To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [290]
Temple looked out to the open ground, German soldiers disappearing, dropping down into cover, some falling, shot down before they got that far. Colvin moved out close to the tank, waved the men forward, shouting toward them, his voice drowned out by the roar from the tank as it moved again.
The Marines followed, surging up and over the wall, and Temple was behind the tank again, could see the Germans beginning to fire from their cover, the unmistakable flecks and flashes from the machine guns, firing now from every low place, every clump of brush. The wheat field had ended, and there were more ravines, the ground in front of him turning uneven, the wheat fields and stone fences now spreading out to the right. The tank fired its cannon again, a deafening blast, Temple ducking in reflex. The fire from the Germans still flew past him, the sparks still striking the tank. Temple was only a few yards behind, realized the tank had stopped again, and he halted, braced himself for the cannon to fire. He saw Briggs, up beside the machine, confusion on the sergeant’s face. A great mouth suddenly opened in the rear of the tank, and Temple stared in stunned surprise, saw a man emerge, his face blackened, no helmet. There were more men inside, some staring out at the Marines. The first man waved his arms, was shouting in French, Briggs now shouting back at him.
“What the hell? Get moving!”
The man suddenly disappeared back into the tank, the hatch closing again. Briggs moved around in front of the tank, began to shout again, the sergeant pointing his rifle into the gun port.
“Move, damn you!”
The tank was suddenly silent, the black smoke drifting away, the great powerful beast motionless, dead. Men were gathering, some crouching low, using the tank as cover, and Briggs looked at Temple, then the others.
“The son of a bitch is busted! Come on! We can’t just sit here.”
The air above them screamed, the blast impacting fifty yards behind the tank. Briggs shouted again, “Let’s go! The artillery’s getting the range. Gonna blow this thing to hell! Double time!”
Briggs waited for the men to move forward, was out in front again. Temple ran with the others, felt suddenly naked, helpless, glanced back at the tank, saw another artillery shell impacting close beside it. Now another shell hit, just behind, and Temple stopped, frozen, knew what was coming. The shell screamed past him, the perfect strike, the explosion buried deep into the tank itself. The machine was a ball of flame, seemed to collapse, one side falling away. Temple closed his eyes, thought of the Frenchman, Why did you go back inside? You could have escaped . . . a hand was pulling him now, and he turned, saw Parker.
“Let’s move, Roscoe! Gotta get to that cut-up ground.”
Temple followed, saw the ground falling away, clusters of brush, rock, open patches of bare white dirt. The Marines were moving on their own now, the line breaking up, men slipping through the brush. There was a burst of firing from somewhere ahead, and the men began to drop, some lying flat, answering, firing at glimpses of targets, or at nothing but the brush in front of them. He followed Parker, saw Murphy and Scarabelli crouching behind a fat rock, and Parker stopped beside them, raised the chauchat gun, said, “Find me a target! There’s machine-gun nests all through this stuff!”
Temple crouched behind the rock, peered out under the rim of his helmet, the rock suddenly shattering in front of him.
Scarabelli