To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [289]
“This way! Eyes front! Let’s go!”
Temple obeyed, but couldn’t ignore the Germans, gauged the distance, four hundred yards maybe. They’re in the open! Dammit, I can shoot ’em from here!
“Easy, men! Keep moving!” Colvin was behind him, seemed to read his thoughts. “The enemy’s in front of us. Straight ahead!”
Temple felt a sharp breath of air, his helmet tilting slightly, his heart jumping at the familiar sound. The air around him began to sing, cut by zips, a dull pop close by, one man suddenly tumbling forward. Briggs was still shouting, waving them forward, and Temple stared ahead, could see flickers of light, the enemy rising up from behind the spiderweb of stone walls. The sounds were growing in his head, familiar, the same as that one awful day, another field of wheat, but he could not hold the thought, heard the sharp thump of bullet and flesh, more men going down. He felt himself curling down, his head hunched low into his shoulders, his helmet tilted forward. He tried to ignore the hard grunts and sharp cries, blending now with the growing sounds of the guns in front of them.
Far off to the right, there was a new sound, but it wasn’t guns. It was a low steady roar. He tried to ignore it as well, but the sound was strange, louder now, and he looked that way, saw low clouds of black smoke, and on that end of the line, men began to raise their rifles, pumping them up and down, seeming to ignore the death that filled the air around them. The roar was steady and growing louder still, the smoke drifting across the wheat field, the black fog sliding past him. He tried to see through the smoke, the rumble and cough of the engines louder still, and he saw movement, a fat gray hulk, rolling through the wheat field, the cheers of the men obliterated by the roar. His curiosity churned into excitement now, the great iron beast rolling clearly into view. It was a tank.
They came in a line, and he counted at least a dozen, rolling slowly across the field in front of the advance of the Marines, belching their black smoke, rumbling and plowing their way over the uneven ground. Temple still moved forward, automatic steps, the men around him all staring in pure wonder at the mammoth machines, far bigger than Temple had ever imagined. The tanks were spreading into line in front of them, and the Marines moved up close behind, matching their advance. The tanks moved forward at a slow and steady pace, carving wide tracks through the dirt, their thick exhaust forming a smoke screen, drifting over the Marines in a stinking fog. Temple ignored the burning in his eyes, was only a few yards behind one of the great machines, tried to see the details on the tank itself. There were guns protruding from ports along each side, two fat cannon aimed toward the front. He wanted to run up and around the machine, thought, How many men inside? But Briggs was in front of him, the sergeants still in front all down the line, holding the men back, keeping them to the rear of the tanks, taking advantage of the obvious protection the powerful machines would give them. The roar of the engines was deafening, but he could see past them, small gaps opening in the black exhaust. The first stone wall was only a hundred yards in front of the tank, and Temple realized the bullets were still in the air, could see sparks on the tanks, the German gunners firing uselessly at the great fat targets. Suddenly the cannon on the tank erupted, a flash of smoke and dirt at the wall, the tank halting, firing again. The wall was blasted into rubble, and Temple could see bodies of men scattered around the opening, men jumping up, pouring back from the wall, from their protection. With a great belch of black smoke, the tank began to move again toward the gap. Temple heard the men around him cheering, and he raised his hand, shouted with them, glorious victory. He followed