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By Root 2428 0

wide front, fights still erupting from stubborn pockets of the enemy. The Marines pressed forward, no one clear on exactly where they were to go. Several companies strayed into the Moroccan lines; others stumbled into the positions where the infantry regiments were supposed to be. With few officers to guide them, and the confusion of the landscape, the Marines were drifting too far north of where the headquarters maps had directed them. With the sun setting, Temple and the men around him found themselves at the outskirts of the village of Chaudon. The Germans decided not to make a fight, and the Marines, alongside several units of Moroccan soldiers, pressed straight through the town. Finally, with darkness quieting the fields, the battalion commanders were able to catch up to their men. As their advance was ordered to a halt, the Marines discovered a network of old German trench works, east of the town, blessed cover should the enemy begin shelling them in the darkness.

THE TRENCH WAS DEEP AND NARROW WITH SEVERAL INCHES OF mud lining the bottom. The smells were thick and musty, decay and filth and the stale odor of death. Overhead, old sandbags lay scattered, bits of smashed timbers tossed about, short coils of barbed wire lying in hidden clumps of brush. As the Marines filed into their bivouac for the night, Temple could see it was not a place that anyone had used in a long time.

He squatted, kept his backside above the mud, could see through the shadows as other men scooped at the mud trying the find a patch of dry ground. Scarabelli was across from him, the trench wide enough for two men to sit facing each other. The small man had been surprisingly quiet, and for once Temple was grateful that Scarabelli seemed to share the crushing exhaustion that kept them all quiet. When the men spoke at all, it was low and subdued, grunts and curses, the trench now filling as tightly as there was room for men to sit. Some began to call out names now, trying to find their own, some attempt at bringing the units closer together. Temple felt the agony creeping through his knees, put one hand down into the mud, heard Scarabelli say, “Might as well sit, Farm Boy. Not so bad once you’re down in it.”

Temple surrendered to the inevitable, slid his feet out, easing the pain in his knees, lowered himself down, his pants sinking into the wetness. He had no energy to fight it, dropped down all the way now, the mud nearly covering his legs. He leaned back, felt soft dirt against the side of the trench, the brim of his helmet causing a small landslide down the back of his shirt. He was too tired to react.

“Simmons? Carrouthers?”

There was silence for a moment, no one responding. The voice came from down the trench, far too loud, hard whispers quieting the man. Temple could see the crouching shadow, the man stepping toward him, and he stopped, his voice still loud.

“Any officers? Lieutenant McClellan? Sarge?”

Silence again, and the man was a few yards away, moved closer still. There was a bright flicker of a match, someone lighting a cigarette, and Temple saw the man’s face now, a brief glimpse of terror, no helmet on a bloody head.

“Sarge?”

“Put the match out!” The command came from Parker, close beside Temple. “Sit down, Marine. There’s no officers here.”

“There’s gotta be. What are we supposed to do now?”

Parker reached up, grabbed the man’s shirt, dragged him down, said in a hard whisper, “We’re supposed to sit down and be quiet. You wounded?”

“I . . . I don’t know. My helmet’s gone. Dropped my rifle.”

The voice was young, nearly childlike, and Parker leaned forward, a low call aimed down the trench.

“First aid? Any medics?”

Silence again, and Parker said, “Sit quiet, boy. Somebody’ll be along soon.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, and Temple felt the ground rumble beneath him, a roll of thunder drifting past the trench. The rumbling came again closer now, the man beside Parker crying out.

“What’s happening? Where’s the lieutenant?”

Parker leaned toward him, said, “He’ll be here soon. He said for you to . . . be