To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [293]
Parker put a hand on his shoulder. “Who threw the grenade?”
Scarabelli adjusted the ammunition belts across his chest, said, “It sure as hell wasn’t you, Farm Boy. You couldn’t hit your mama’s barn from ten feet away.”
Temple looked at Parker, said, “I’m glad you’re okay. I guess we oughta get going.”
THE LAND WAS FLAT AGAIN, THE STONE FENCES CONVERGING ON A distant farmhouse, a scattering of small buildings, steady fire cutting the air all across the open ground.
“Let’s go! No stopping!”
Temple felt fire in his lungs, stopped, tried to breathe, saw men doing the same, more screaming from the sergeants, hands pushing him from behind.
“Let’s go! To the wall!”
They had trudged through another wheat field, German riflemen firing from every direction, hidden in the wheat. But the Germans did not make a stand, and as the Marines moved forward the Germans pulled back, the Marines stopping to fire, some catching the men who ran before them, quick work of the bayonets.
They crested a low hill, a rolling undulation in the wheat, and Temple could see the wall clearly, a solid line of rifle fire rippling across the top of the stone. In front of him, a dozen men seemed to crumble, some curling up, grunts and short screams. Temple dropped flat into the wheat, stared ahead blindly, laid his rifle on his forearms, began to crawl, sliding forward, inching toward the rifle fire. Around him, they moved as he moved, sliding forward through the wheat. There had been no help from the tanks for a while now, the great hulks staying away from the rougher ground, the sharp drop-offs that sent one tank over on its side. Temple had been stunned by how many of them simply quit, grinding to a halt, silent tombs for the men who inexplicably stayed inside. He stopped, straightened his aching arms, lay flat in the wheat, his breathing coming in short hard gasps. He rolled over on his back, tried to find some way to aim the rifle. But there were no targets, the wheat thick in front of him, the sound of the German fire ripping through the air, slicing and zipping through the wheat close above him. The Germans were firing in a steady chatter, the staccato rifle fire popping through the steady chatter of machine guns. All through the wheat, men were calling out, sergeants trying to gather their squads, pulling their men forward. But every man stayed flat on the ground, every man realizing that any target, any movement above the wheat, would bring a solid wave of German fire. Around him, men were trying to return fire, but the stone wall was perfect cover, the Germans firing at will, invincible behind their stone barrier. Temple lay still, thought of the grenades, but the wall was too far, still a hundred yards, maybe more. He had seen enough of the wall to know it extended out in both directions, and that in the wheat field, a hundred men, maybe many more were lying flat, pinned down, helpless.
“Eyes to the front!”
The words meant nothing to him, some officer screaming in a panic, and now another voice close beside him, Parker.
“They might be coming, Roscoe. They know they got us.”
He felt stupid now, the frantic order suddenly clear. Eyes to the front. If the Germans came out, charged the field, we wouldn’t know it until they were on us. The rifle fire seemed to slow, and Parker was up on his elbows, working the chauchat, jerking hard on the bolt, fired a short burst toward the wall. The gun suddenly stopped, and Parker said, “Jammed! Keeps jamming! Jersey, where are you?”
There was movement in the wheat, a helmet creeping forward, the air cut by a new wave of firing from the wall. Temple said, “No! Gino! Stay down!”
Scarabelli lay flat, turned his head, and Temple saw his eyes, Scarabelli grunting, “I’m not going anywhere. What the hell you want, Mountain Man?”
“Chatchat’s jammed. I need another magazine.”
“What the hell are you shooting at?”
Parker continued to pound on the gun, pulled his bayonet from his belt, probed and poked the breech of the chauchat.
“Anything that moves. You better do the same.