To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [286]
Temple felt excited, leaned close to Murphy, whispered, “Something’s happening.”
“Shh. Listen.”
Temple strained to hear one man’s harsh breathless whispering.
“Major Turrill is up ahead, sir. These men are Marines. First of the Fifth.”
Another man spoke now, seemed out of breath as well, and Temple thought, one of the runners.
“Sir, I’m Lieutenant Colvin.”
“What are your orders, Lieutenant?”
“To march, sir.”
“Son of a bitch! You think that’s funny?”
The voice cracked through the darkness, and Temple felt a cold ripple on his skin.
Colvin said, “No, sir. General, Major Turrill was ordered by Colonel Feland to seek out the French guides along this road. Sir, we haven’t seen anyone who appears to be a guide.”
The word rocketed into Temple’s brain. General. He strained to see in the dark, caught the glow from a cigarette, could see only shapes, heard the hard voice again.
“Colonel Feland is right here, Lieutenant. These are apparently your men, Colonel. What the hell’s going on?”
There was another voice now, higher.
“As I’ve been saying, sir, we were supposed to rendezvous with General Mangin’s aides at the farm. I was surprised to find you here instead. All I know is that the Fourth Brigade is to advance along this road, and Major Turrill’s battalion is to assume the front line. Do you have further orders, sir?”
“The Moroccans should be in position on our left, the First Division is north of the Moroccans. Mangin’s people haven’t bothered to give us anything but maps. We have almost no intelligence, no chance to reconnoiter the ground. All right, Colonel. Send word to Major Turrill. Send these men through the woods to the northeast, and assume position on the eastern edge of these woods. All I’ve been told is that there’s a wide swath of open ground, farm country out to the north. Colonel, your objective is the Beaurepaire farm. You have the map. Get it into the hands of Major Turrill. His people will lead the way. He has to keep in touch with the Moroccans on his left. Once there, you will make a right wheel, and maintain contact with the rest of the division on your right.”
“A right wheel, sir?”
“You heard me, Colonel. Damned complicated maneuver under fire. But we have no choice. If I had been given some reliable intelligence about the ground out there . . . but I suppose Mangin’s people think they have better things to do. I’ve ordered an ammo dump to be placed up ahead. It’s the one order tonight that I know has been obeyed. I’m making damned sure these men get some grenades this time.”
“Understood, sir. Lieutenant Colvin, get your men moving. I’ll go to the head of the column, find Major Turrill, and try to find out what happened to the damned guides.”
One man emerged from the group, moved quickly toward the front of the column, and Temple thought, That’s Colvin. He stared at the others, felt the excitement, so close to the power, to the men who gave the orders, Colonel Feland, and an actual general. Who? He realized that the Marines in the road had gathered silently, were listening as he was. He heard Scarabelli now.
“Moroccans? What the hell?”
Temple thought a moment, said, “What’s a Moroccan?”
“From Morocco, you dumb—”
“Shut up! Column in line! Prepare to march!”
The voice came from Briggs, and Temple heard a quick shout in front, the line beginning to move. He glanced up, saw stars, a sliver of a moon, realized he could see enough of Murphy’s shadow that he didn’t need to hold the man’s belt.
They marched for a few minutes, then turned off the road, stepped down through mud, a canopy of treetops above them. There was still a trail, and he followed close behind Murphy, matched the rhythm of his steps, heard low voices now, the column stopping again. He realized men were in the woods around them, saw several dots of light from cigarettes.
“Here. One per man!”
The voice came from