To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [341]
He started forward, saw Angelo rising up, a few men, but only a few. He hesitated, saw most of the men staying flat on the ground, immobile, terrified. Dammit, there’s no time for a speech! I’ll take what I can get!
“Let’s go!”
The noise was deafening, rifle fire, the Renaults still moving away, in a duel with targets Patton couldn’t see. He saw a flash, barely fifty yards to one side, the wreckage of a machine gun tossed in the air, punched the air with his fist. Yes! Again! Keep firing!
There were only a half dozen men with him, and he heard a hard slap, a man suddenly collapsing close beside him. Now another man went down, the air alive with the zips of the Maxims. Two more men fell, and he looked to the front, could see open ground, pocked by shell holes, heard a hard grunt, another man curling over, his rifle clattering to the ground beside him. Angelo shouted at him, “Sir! We’re alone!”
Patton glanced around, saw no one else, looked at the raw terror on Angelo’s face, grabbed the man’s shoulder, said, “Come on!”
He moved forward again, Angelo beside him, saw a line of low brush, heard the rush of fire from a Renault machine gun, the chatter of a Maxim, pops of rifle fire, smoke, the mist clearing again, and now he felt a hard jolt, a fist punching his left leg. He tumbled forward, fell hard on his side, heard a cry from Angelo.
“Sir! Oh God!”
He tried to stand, saw blood soaking his pants leg, a ragged hole above his knee, rolled over on his back, furious, helpless. Angelo was pulling at him now, had him by one arm, dragging him across the ground. Patton tried to say something, stop, dammit, keep going . . . but Angelo would not let go, and Patton felt himself sliding down into a hole.
Angelo was shouting at him, “Sir! Stay down!”
The young man pulled out his bayonet, cut and ripped the cloth on Patton’s pant leg. He made a bandage, tied it quickly around Patton’s leg, just above the wound.
“We have to get you out of here, sir!”
The machine-gun fire continued, Angelo suddenly flattening out, the shell hole very shallow. Angelo was in motion again, slid on his belly close to him, probed the bandage, and Patton heard a new sound, another tank, closer, the sharp punch of the cannon. Angelo peered up, and Patton said, “They don’t know where we are. You have to tell them!”
Angelo seemed to take a long deep breath, scrambled up out of the hole. Patton laid on his back, stared up into gray mist, felt the wetness on his face, the sting of sweat in his eyes. He reached down, felt the bandage, heard the tank gun again, the machine guns silent, voices now, men coming forward, his men, the tanks roaring ahead, the great machines still searching for targets.
THEY STAYED CLOSE TO HIM IN THE SHELL HOLE FOR HOURS AFTER his wound, but he had ordered them not to move him, that any attempt to bring a stretcher would invite a torrent of fire from the German guns that were still dueling with the tanks. From the shell hole itself, the runners had come and gone, carrying instructions to the tank commanders as they rolled forward. Despite the wound, Patton stayed in command, his orderly tending to the bloody mess of his leg. For more than three hours, Patton worked from the shell hole with his binoculars, scanning the enemy positions, guiding the Renaults to the hottest targets. Finally, with the Germans either pushed back or their Maxim nests obliterated, Patton had allowed himself to be carried off the field.
HE HAD BEEN AT THE FIELD HOSPITAL FOR TWO DAYS, DRIFTING IN and out of sleep, the effects of the morphine. But the doctors had been pleasant and open with him, answering every question, details of the wound itself, how long it would take him to recover. The bullet had gone completely through, a hole punched from his thigh through his left hip. But no one seemed