To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [320]
Scarabelli was in the trench behind Temple, said, “What the hell are they doing here? It’s daylight! What did they think they can do?”
Lucas lowered the binoculars, wiped at his eyes. “They’re probably lost. Came through the wire and can’t find their way back. It’s the rain that brought ’em out here. They’re harder to spot. Probably just a trench raid, see if they could grab a few prisoners. Sons of bitches. Watch that shell hole. Parker, you see anything move, blast hell out of the edge of that hole. Sergeant!”
“Sir!”
“I’m going down to Newman’s squad, see if they have a better angle. Maybe find a way to drop a grenade or two of our own.”
Lucas jumped down from the parapet, disappeared down the trench. Osborne moved up onto the parapet, was beside Temple now.
“Anything, Private?”
“Not yet. I saw the Hun toss the grenade.”
Parker was still hovering over the chauchat, said, “Concentrate, Roscoe. All I can do is bust up the ground. You might get a better chance. Murph, you too.”
Temple blinked hard, focused through the sight of the Springfield. The shell hole was nearly ten yards across, rimmed with thick grass. He moved the sight slowly, scanning the grass, stopped, froze. There was a round black lump, between two thick tufts of green, and he stared at it for a long second, thought, Helmet. He let out a breath, squeezed the trigger. The Springfield jumped in his hands, and Osborne said, “What . . . ?”
The black lump was gone now, and Temple saw movement, a rifle barrel, a bayonet, another helmet slipping between the grass.
Parker said, “You stirred ’em up, Roscoe. That shell hole’s gotta be shallow.”
Parker fired the chauchat, a short burst, paused, fired again. Temple stared through his gun sight, saw movement, another black lump, fired the rifle again. He expected the helmet to disappear, but the man stood, the helmet knocked away, the man staggering up out of the hole, rifle fire now exploding down the line. The man collapsed, fell straight down into the grass. There were shouts farther down the trench, the other squad, and Murphy said, “Dumb bastards. That was your kill, Roscoe.”
Temple blinked again, tried to clear the dust out of his eyes, could see the dead German clearly. My kill. The words meant nothing to him, and he stared at the man’s body, felt no pride, felt nothing at all. It was not even a difficult shot.
Parker said, “Keep watching, Murph. They got nowhere to go.”
The air was suddenly ripped overhead, hard smacks on the sandbags. Temple flinched, pulled back away from the slit, heard a voice, “Machine guns!”
He could hear the chatter of the Maxims now, faint, the guns back along the German lines. Of course. They figured out what’s happening here. Trying to help their men. The machine guns continued, and there was rifle fire again from down the line, the other squad responding. But the firing stopped, quiet now, and Temple thought, That’s Lucas, stopping them. Nothing for them to shoot at.
Parker said, “Keep watching ’em, Roscoe! They ain’t aiming for you. They’re just shooting blind.”
Temple pushed the barrel of the rifle forward again, another burst of machine-gun fire peppering the sandbags. He pulled back again, said, “Dammit!”
The machine guns paused, and Temple peered out again, could see movement in the grass, tried to find the sight, said, “They’re moving!”
The shell hole was suddenly surging with motion, the men rising up, a hard cry, the Germans up and running. Temple tried to find a target, the chauchat now pouring out its fire, Murphy firing as well. Temple caught a dark shape in his sight, fired the rifle, jerked the bolt, fired again.
Murphy said, “They’re charging!”
The rifle fire flowed out all across the line, squads on both sides of them. Temple stared in horror, frozen, watched the Germans fall away. The firing stopped, no more targets, and Lucas was in the trench now, out of breath, said, “Get ’em all?”
Parker pulled the chauchat back through the slit, said, “Every one of ’em.”
Murphy was still aiming out, said, “I count