To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [285]
He had no idea how much ground they had covered, could only guess that it had been dark for more than an hour. He stared at black nothing, had grown used to the rhythm of the march, kept his face toward the ground, his helmet tilted back just enough to block the rain from running down the back of his neck. Up on the road, the only sound came from the French, what Temple could only imagine to be the most graphic profanity, officers and men trying to move past each other, some advancing with the Marines, the others moving to the rear, desperately exhausted men who endured the shouts and curses of the men sent to relieve them.
There had been no time for food, not even for the tins of beef they carried in their packs. Temple had seen nothing of officers, had no idea where they were marching, how long they would do this. Sergeant Briggs was in front of him somewhere, and Temple knew that Briggs didn’t know anything either, was simply marching as they all marched, this chain of blind men joined together by the grip of their fingers.
THE HOURS HAD FLOWED PAST HIM LIKE THE MUD UNDER HIS FEET, the sounds up on the road washed out of his mind. He realized now that the rain had stopped, his mind trying to focus, breaking the dull fog in his brain. His eyes were closed, and he blinked, felt the sting from the sweat that rolled down his face, his shirt still as wet as when the storm had soaked him. His arm extended out toward Murphy’s belt in numbing stiffness, and he wanted to shift the rifle to the other shoulder, but he dared not break the rhythm, dared not release his aching fingers from Murphy’s belt. Murphy suddenly stopped in front of him, and Temple ran into him, the man behind him doing the same. It had been like that all night long, sudden jolts that woke the men from their walking sleep. Temple waited for Murphy to move again, heard something up ahead, a voice in English.
“Up, into the road!”
The line surged forward, Murphy climbing out of the wide ditch, Temple following blindly along. The ground beneath him was hard now, the mud in his boots squeezing between his toes, his socks cold and rough. He saw a flicker of light, tried to focus his eyes, saw the hulking shadow of a house, a few yards from the road.
“Column halt!”
He stopped again, sagged under the weight of his gear, felt one knee give way, caught himself, his hand still hooked in Murphy’s belt. Murphy grunted, and Temple pried his fingers out of the wet leather, was shocked by the stab of pain in his knuckles. He worked the stiffness out of his fingers, said in a whisper, “Sorry.”
“Quiet!”
He jumped, startled that Briggs was beside him, the sergeant moving slowly along the line. The door to the house suddenly opened, a shaft of light blinding him, and Temple caught a glimpse of men, officers, moving through the door. There were muted shouts now, coming from inside the house, and Temple tried to hear the words, heard one man above the rest, a violent tirade. The voices grew quiet again, and Temple was awake now, took a long deep breath. He focused on the direction of the doorway, his curiosity holding his exhausted brain on that one place, hoping for another glimpse of the men inside. He heard a voice, Murphy turning toward him, a low whisper.
“The only ones who are allowed to yell like that are commanders. Must be headquarters.”
“Which headquarters? Brigade? Ours?”
Murphy said nothing, and Temple thought, Of course, he has no idea.
The door opened again, four men emerging, low talk, heavy footsteps in the mud. They stepped out into the road, close beside the column, and one man left the group, hurried past Temple, moved toward the front of the column. Murphy said, “Gotta be an aide. Officers don’t run.”
They stood in silence for a long moment, and