To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [287]
He took the belt of bullets, slung it over his shoulder, heard another man farther along.
“Four per man, more if you can carry ’em.”
He heard the rattle of steel, lids coming off heavy crates. Murphy reached out, and Temple did the same, felt the cold hard steel pressed into his hands.
“Four per man. More if you can carry ’em.”
He hooked the grenades on his shirt, reached for two more, hooked them on as well, the weight pulling on him. Murphy began to move away, and Temple thought of Parker, the big man toting the heavy gun, and Scarabelli, all the extra weight.
“Give me two more.”
“Here you go. Go get ’em, Grunt.”
He caught up with Murphy, the grenades bouncing against his chest. The tension was familiar now, the way he had felt the morning of the advance into Belleau Wood. The ammunition meant they were close to something, and he tried to remember the words of the officers, realized, They probably wouldn’t want me to hear, but it was dark, and it seemed awfully confused. And the general was angry. He felt a stab of fear. Generals shouldn’t be angry.
He could hear his own breathing, realized the column was moving more quickly now, the trees around him more visible, the darkness slipping away. The memories of Belleau Wood flooded through him, and he thought of the wheat field, lying flat, the voice of Dugan . . . Dugan, his hand in the air. . . .
The air exploded around him, blinding flashes of light, the column seeming to collapse, Temple pushed down hard, the grenades punching his chest. He heard screams, shock and fear and the flashes continued, hard blasts deafening him. He felt a hand on his shirt, pulling him up, shouts in his ear, “Get moving! Keep moving!”
He staggered to his feet, off balance from the weight of the ammo, saw men rising, moving with him. The blasts were rolling all through the woods, great bursts of fire, white streaks of light slicing out away from him. He realized now, the fire was outgoing, a line of big guns anchored in the woods. He braced himself against the roar of sounds, hard ringing in his ears, the concussion jolting him, some men still falling from the thunder that blew through the column. He could see out on both sides, the fire of the artillery sending the streaks away, ripping the air with blinding light. The guns seemed to extend forever, far out into the woods, dozens, maybe hundreds of guns, all launching their terrible power toward the enemy. The fear was gone now, erased by the strength of the artillery, and he felt the pride, felt their power inside of him, driving him forward, driving all of them toward the enemy.
He saw more of the sky, the stars fading, realized the trees were thinning out. Along the trail, men were pointing the way, waving them on, the entire column moving forward at double time, exhausted, hungry men caught up by the pure energy of their momentum. Temple ran past the guide, followed Murphy, realized they were in the open now, a vast wide field that stretched far beyond the dim light. The streaks of fire from the artillery still rolled over them, painting the sky. He ran with the others through tall grass, glanced up, thought, We won’t need guides now. The artillery is all firing out . . . that way. And that’s where the enemy is.
The column was stopped, and he felt his breathing in hard gasps, bent over for a moment, rested his hands on his knees. The grass was nearly waist-high, the tops just brushing against his face. He stared at it, his eyes opening wide. The exhaustion and hunger were suddenly swept out of his thoughts. He could see now. It was a wheat field.
4:35 A.M., JULY 18, 1918
IT WAS NOTHING LIKE BELLEAU WOOD, THE FIELD A FLAT PLAIN THAT spread out toward the horizon. The forest they had marched through was still on their left, tall trees, some with bare tops,