To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [321]
Temple said, “There’s at least one more in the hole.” He turned, sat with his back against the sandbags, his heart thundering in his chest. The squad lined the trench, some climbing up, to see for themselves. Temple said, “They charged. It was stupid.”
Parker stepped down into the trench now, made way for the others, new men moving to the lookouts. He moved beside Temple, said, “It was all they could do, Roscoe.”
Lucas said, “Good shooting. If one grenade makes it over these sandbags, the lot of us are ground meat.” He looked at Temple, said, “Don’t worry about it, Private. If they’d tried to surrender, I’m betting their own machine guns would have cut ’em down. They were better off dying than going back to their own lines. That’s why we’re going to win this thing.”
“THESE ARE THE MEN YOU PICKED?”
“Yes, sir. Corporal Burke, Privates Arneson, Temple, and Winkler. I’ll lead them myself.”
Temple stood behind Lucas, saw the captain appraising him.
“Stick close to Lieutenant Lucas, boys. He’ll bring you back in one piece. It’s your job to do the same for him.”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain slid a paper toward Lucas, said, “Don’t know how much good this map of the wire will do you. The French didn’t seem to worry about keeping their intelligence up to date, especially in this sector. I’ve heard rumors that there was so little action out here, the outposts were singing songs to each other, trading goods right through the damned wire. That’s not a rumor the French officers are fond of hearing. But I’ve found a few empty bottles of German brandy in the officers’ dugouts. Doesn’t take a detective to figure out that somewhere over there, some Hun captain has a sackful of something French. All right, Lieutenant, you know what you have to do. Don’t start out until it’s full dark. And get back by dawn.”
LUCAS LED THE MEN THROUGH THE TRENCHES, SHARP ZIGZAGS THAT snaked toward the front. Temple was last in line, stayed close behind the other four, no one talking. He still didn’t know why Lucas had chosen him for the patrol, had watched the lieutenant scanning the squad, searching, appraising each man for some unknown thing. The lieutenant had passed over Parker, then Scarabelli, but Temple could still see the man’s long finger pointing at his face, the simple word, “You.”
There would be five of them altogether, four of the riflemen, led by Lucas. The others in the squad had already started talking about what their mission might involve, all kinds of warnings about what they might expect, coming from men who had no idea what they were talking about. There was no humor, even Scarabelli unnerving Temple by speaking to him with hushed awe, as though Temple was to be part of some mysterious and heroic journey. The seriousness made Temple only more nervous, all four of the Marines glancing at each other, looking for some hint of courage in the eyes of the others. It wasn’t much comfort. The only man who seemed able to calm their fear was Lucas, and Temple had paid close attention as the lieutenant gave them instructions. The captain’s mission was simple enough: wait for dark, then slip out into the open ground, get close to the coils of wire, and probe, seek out some opening, some place where a man could make his way through. Then, if the wire couldn’t be pulled and tied together, mark the place. They would carry a long sharp iron stake, with a small white cloth tied to one end. If the gap couldn’t be closed, then the stake would be driven into the soft ground, an easily recognized marker for the Hotchkiss guns. Just like the Germans, whose Maxims would open up at random moments, the Marine gunners could spray that part of the wire often, a deadly discouragement to anyone trying to make their way through. Once the opening was found and dealt with, Lucas and his men would simply withdraw back to the outpost trench.
Lucas had been matter-of-fact about the details, and Temple sensed some edginess in the man’s tone. It wasn’t fear, seemed to Temple to be more like annoyance, as though Lucas himself didn’t care