To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [328]
“Good. Thank you, Sergeant. Seems Private Temple wrapped ’em up for us. All we needed was the bow. Nice work, Private. Never woulda thought of that myself. Make ’em surrender by reminding ’em how. The major will get a kick out of that one. Sergeant, see to your lookouts. I’ll check the other squads. Daylight in a couple hours. I need to figure out how I’m going to tell the captain how his idiotic plan didn’t work.”
Lucas moved away down the trench, and Osborne said, “Okay, next group up on the line. Murphy, Conrad, Vauss, Scarabelli. Same routine. I doubt the Huns will try anything else tonight, not after this little disaster. Parker, take Temple back to the first aid station, get him cleaned up. Maybe a cup of coffee.” Osborne tapped him on the shoulder. “Good job, Private.”
Parker had his arm around Temple’s shoulders now, said, “Let’s go, Roscoe.”
Temple followed the big man through the trench, realized now his ribs were aching. He touched his face, felt a thick crust of blood under his nose. He was suddenly dizzy, felt his legs giving way, and Parker was there, had him under the arm, said, “Whoa. Easy. You gonna make it? I’ll carry you if you want. Least I can do for our new hero.”
“I’m okay. No. Dammit, stop calling me that. Everybody’s all excited about what I did. Hell, I just saved my own ass, hollered out the first thing that came into my head. The Huns coulda just as easy turned around and shot me. I didn’t know they’d surrender. Hell, Arneson’s still out there. How we gonna bring him back? What a stupid mission, anyway. It was so damned dark, how the hell we supposed to find a gap in the wire?”
“Easy, Roscoe. How many missions we been on that ain’t been stupid? How smart was it to march straight into Belleau Wood without the first clue what we were gonna find in there? It’s just war, Roscoe. You ever hear of a war that wasn’t stupid in the first place? Let’s get you some coffee. I don’t care what you say. You done real good tonight. I’m sorry about Arneson. But don’t worry, we’ll get him buried.”
“How?”
“Hmm. While you were out there snatching up Huns, we had a little commotion our own selves. Word came down the line. Be prepared to move. Something’s up, Roscoe. We’re not gonna sit here much longer.”
“Rumors.”
“Maybe. But I been hearing rumors for long enough to know when it’s more than talk. Like I said, something’s up, Roscoe. Something big. Arneson won’t have to wait long to get his burial. When we leave here, we’re moving forward.”
SEPTEMBER 12, 1918
The shelling began just after midnight, three thousand artillery pieces, launching their spectacular display of light and power, dimmed and muted only by the thick clouds, the steady rain. All around the curve of the salient, the massive push would begin at five A.M., sixteen American and four French divisions, all under Pershing’s command.
The Second Division occupied a compact front, its regiments positioned into a complex network of trenches behind the outposts manned by the Fifth Marines. Hours before the artillery had begun their barrage, the orders had flowed forward to the front-line outposts, the lieutenants moving quickly, passing the word. The main advance would come up from behind the Marines, most of the division timed to move with the vast wave of strength on both flanks, the Fifth Division on the right, the Eighty-ninth on the left. As the orders were passed, the Marines along the front line learned that this time, they were not to be the first wave of the assault. That honor fell to the Ninth Infantry, who would pass through the outpost line, with the Marines following behind in the second wave.
As the advance began, Temple was surprised to see fat rolls of chicken wire, so familiar to a young man from the farm country, but such an odd sight as it appeared on wagons brought forward by horses, guided by the engineers. With the infantry close behind, the carts