To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [326]
He lay still for long minutes, listened for any sound, any hint that the others might be close to him. They must think they got us all, or they’d be firing more of those damned star shells. Even the Maxims are quiet, and those bastards shoot just for the hell of it. He rolled over to one side, eased up to the lip of the shell hole, froze again, listened to the silence. He pushed up higher, realized he had no helmet, thought of the German he had shot that morning, the glimpse of helmet, the perfect target, the man’s last mistake. He lowered his head, took a long breath, slid back down, ran his hand along the ground, found the helmet, slipped the strap under his chin. He peered up into the grass at the edge of the hole, then moved up higher again, was surprised he could see shadows. He looked straight up now, realized the rain had stopped, the mist nearly gone. He could see the wire, long low shadows, spreading out in both directions, thought, I’m maybe fifty yards back, so I’m another hundred fifty from our trenches. He felt a rush of energy. Hell, that’s thirty seconds. One quick dash. The thought collapsed in his mind. So, then what? You’ll run toward the sandbags and scare hell out of the lookouts. They’ll shoot you to pieces. But they know we’re out here. And they gotta know we’re in trouble. Dammit!
He looked up, no sign of daylight, no, that’s hours away. And, at least, I’m on our side of the wire. He thought of the Maxims again, shooting so damned often whether they had targets or not. So much wasted ammunition. If they saw us moving around out here, you’d think they’d be shooting all up and down the line. They wouldn’t just forget about us. He slid back up the shell hole, peered out through the grass. There was nothing to see, and he stared at the wire, thought, No more star shells, no more machine-gun fire. It makes no sense they’d just quit. The thought froze him. Unless they have people out here too.
He rubbed his finger along the bolt of the rifle, thought of the empty chamber. Sorry, Lieutenant, but the situation’s changed. He pulled the bolt back slowly, put a hand over the magazine, muffling the sound, felt the shell pop into the breech. He touched the cartridge, made sure there was no jam, now slid the bolt closed. All right. Now I got more than a bayonet.
He kept his vigil for long minutes, his eyes growing thick, the shadows dancing. He slid down again, blinked his eyes, closed them for a few seconds, and now there was a strange sound, a dull scrape. He sat still, waited, heard a sharp whisper, the sound of a rip, torn cloth. Barbed wire. He slid the rifle up close beside him, up and out of the hole, rested it in the grass. He stared toward the long shadow of the wire, saw nothing, blinked hard, his vision clearing. More sounds came now, soft footsteps, breathing, shadows emerging from the wire. They began to spread out, moving toward him, and he felt the panic rising again, the shadows continuing to move forward, more of them now. Many more. He slid the rifle back, pulled it close to him, slid down silently into the shell hole, the voice in his brain, too many of them! Just be quiet!
The footsteps were plain now, soft pads in the grass all around him, and he saw shadows moving past the far side of the shell hole, heard one man stumble, low whispers. They filled the darkness around him, a swarm of movement, and he thought of the lookouts, nervous fingers. Please be ready, please be alert. What can I do? There’s gotta be something.
More men were stepping past him now, only a few feet from his shell hole, and he cursed to himself, no grenades. Dammit! We shoulda had grenades! He wanted to feel the cartridge belt, make sure it was still in place, saw a shadow moving slowly past the far side of the shell hole, kept still. He felt himself starting to shake, more anger than fear. He kept staring out the far side of the hole, saw no one now, thought, Maybe that’s it, that’s all of them. They’re past me. Dammit, there’s no