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By Root 2487 0

with soft-spoken pride. Temple had been reluctant to talk about his grandfather around the Irishman, knew from experience that the most excited Murphy seemed to get was when he spoke of his own grandfather, who had served aboard Admiral David Farragut’s flagship. According to Murphy, his grandfather had actually been alongside the Union hero when New Orleans had been captured, a claim that carried no bluster. Temple was impressed by that, appreciated Murphy’s pride in his heritage. The two young men had arrived at Quantico around the same time, and both men had worked to overcome their devout loyalty to their family legacies before they could even become cordial. It had been Temple’s first real lesson in what it meant to leave home and venture into a world much larger than north Florida. No matter how many of the old folks around Monticello still seemed to cherish a fight with the Yankees, and despite how much Temple had loved his grandfather, the old man’s war was long past.

Murphy lifted one of the belts, tested the weight, said, “Sure thing, Dan. About the same as a regular bandolier. How many you want us to carry?”

Scarabelli looked at Parker, seemed to anticipate the worst. “Two each. Two clips too. I’ll carry the rest. Keep the clips full. And from what the lieutenant says, when I start shooting this thing, stay behind me. He says the French gave us these things because they don’t work so well. It’s liable to blow up.”

Parker was not smiling, and Temple saw Scarabelli’s eyes grow wide.

“Stay behind you. You can count on it, Mountain Man.”

In the distance the men began to move, the shouts of the sergeants cutting across the hillside. Temple saw Briggs now, pointing to the row of backpacks.

“Vacation’s over. Up, you grunts. Those damned rifles had better be clean. We got no time for anything but marching.” He moved close to the chauchat gun, looked up at Parker, then at the rest of the gathering squad. “Listen up. If the big man goes down, it’ll be up to one of you to grab this chatchat. Only one we got in the platoon, and we’re damned sure not leaving it behind. The trucks are over the hill here. Let’s move.”

The backpacks were all in place, the rifles slung on shoulders. Temple touched the gas mask at his waist, the bayonet, saw Parker hoisting the chauchat up onto his shoulder. If the big man goes down. What a hell of a thing to say. He was angry now, staring at Briggs as he moved away up the hill. You barely know him, and you just say that like it doesn’t matter. You bastard. He glanced at Parker, saw no expression on his face. Murphy and Scarabelli were helping each other, the bandoliers across their chests now, the backpacks going up, their rifles on their shoulders. Temple felt sympathy for Scarabelli, thought Parker could have picked another man, someone who’s bigger. He moved up beside Scarabelli, said, “You okay?”

He expected some profane griping, but Scarabelli said, “Worry about yourself, Farm Boy. I don’t mind. This way, I can get a close look at what a machine gun can do to those sons of bitches.”

NEAR RETHEUIL—JULY 17, 1918

They had suffered the ride in the French camions for hours, the procession of trucks trudging slowly through roads thick with soldiers and vehicles moving in both directions. The trucks had finally been halted, the men pouring out in grateful agony, every man bruised and bounced to nausea, bones still rattling from their ride. The daylight had faded quickly, dark clouds rolling over the roads, the men knowing only that they were marching through some kind of forest, great fat trees and thickets of dense brush, a frightening reminder of Belleau Wood. As the darkness settled over them, the rains came, hard and blinding, boots and uniforms quickly soaked. In the darkness, the men were forced to march single file, had moved down into the ditch beside the narrow forest roads. The roadways themselves were nearly impassable, packed with a slow-moving train of ambulances, troop trucks, and foot soldiers, French mostly, moving in both directions. In the driving rain, the darkness