To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [323]
“If there’s one cat, there’s more. This place’s gotta be like heaven to ’em.”
Murphy was up on the parapet, turned, said, “I wouldn’t try to pick the little bastard up. Might rip your face in two.”
Parker ignored him, moved back toward Temple, sat again. Temple stared at the cat, watched as it ate the salmon, still eyeing the men.
“I didn’t know you liked cats, Dan.”
“I like ’em better than rats.”
Scarabelli wiped his plate out with a handful of mud, said, “One more example of how we’re sitting in the lap of hell. Cats work for the devil, you know. My grandmother always said that. Little son of a bitch probably just looking us over, making note of which of us goes next.”
“Shut up, Jersey.”
Temple knew the tone in Parker’s voice, could feel the big man tighten beside him.
Scarabelli knew it as well, said, “Sorry. I’m just getting tired of sitting up to my jewels in mud. This is where the word mud comes from, you know. Misery and Damnation.”
Temple couldn’t help laughing. “That’s mad, you dumb Italian. I thought you spoke English.”
“Okay, so it’s German. Misery und Damnation. Hell, I just pass along the information. I don’t make it up.”
There was movement down the trench again, and off to one side, Osborne stood. Temple saw Lucas coming toward them.
“It’s getting dark now. One more hour should be enough. Where’s my volunteers?”
Temple raised his hand, the others as well.
“Clean your rifles, but no round in the chamber. You got that? Load the magazine, but leave the chamber empty. Any one of you gets jumpy and shoots at some shadow, or if your weapon fires accidentally, two dozen machine guns are gonna open up in our direction. You clear on that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Chances are, we won’t be shooting at anything. If we run into anybody out there, we’ll be a lot better off using the bayonet, better still, just lie still and let ’em pass. One word, men. Quiet. The Huns have listening posts out in front of their line. Those bastards have nothing else to do but shoot at shadows in the dark, and if they open up, the whole damned line will start shooting as well.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out several small pieces of wood. “We need some kind of dry place. I guess one of the dugouts will do.” He looked at Parker. “You’re a country boy, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’m betting you know how to whittle.”
There were low laughs, and Parker ignored them, said, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Take these, make a pile of wood shavings. Put a dry mess tin under ’em, pile ’em so they’ll burn. The smaller the shavings, the less smoke they make. If we send up a plume of smoke right here, the enemy will know something’s going on. It won’t take long for some Huns to drop a seventy-seven in our laps. We’ll use the fire to smoke our bayonets, take the shine off ’em, and we’ll wipe some soot on our faces. The fire won’t last long, so we’ll have to be quick about it.” He paused, glanced at each man. Temple saw the man’s eyes, felt the cold stare. “One hour.”
THE RAIN HAD DISSOLVED INTO THIN MIST, A THICK FOG OF DARKNESS that erased the shadows. Temple followed the faint sounds of the man in front of him, knees and boots sliding through muddy grass. The ground suddenly fell away, the man grunting, dropping down. Temple followed, could feel that they were in a hole. The men stopped, and Temple heard a faint whisper from Lucas.
“Rest. Two minutes.”
Temple lay flat on the wet grass, the dampness of his clothes chilling him. He began to shiver, his breaths coming in short gasps, felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Slow . . . deep . . . breaths.”
Temple obeyed, rubbed his hands on the wood stock of the rifle, felt the shivers slowing. He raised his head slightly, his head filled with a strange smell, something in the ground beneath him, harsh and chemical. He pushed hard at the fear in his mind, and the questions filled his brain. But there would be no answers, no one explaining why this mission was so important, how they would know if they had found