To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [327]
He ducked low, waited, and from the trench line came shouts, pops of rifle fire. The Germans began to fire themselves, the ground shaking with the blast from a grenade. Another grenade exploded, a blinding flash of light, and he tried to see, peered up along the rim of the hole, specks of rifle fire coming from the trench line, Marine rifle fire. The grenades came again, each flash of light silhouetting the Germans, some dropping down, scrambling to find shell holes. He shouted again, “Kamarad!”
Now he heard the same word, shouted around him, “Kamarad!”
More men began to take up the call, a ragged chorus, the rifle fire suddenly slowing. There were lights now, faint beams from flashlights, the only light the Marines had been given. He stared toward the trench line, saw the flickers of light from the sandbags, could see the silhouettes of the Germans, men standing now, hands going up, some dropping to their knees, many hands high in the air.
“Kamarad!”
He heard more voices, English, “Hands in the air! Step forward! Both hands up!”
Temple watched with wide eyes, the flashlight beams holding the Germans in eerie silhouette. He looked back toward the wire, toward the Maxims, thought, Nothing, no firing! The only targets they have are their own men, but Lucas was wrong. No one over there’s giving the order. The Huns won’t just shoot their own men.
He stared again toward the trench, could see the Germans walking into the flashlight beam, filing past the sandbags now, hands high in the air. The voice returned to his brain, a stab of fear. Get going, Roscoe. This may be your only chance. He climbed out of the hole, focused on one flicker of light, could see the flashlight dimming, shouted, “Marine! Marine!”
He held the rifle high up over his head, ran down and through more of the shell holes, stumbled through water, his boots sinking into soft mud. He pulled himself forward, fire burning in his chest. The lone flashlight flickered toward him, and he shouted again, “Private Temple!”
He ran toward the speck of light, heard a sharp command, “Kill the light! You want to get him shot?”
There were men emerging from the sandbags now, and he stumbled in the darkness, tried to hold the rifle up, his voice choked away, felt a hand under his arm, lifting him, pulling him, more hands grabbing him, pulling him through the cut in the sandbags. He felt his legs giving way, more hands holding him, easing him down from the parapet. He fell, his hands sinking into the mud. He was in the trench.
There was laughter, a hard grip on his shirt, pulling him up.
“What were you trying to do?”
He knew Parker’s drawl, said, “We got trapped! I was in a hole. The Huns came past me. I shouted Kamarad. Thought it might mess ’em up, make ’em think somebody wanted to surrender.”
There was more laughter, and he felt hard slaps on his back.
“You messed ’em up, all right. I though I lost you, Private. Hell of a thing.”
Temple was stunned, said, “Lieutenant . . . how’d you . . .”
“We crawled back. Winkler and Burke made it with me. Haven’t seen Arneson.”
Temple thought of the man in the shell hole. Now the man had a face. Arneson.
“They got him, sir. Out by the wire. I pulled him into a hole, but he didn’t have a chance. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Damn it all. We got into a shell hole too. Burke took one in the leg. We wrapped it up so he could move.”
“Sir, how’d you get back? I figured the lookouts would shoot us.”
“Private, the lookouts knew to expect us. We got close, and when they sent up that last star shell, I waved so the lookouts could see us. All we had to do then was wait for the Maxims to stop, and just crawl in.”
Men were moving toward them through the trench now, and Temple heard Osborne.
“Lieutenant, the prisoners