To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [291]
Parker had the gun up on the rock, said, “I got him.”
The chauchat fired, a strange chattering sound, the magazine quickly emptied. Scarabelli was staring forward, said, “You hit something! They’re moving. Roscoe! You see ’em?”
Temple laid the rifle on the rock, sighted in on the clump of brush, waited, saw movement, a glimpse of gray, fired. In the brush, the German suddenly stood up, seemed to run, then fell out into the open ground. Parker shouted, “Again, Roscoe! There’s more of ’em!”
Temple aimed, saw the flickers of light, the machine gun firing again, the rock in front of him splintering, sharp zips overhead. Temple lowered his head, waited for the machine gun to pause. Parker had reloaded, fired the chauchat again, and Temple fired as well, emptied his rifle.
Behind him, a loud voice, “Go! You got them. Advance!”
Temple was surprised by the sound, saw it was Colvin, the lieutenant suddenly up past them, moving through the low brush, his pistol in his hand. Temple stood, waited a brief second, saw Parker grab the chauchat, more men rising up from the rocks and brush, following the lieutenant. Temple began to run, staring hard at the brush, saw movement again, men with rifles suddenly appearing, most scampering away, using the rough ground for cover. No, we didn’t get them all.
The machine gun opened up again, men tumbling down into cover. Temple dropped down behind a small bush, too small, and he clenched tightly from inside, tried to make himself a smaller target. The men were still trying to advance, the gun spraying the air, sweeping across the patches of sandy ground. He waited again, tried to slide the rifle forward, realized, You didn’t reload. The machine gun continued to fire, and he saw men crawling past him. The bullets chopped the sand close beside him, freezing him, one hand on the ammo belt. Dammit! The machine gun was firing away from him now, and Temple glanced at the bayonet. No, you’ll never get there. He peered up quickly, saw a wide patch of sandy ground in front of the brush, thought, Forty yards. A long damned way. Men were still crawling forward, the machine-gunner seeking targets all through the brush. The gun sprayed the air above him again, and Temple waited, heard a sharp cry, a man hit a few yards to one side.
A voice cut across the open ground, “Somebody kill that son of a bitch!”
Temple tried to roll over, eased his hand up to the magazine, put a bullet in, slid the bolt closed. He leaned out slightly, tried to see, but his cover was no cover at all, no room for him to aim the rifle. He felt a sweating rage, the gunner firing again, cutting the air, ripping the brush. One man seemed to wait as he did, was up suddenly, running forward, dropping down again. The gunner tore the ground around the man, and he waited for the man to move again, thought, If you draw his fire, I’ll try to get a shot. But the man did not move at all, and Temple understood now. Dammit! Son of a bitch! He looked at the rifle in his hands, furious frustration. He tried to shift himself, the grenades on his shirt punching him from below. He froze again, put a hand on one of the grenades. Forty yards. The lessons were there, all those days of training, screaming sergeants, men defying their training by throwing grenades like baseballs. You couldn’t ever hit that damned target, Roscoe. They passed you along anyway because no one could beat you with the rifle. Well, dammit, if there’s a time . . . it’s now.
He tugged at the grenade, the clip held by the loop on his shirt. He gripped it hard, his hand shaking, stared at it for a brief second. Please. Just once, let me hit something. Just one good throw. The gunner had paused, and Temple thought, He’s looking for a target, or reloading again. All out through the low brush, men were calling out, the unmistakable voice of Briggs.
“Keep moving forward! Stay low. He can’t get all of us!”
Another man rose, scrambled forward a few yards, the gunner finding him before he