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By Root 2380 0

what they were looking for. He thought of Lucas. He must know. But Temple could not silence the voice, the fear filling his mind. Lucas was close beside him, and Temple tried to see his face, the lean hard Texan, the veteran. Veteran of what? He hasn’t been out here before. He raised his head again, glanced to the side, guessed at the direction of the big shell hole, where the Germans had trapped themselves, men who were dead because they got lost in the mist. The bodies were still there, no possibility yet of burying them. The bodies brought back memories of the stories from his grandfather, what seemed now to be so much romantic foolishness, a truce on a civil war battlefield, enemies working together to bury the fallen. There was none of that here, no simple gesture of decency. His grandfather had spoken of a world that simply didn’t exist now, and maybe didn’t exist then. The reality seemed cruel, every man understanding that if those people across the wire see you, or they hear the shovels, the machine guns will start. So, their men will not be buried. And in a couple of days, they will start to smell. And what of us? Who will bury us?

He felt the hand tapping his shoulder, the signal, and they began to move again, crawling up and out of the hole. Lucas led the way, the others behind him in single file, feeling their way blindly. They were moving down into another hole, smaller, no cover, the men not stopping, and the jumble of thoughts were gone, his mind focusing on the only task at hand, one hand, one knee in front of the other, the rifle hanging around his neck, a pendulum, rocking slowly as he moved.

They stopped again, and Lucas tapped the ground with his palm. Temple could see a faint strip of white, the tape left by the French. It was one of the questions, no one bothering to explain to a private why they would follow the tape to the place where the French had cut the wire. That’s not what the mission was. They were supposed to find the openings cut by the Germans, not the French. But they moved again, small grunts from the men, tiring, the strain of the crawl, the thick darkness, the fear pressing down on all of them. They stopped again, and Lucas moved back beside each man. Temple waited, felt the lieutenant’s hand on his face, Lucas pushing Temple’s head to the right. It was another signal. Right face. A ninety-degree turn. Move that way.

Lucas led the way again, and Temple caught another smell, sharp, acrid, memories of Belleau Wood. He heard a soft grunt in front of him, the man stopping. Temple crawled up beside him, heard a faint word.

“Corpse. On the wire.”

The smell was overpowering now, sickening, and Temple could see a thick fat shadow on the left, realized it was the wire. He stared ahead, tried to see Lucas, and the others, heard only faint shuffling. The stench was all through him now, and he leaned close to the man, a low whisper, “Move.”

The man started to crawl, suddenly vomited, the sound exploding in the dark silence. Temple froze, the fear screaming in his brain again. Move! Dammit! This is not the time! He pulled at the man’s shirt now, the man responding, and Lucas was there now, faint words, “Don’t stop. It’s just bodies on the wire. Move! We have to probe for gaps.”

Lucas moved away again, and Temple stared into the mist, the order rolling over in his brain. Probe for gaps? How? Stick our hands into the wire? The man beside him crawled forward again, some whisper of apology, and Temple let him move forward, fell in behind, could not fight the anger building inside of him. He looked to the left, into the wire, had no idea what he was supposed to do, and he heard a pop. He froze, his eyes wide, darting, listening hard, trying to judge the direction. Now there was a sharp clap, and high above them, an explosion of light, the sky bright white and blinding. He saw it all now, the wire, the men in front of him, the grass, decaying bodies hanging limp on the wire, full daylight, the scene locked in a moment of time. Lucas flattened himself on the ground and Temple did the same, his face