To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [288]
“Keep moving. Watch for the stone walls.”
It was the first real instructions he had heard, and he scanned the front, realized the artillery had stopped firing behind them. The fight in the woods was growing louder, and he glanced that way, saw nothing, the battle invisible, ghostly. Down the line to the left, the men closer to the woods seemed to bend slightly, bracing themselves for the enemy fire that had not yet come. Temple stared that way, then looked at Briggs, stepping through the wheat in front of them, the thick man staring ahead, ignoring the battle.
“Eyes front! That’s the Moroccans! Keep moving!”
Temple obeyed the order, stared ahead, thought, The Moroccans. The word had no meaning to him, and he felt stupid, angry at his own ignorance. Far out in the field in front of him, the wheat was rippling, soft green waves, the first breeze drifting over them. He glanced toward the woods again, the invisible battle rolling forward, seeming to move with the advance of the Marines, and he thought of Belleau Wood, a blur of agonizing memories. Whoever you are, Moroccans, God help you.
The sky above was growing lighter now, the ground out in front of them clearly visible. He saw a sharp ravine cutting across the wheat field to the right, and beyond, a fat stone wall. The ravine cut across in front of them, narrow, then widened, grew deeper as it wound toward the woods.
“Straight ahead! Get across the cut. Get to the wall!”
Temple realized it was Lieutenant Colvin, behind him, off to the left. More officers were calling out, directing their men, and Colvin said, “Don’t wait in the cut! Keep moving!”
Temple stared at the ravine, two hundred yards away now, the wall beyond, and beyond that, more walls, jutting off in different directions, the boundaries of more wheat fields. The ravine was thick with short brush, only a few yards across, a gentle slope down and then up. The distance was closing, and he glanced again toward the woods, saw that the ground was falling away to the left now, the woods funneling down into broken ground, more ravines, brush, and rocks. He reached the edge of the ravine, stepped down into soft dirt, the men around him moving down with him. They were through the brush quickly, began to climb up again, and Temple punched the toes of his boots into the soft sand, reached up, one hand on the hard flat ground, pulled himself out. He saw Scarabelli, laboring with the ammunition belts, and he moved that way, but Parker was there, the big man reaching back, pulling Scarabelli up by the hand. Murphy was right behind him, and Temple reached down. “Take my hand!”
Murphy glanced up at him, unsmiling, his hand out, and Temple pulled him up, saw Parker looking at him, a slow nod, thank-you. Temple turned toward the front again, could see the network of stone walls, crisscrossing out to the right, in front of the right flank of the battalion. Down to the left, the woods were thinning, then no trees at all, the ravine spreading out into a wide patch of rough ground, the machine-gun and rifle fire rolling through the last stands of trees. He saw movement now, men emerging from the thinning woods, the distinct gray of the Germans, like so many ants, flowing back through their chopped-up ground. He stared that way, could see men stopping to fire, some of the Marines on that end of the line firing as well, picking targets in the low brush. Temple glanced around, tried to find Colvin,