To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [292]
Temple looked behind him, saw more men coming up from the brush, saw Briggs now, the glint of the man’s bayonet.
“Charge him! Now!”
Briggs ran right past Temple, more men following, and Temple rose, saw the flashes from the gun, the men simply cut down, could see smoke rising from the brush, quick movement, forty yards. He heard the click of metal, the machine gun reloading, stood, jelly in his legs, took one step forward, threw the grenade. He watched it arcing high, turning slowly in the air, his hand already reaching for another. But the grenade disappeared down into the brush, and he heard a shout, the shock of the gunner, the man knowing what it was, knowing he had a second left, one second of his life. . . .
The brush erupted, the gun itself tossed up, pieces of metal tumbling out, a burst of smoke. Temple ran forward, held the rifle in both hands, the bayonet ready, reached the machine gun, searched frantically for movement in the smoke, for any sign of the gunner. But there was no motion at all, the gray smoke drifting, suspended in the brush, the bodies ripped, bloodied, one man faceless, an arm gone. Men were already moving up past him, shouting to him, “Good job!”
“You got the bastards!”
“Let’s move!”
The sounds of the fight were out in front now, more cuts in the low ground hiding the Marines who still advanced, who sought out the machine-gun nests, grenades and bayonets and chauchat guns working alongside the rifles. He looked back across the brushy ground, saw a dozen bodies down, most lying in the open, bloody sand beneath them. The men were moving past him and he scanned their faces, saw most of them looking back at him, more words, sharp nods. The faces were familiar, so many of the men from his platoon, but he felt the fear now, began to move back, heard a man shout to him, “Let’s go! This way, Private!”
Still he searched the faces, began to look down, stood among the men who would not get up, saw the one man who had made it closest to the machine gun, his face now staring up, the same look Temple had seen on so many, the empty peacefulness. It was Colvin. He moved past the body of the lieutenant, more men, familiar, saw the stripes on one man’s sleeve, knew without seeing the man’s face that it was Briggs, the powerful man now lifeless, lying facedown in the sand. He heard more voices, men still rising up, some tending to wounds, one man helping another to a shady place in the brush. Still he searched, and now, from behind a low flat rock, he saw Parker, the man hoisting the chauchat, reaching down, helping Scarabelli to his feet. Temple felt a cold turn in his stomach, suddenly felt like crying. Thank God. Thank God.
He heard a shout, saw Murphy waving his arms. “I need a medic! Wounded men over here!”
A wave of Marines suddenly rolled down across the low hills behind them, flowing into the rough ground. It was the second battalion, the second line who had crossed the wheat field behind them. Officers were there now, ordering their first aid carriers to the wounded.
“Keep moving! The fight’s ahead!”
An officer stopped close to him, said, “Good work! The Huns are running! Fall into this line. We’ll handle the wounded.”
Parker had the chauchat, said to Murphy, “Let’s go!”
Murphy was there now, and Scarabelli said, “Who threw the grenade? Son of a bitch oughta get a medal.”
Temple didn’t respond, said, “They got the lieutenant. And Briggs.”
Murphy moved past him, scanned the ground.
“They got a bunch of us. Whitbeck . . . Christ, known him for years.” He paused, stared to the front. “There’s machine-gun fire coming from over that ridge. We gotta go.”
Temple looked that way, could see the men flowing up over a low rise, disappearing into more low brush. The fight was still rattling all through the rough ground, down to the left as well. The flow of men from the second battalion was all around them now,