To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [317]
The sergeant called out again, “One more thing. Sir. Just a piece of advice. Since your boys are trying so hard to impress these men, they should know that singing doesn’t show us anything but how scared they are. If any of these boys survive, they’ll learn it on their own. Veterans don’t sing.”
NEAR REMENAUVILLE—SEPTEMBER 8, 1918
The Marines had been assigned outpost duty across the front of the entire division, manning the lookouts and communication stations once held by the French. They moved forward at night, stepping through a series of narrow trenches that zigzagged westward. As they reached the final trench, Temple had been as relieved as the men around him to see the dugouts opening up, the trenches cut deep and wide, lined with a parapet, sandbags piled high, cut by slits for the lookouts. They waited in total darkness, the unnecessary order passed along for quiet, for no light of any kind. The only words that mattered to Temple came in the brief instructions from their new lieutenant, a soft-spoken Texan named Lucas. Once they were in position, they would be within a few hundred yards of the enemy, an enemy that by all accounts did not yet know that across the barbed wire, their old adversary was gone, replaced by men who would not be content to sit quietly in the mud.
Lucas was an old-timer, had served in Cuba, seemed to come from the same stock as the old sergeants, men like Dugan, who had so terrified the new recruits at Quantico. Though Lucas had survived the fights that had claimed so many of the front-line officers, those Marines who had known him before Belleau Wood spoke now of a difference in the man, his calm and low-key demeanor charged with a frightening need to put himself in harm’s way. Temple knew nothing of Lucas, could rely only on the talk that filtered through the reorganized platoon. If Lucas was carrying some dangerous need to join his lost comrades, he was still a respected officer. Throughout the platoon, the men had feared that when their new lieutenant was assigned, he might be one of the ninety-day wonders, the fresh-faced officers who came to France straight from their training classes, men who were pushed forward quickly to fill the gaping holes left by the death of so many field officers. Temple shared the same nagging concerns as the men around him, that when the attack began, if the lieutenant was not a leader, could not drive his men without wavering or hesitation, then he might as well not be there at all.
The new sergeants had appeared as well, a mix of old and young. Temple’s squad had been assigned a man named Osborne, a tall angular man from the farm country of Indiana. Osborne was a surprise, had only recently arrived in France, had marched in his green uniform with the other young Marines who arrived at the camps with such casual arrogance. The squad seemed uneasy with their new leader, none more so than Parker. Temple had responded to Osborne the same as the rest of them, watching the man, the quiet search for signs of weakness. But Osborne did not seem as foolishly brazen as so many of the new replacements. Instead of bluster and crudeness, he offered the men the respect they had earned. It was appreciated, even if nothing was said. And Osborne seemed to know that if the respect was to be returned, he had to earn it.
THEY HAD NOT REACHED THEIR POSITION UNTIL WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT, and as the watch was assigned, Osborne told the rest of them to get some sleep. But Temple stayed wide-eyed, could tell that the men around him were doing the same, a silent vigil, waiting desperately for the darkness to end. He tried to calm his imagination, had tried picturing the no-man’s-land in front of them, desolation and carnage, all the stories they had heard. He knew that Parker was up on the parapet, Murphy as well, and he took comfort in that, good men, alert men who knew the enemy. But his confidence waged war with the fears in his mind, and Temple knew that he would get no sleep