To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [273]
Beside him, Parker said, “Take a deep breath, Roscoe.”
Scarabelli seemed to vibrate on the other side of him, said, “Dammit! Come on! These damned officers. They sure the Huns are moving up?”
Parker said, “Shut up, Jersey. I’m sure.”
Far down to one side, a machine suddenly opened up, and Temple glanced that way, knew the familiar sound of the Hotchkiss gun, so different from the German Maxim. Yep, he thought. Somebody else is sure too. He watched the brush, saw a thin treetop suddenly quiver, felt his heart freeze. He stared at the opening just in front, his eye centered on the sight of the rifle, felt himself breathing, tried to slow it, calm himself, heard the voice in his mind: Wait. He saw the motion now, a splotch of gray, a man’s belt, a rifle, tipped by a bayonet, and he held his breath, then let it out slowly, and squeezed the trigger.
The Marines began to fire, punching holes in the German wave that pressed forward through the thickets and tangled mass of forest. The Germans continued to come, closing the gaps, making their way through the desolation of the wood. Temple could see more of them now, the faces, grim and terrified men, cut down right in front of him. All along the line, the Springfields and the Hotchkiss guns rose to meet the attack in a perfect chattering chorus, and after a few agonizing minutes, the German advance began to melt away. As long as the Germans were within sight, Temple chose his targets, fired without thinking, centered his aim on the patches of gray. As the Springfield jumped in his hands, the targets fell. It was no different anywhere else, the Germans never really finding targets of their own. Once their main advance was blasted apart, they were unable to make any kind of stand. The German counterattack dissolved in the face of the marksmanship of the Marines who waited for them in the blasted thickets, the men who had been trained with the rifle.
ON JUNE 15, MOST OF THE MARINES WERE ORDERED BACK, REPLACED by infantry units from the division’s other two regiments, the Ninth and the Twenty-third. For ten days, the Marine Brigade had fought over the worst ground anyone in the army had ever seen. And the fight was not yet done. After another long week of stalemate and struggle, the Marines were sent back into the wood for the final push. The unshakable tenacity of the Second Division had taken a devastating toll on their enemy, and on June 25, the German hold on Belleau Wood was finally broken. From Torcy to Bouresches, the Second Division had dammed up the German advance, and prevented them from capturing the vital roadway to Paris.
While the Marines were recuperating, the fight for Belleau Wood had received worldwide attention. Temple and his squad did not know that from the first day of their assault, they had been joined by Floyd Gibbons, a prominent correspondent from the American press corps. Within days, the fight at the Bois de Belleau was front-page news in every newspaper in America. The impact of the American victory was felt all through the camps on both sides of the Western Front. The most notable recognition was offered by French general Jean Dégoutte, who commanded the French Sixth Army, and the overall theater of the front occupied by the Second Division.
In view of the brilliant conduct of the Fourth Brigade of the Second Division . . . the general commanding the Sixth Army orders that henceforth, in all official papers, the Bois de Belleau shall be named “Bois de la Brigade de Marine.”
CHÂTEAU-THIERRY—JUNE 30, 1918
THEY WERE STANDING WHEN HE ENTERED, AND HE STOPPED AT THE door, scanned the faces, saw every man coming to sharp attention. They were mostly gray-haired, near his own age, each man flanked by senior members of his staff. He felt the energy in them, the pride, men who didn’t need to be told what they had accomplished. But he