To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [319]
“Hey, Gino. You expect it’d look like this?”
“I guess not. They been here four years, Farm Boy. Looks like they shelled hell out of the place, then just left it alone. Probably fought like hell to figure out where they’d end up making their stand. How far you figure the Huns are?”
“The sarge said a few hundred yards.”
“How the hell’s anybody ever gonna get through that wire?”
Temple turned, saw Osborne now, said, “Hey, Sarge. How’s anybody supposed to get through that stuff? Looks pretty damned tough.”
Osborne climbed up on the parapet, stared out through the slit. Temple thought, It’s the first he’s seen it too.
“They’ll find a way, Private. They been looking at that stuff for a long time. If there’s a way through it, the Huns know about it.”
Scarabelli was staring out again, said, “Yep. I’m guessing that too.”
NEAR REMENAUVILLE—SEPTEMBER 10, 1918
THE SHOT JARRED HIM AWAKE, MOVEMENT IN THE DARKNESS, HARD whispers. The shot came again, echoing down through the trench. He pulled himself feetfirst out of the dugout, his helmet falling away, grabbed for his rifle, more shots, some coming from down the line, the next squad. Men were shouting now, and the shots began to blend together, a sharp chatter, flashes of light. He dropped to his knees, searched frantically for the helmet, his hand touching cold tin, the helmet up, rammed down tight on his head. He looked toward the parapet, soft gray light, the air thick and misty, saw men shooting out through the sandbags. Murphy was there, emptied his rifle, was loading quickly again. Temple felt helpless, didn’t know what to do, no space on the parapet, voices all around him, high and frantic.
“How far?”
“Inside the wire!”
“Where?”
“Just to the left! Around the deep shell hole! At least a dozen of ’em!”
More men were below the parapet now, the whole squad, and Temple saw Lucas, the lieutenant staring through binoculars. Lucas shouted, “Parker! Bring the chatchat!”
Parker pushed past Temple, climbed up, one man jumping down to make room. Parker pushed the snout of the chauchat through the sandbags, Lucas beside him, and Lucas said, “Eleven o’clock. Watch that wide shell hole.”
The rifle fire had stopped, more shouts coming from farther down the trench. Temple looked up at Parker, the big man sighting the chauchat, calm, scanning the ground.
Lucas still stared through the binoculars, said, “They’re down in that shell hole. Sixty yards out. We got ’em trapped.”
“There!”
A rifle fired, one end of the parapet, and the man pulled the rifle back,
“Dammit! Jammed! I’m jammed!”
Lucas shouted, “Jump down! Somebody fill the hole!”
Temple scrambled up, the man coming down past him, and Temple put his rifle through the slit, stared out into gray mist. He saw a flicker of motion, something tumbling through the air, bouncing on the ground out in front of the sandbags. The ground in front of him exploded in a sharp blast of dirt and rock, a burst of black smoke.
Lucas shouted, “Grenade! It fell short! Keep an eye on that shell hole!”
The smoke drifted out across the open ground, and Temple saw movement at the shell hole, another grenade, arcing up, the fat stick tumbling toward him, the tin can on one end, the same kind of bomb that had killed Ballou. . . .
“Grenade!”
It fell short as well, the blast throwing dirt against the sandbags, jolting the ground beneath him. He tried to see, the smoke drifting away, no movement.
Lucas shouted, “If that shell hole was closer, those grenades would be playing hell. Keep watching. They may throw everything