belt at his waist. The day before, each man had been given another hundred rounds of ammunition, the one commodity the division seemed to have in ample supply. Some had griped, protesting that the fight was done, others, like Temple, expecting that the Marines were not yet through with Belleau Wood. Now, they were advancing again over ground they already held, pushing their way out beyond the first trench, where the misty yellow cloud still drifted among the bodies of the men who had not escaped.
He struggled to see through the mask, his breathing fogging the glass, stumbled, nearly fell, used his rifle as a crutch. He felt nearly blind, the woods in front of him appearing impenetrable, a tangle of blasted trees. The panic began to rise, and he wanted to rip the mask free, heard an officer behind him.
“Far enough! Here! Form a firing line! Masks off! It’s safe!”
He tugged at the mask, ripped it free, felt a rush of cool air on his face, rolled the mask into the pouch at his waist. Around him, some of the men were dropping their masks, and he thought, No, that’s a mistake. There could be more gas. But the men were in motion all around him, dropping into holes, shoving aside limbs, stumps, some lying flat, others crouching, rifles pointing forward. He saw a lieutenant waving to him, to others behind him. “Here! Spread out through this area! Use the logs as cover!”
Temple obeyed, saw men scrambling up and over the logs, caught a glimpse of Scarabelli as the small man disappeared into a gap down between two fat tree trunks. Temple looked around, saw Parker moving forward, and Temple pointed, said, “Dan! There! Gino’s there! Good place! Come on!”
He slid down between the trees, saw Scarabelli resting his rifle up on the log in front, and Parker was down with him, did the same. Scarabelli looked at them both, said, “Well, this is just like Quantico. You two country boys can embarrass me again with your damned shooting.”
Parker said nothing, and Temple adjusted his rifle, said, “You see anything? Where the hell are they?”
“Eyes to the front!” The voice came from behind him, the lieutenant again.
Parker said, “About a hundred fifty yards.”
Scarabelli said, “How the hell you know that?”
“Look at the tops of the small trees. Out a ways. A man bumps the tree as he walks, the top moves. It’s just like home, Jersey. Just like bear hunting.”
Scarabelli aimed his rifle, said, “I thought you just hunted squirrels or something. Hell, anybody can hit a bear.”
Parker seemed to ignore him, said, “Watch that gap about a hundred yards out, Roscoe, just to the right of that one fat stump. That’ll be the first look you get.”
Temple eased the rifle up, the sight now focused on the gap in the brush. He realized his hands were shaking, his chest pounding, felt a spark of fear. A hundred yards . . . too damned close.