To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [322]
By late morning the thick mist had turned to heavy rain again, the floor of the trench turning to soft mud. In the trenches, small landslides tumbled off the walls, trickles of water growing into small streams, gathering into pools in the low places. One dugout had simply given way, the top collapsing, the small cave now useless. It was a lesson, and the men whose turn it was to sleep stayed out in the trench itself, no one risking rest in a place that could suddenly bury him under a ton of earth. Temple sat wide-eyed, ignored the mud, the cooties, the filth that seemed to seep out of the dirt all around them. He mind held tightly to one thought, sunset, that moment when the light would slip away, the trench slowly growing dark, until nothing could be seen.
Throughout the long hours of the afternoon, the men kept their watch up on the parapet. No one expected the enemy to do anything during the day, but Lucas had been definite in his orders. Lookouts at all times. No one objected, every man remembering the grenades, falling just short, the helpless Germans who couldn’t throw quite far enough, Lucas’ description: ground meat.
The rain was suddenly harder, and above Temple, a rusted sheet of tin served as the only shelter. He saw Osborne, moving through the mud, the sergeant pointing back down the trench.
“Rations are here.”
The men moved slowly, pulled themselves up from their watery seats. Temple stood, unwrapped his mess tin, his plate still crusted with dried mud. He moved to one side of the trench, held the plate under the stream of rainwater pouring from the edge of the tin.
Scarabelli was beside him now, said, “You making soup?”
Temple swirled the water out of his plate, said, “Just cleaning it.”
He tossed the dirty water out, saw Scarabelli looking at him.
“You okay, Farm Boy? It was just a joke.”
“Sorry. Yeah, I get it. Soup. I’m okay.”
“Let’s get something to eat. See what kinda treats they got for us today. Anything’s better than corn mush and salmon.”
The food carriers were there now, set the heavy tins into the mud, ladles appearing. Temple heard cursing, low groans.
Scarabelli moved forward, said, “What you boys brought us today?”
Temple caught the smell now, heard a long groan from Scarabelli. Temple saw the tins now, held out his plate. It was corn mush and salmon.
He moved back to his seat, slid down slowly into the wetness, and beside him Parker did the same. They sat quietly for a long moment, each man working through the food on his plate, the only sound the rattle of the rain on the tin above them. Down the trench, Temple heard a voice, “Whoo! What the hell’s that?”
He looked that way, heard a scattering of splashes, saw a small animal scampering toward him. It was a cat.
The animal was as wet as the men, seemed terrified, hopped up into a dugout, watching them with cold steel eyes. Men were calling to it, and Parker climbed to his feet, moved that way, said, “Shut up. You’ll scare it off.”
“What the hell do you care?”
Parker said, “You seen any rats since you been up here?”
The men didn’t respond, and Temple thought, What’s he talking about? Parker eased closer to the dugout, spoke in a low whisper, held out a piece of salmon from his plate. The cat backed away, arched its back, inched to one side, ready to make its escape out into the trench. Parker whispered again, and the cat seemed to calm, crept forward slowly. Parker set the fish down, backed away, said, “I wondered why we hadn’t seen too many rats. These trenches are supposed to be full of ’em.”
Scarabelli sat across