To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [325]
Temple crawled away from the wire, blinded, had no idea where a shell hole was. The grunts of the others were all around him, and Lucas said, “Run!”
Temple stared into the darkness, the brightness of the light still blinding his eyes, terrifying shapes, blood red in his brain, sharp screams of fear. He stopped, froze for a long second, could see the air around him sliced by streaks of light, the chatter of the Maxims deafening. Run! He tried to stand, was suddenly crushed by a mass of weight, the man falling across him, sharp groans. The Maxims stopped firing, and Temple pushed his way from under the man, whispered, “You okay? Wounded?”
The man didn’t respond, and Temple rose to his knees again, looked in all directions, saw no shadows, no signs of the wire, of Lucas. He wanted to call out, his voice choked away by the fear, the voice in his brain. No. The Huns will hear! He started to crawl again, pulled the other man behind him, slow rhythm, inches at a time. He fought through the panic, thought, shell hole. Find a shell hole. He heard the pop again, his brain screaming: No! He flattened out on the ground, held his breath, heard the clap, another flood of blinding light. He could see nothing at all, his face pressed downward, but the Maxims were silent. He waited for the light to fade, closed his eyes, timed it, opened his eyes. He raised his head, stared out, could see a vast sea of shell holes, thick grass, measured the distance, the light now gone. He was up quickly, pulled at the man beside him, his fingers ripping the man’s shirt. He pulled with both hands now, moving backward, frantic, in a jerking motion. The ground gave way behind him, and he stumbled backward, pulled the man into the hole. He rolled down hard, his helmet torn free, and he froze for a long moment, felt a sharp pain in his side. He tasted blood, spit, put a hand on the wetness on his face, blood coming from his nose. He felt his way around the shell hole, blessedly deep, more of the sickening smells, his hand touching a shallow pool of water, the lowest point. He moved back to the fallen man, said in a low whisper, “You okay?”
He waited, his mind racing, thought, Find a heartbeat. He put a hand on the man’s chest, felt nothing, his own hands shaking. He laid the man back against the side of the hole, felt for the man’s face, motionless, cupped his hand behind the man’s head, felt the wetness now, a deep bloody gash. He made a low cry, fought it. Quiet! He backed away, thought, Oh, God. I don’t know which one he is. Lucas? I can’t see his face.
He lay back on the grassy slope, held the rifle against his chest, his breathing quick and hard. There was only silence now, and the smells around him too familiar. He eased down close to the pool of water, reached out, submerged his hand, rinsed away the man’s blood. His other hand was pressed into the soft dirt now, and he felt tingling, hot, tender, like sunburn, and he understood now. Gas. Doesn’t matter how long ago. It’s still here, some damned chemical still in the ground. That, and the gunpowder from the shell, the cordite, or whatever the hell they use. And the bodies. He closed his eyes, thought of the corpses on the wire. They said there hadn’t been a fight here. A few bodies doesn’t count as a fight. A patrol, just like us, some damned stupid raid that didn’t work. Sure as hell nobody’s gonna bury them. He looked toward the man beside him. And you. The names rolled through