To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [338]
There was no pleasantry in Patton’s words, and the sergeant seemed to understand, pointed to the front, past the other tanks, said, “Sir, Lieutenant Sheeley’s up ahead. There were tank tracks in this road. We were following, expected to find some activity up ahead. There’s not much happening right here.”
“I’m aware there’s nothing happening right here, Sergeant! You happy about that?”
“No, sir! Not at all, sir. You tell us where the enemy is, and we’ll find them, sir!”
It was the right answer, and Patton pointed down the road, said, “The enemy’s where that shooting is, Sergeant. Get going! Tell Sheeley I want him to find some damned Huns!”
The sergeant disappeared back into the tank, the engine belching smoke, the tank moving away from him.
Patton was angry now, said aloud, “Compton’s sticking to the damned roads. Somebody ought to tell him these machines are made to go across terrain!”
Knowles was close to him, pointed toward a row of low hills, said, “Sir! Shells coming down. Half a mile or so.”
“Well, then, that’s where we need to be. We’ll find a good place to sit, give these boys some rest. Brett’s up there somewhere, and I want to find him!” He looked back, saw the one man sagging with the weight of the telephone wire. “Drop that, Private. There won’t be any communications posts out here. We’ll rely on our feet, and those damned pigeons.”
The man obeyed gratefully, and they moved off the road, out into the field again.
Patton stopped, raised the binoculars, said, “There’s a cut of some kind along that ridge. Let’s go!”
HE HAD CLIMBED THE LONG RIDGE, THE MEN MOVING UP CAUTIOUSLY, each one trying to gauge the direction of the fight. He scanned beyond the ridge, the ground uneven, brush and cluster of trees, narrow gullies and rocky hillsides. But there was little to see, the heavy mist fogging the binoculars, the air moving past him in clouds of thick dampness. He lowered the binoculars, felt helpless. The sounds of the fight seemed scattered, distant, disguised by the weather, bursts of machine-gun fire rattling in every direction. He turned, glanced at the man with the pigeon cages, then saw Knowles, said, “Captain! Have you determined our exact position?”
“Yes, sir. Up ahead, on the road, is the village of Cheppy. The railroad cut behind us is indicated on the maps as well.”
“Good. Release a pigeon with details of my location. Rockenbach might be throwing his coffee cup against a wall about now.”
The dirt in front of him was chopped, spraying him, and he heard the sound of the machine gun. Behind him, men were shouting, one hand pulling his belt, Angelo, “Sir! Get down!”
The guns came from every direction, and he saw the men scrambling, crawling back along the ridge, seeking cover. He pointed with his stick. “The railroad cut! Take cover!”
They poured over the edge, the men dropping down, the Maxims cutting the ground above their heads. He landed hard, shouted, “Where are they? Anyone see them?”
Knowles tumbled into the cut, and Patton did a quick head count, no one missing. Knowles said, “They’re all over the damned place! Must have seen us coming, or they were moving through here, and we just ran right into ’em!”
Patton studied the men, terrified faces, said, “Anybody hit?”
No one responded, and he saw Angelo, only a few men with rifles.
“Private, take the flank! Corporal Hemings, the other flank! If the bastards think they have us trapped here, they may try to move around us! Keep an eye out!”
The two men moved into position, and Patton stepped past the crouching men, said, “We can’t just sit here. We don’t have enough guns to defend ourselves.”
Angelo shouted now, “Sir! There’s troops moving out across the ridge! They’re ours, sir!”
Patton rose up, saw a scattering of infantry, climbed out up of the railroad cut, waved to them. “Here!”
The men responded, moved quickly toward him, began to drop into the cut. Patton looked for rank, saw only a corporal, said, “Who are you?”
“Tanner, sir! Our units are pretty messed up. We lost touch with our