To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [343]
The ground in front of the ridge had long been in German hands as well, a network of trenches that spread over rough and uneven ground, short hills and shallow ravines, woods and brush lines. While Pershing’s assault was driving northward along the eastern edge of the forest, the French had only succeeded in pushing the Germans back toward their stronghold on the ridge itself. Now, those trenches south of the great ridge were occupied by French soldiers, exhausted poilus who began to share the hopelessness of their officers. After days of devastating losses, most of the French commanders believed that removing the enemy from Blanc Mont Ridge was an impossible task. During the cold and rainy night of October 1, the French began to pull out, leaving the captured German trenches in the hands of the Second Division, men who did not yet know how impossible their task was supposed to be. It would be up to the Marines to sweep the Germans off Blanc Mont Ridge.
They moved into the trenches at night, protected by the heavy mist and rain that still hovered over the entire area. They stepped through rivers of soft white mud, the chalky ground pulling at their boots as the men stared ahead into wet darkness, hoping for some dry place, some kind of cover that might have been left behind by the enemy who had built these shelters. Unlike so many of the night marches, this time there were no secrets, no need for silence. Since the first attacks began, the French had been trading fire with the German forces along the base of the ridge, clusters of enemy guns and rifles along every ravine and low hillside. The machine-gun and artillery fire was constant and as the Marines slipped into place, their narrow watery pathways were made visible by the unending flashes, blasts of fire, star shells, and streaks of light that cut sharply through the thoughts of each man who marched to yet another promise of a hell like none he had ever seen.
NEAR SOMME-PY—OCTOBER 2, 1918
Temple felt the pain growing in his legs, the torment from the slow methodical steps through the chalky glue. Scarabelli was in front of him, the small man struggling even more, stopping now, a low curse, interrupted by a voice behind them.
“Keep moving! Time enough for rest up ahead!”
Temple put a hand on Scarabelli’s shoulder, said, “Can’t be much farther . . .”
There was a blinding flash, an explosion just behind him, and Temple was pushed hard to one side, his legs buckling. He fell forward, both hands down into the mud. The screams came now, close behind him, and he tried to pull himself upright, turned, stared into blind darkness.
“Medic! Medic here!”
He fought to see, more shells impacting around the narrow trench, caught glimpses through brief flashes. The passageway behind him was gone altogether, a smoking mound of chalky dirt, a man’s arm, a helmet. He felt a hand on him, pulling him away. It was Scarabelli.
“We can’t stop! They have the range. They know we’re here. Come on, nothing we can do!”
Temple wiped his hands on his pants legs, checked his rifle, pulled it tight against him, mud on the shoulder strap, mud soaking through every part of him. He ran a hand over the grenades hanging from his shirt, the extra belt of ammunition, coated by a watery ooze. Scarabelli was moving ahead, and Temple followed, knew he was right, thought, It was a direct hit. Right behind me. He thought of the men who had marched behind him, but his mind kept the faces away, no names, just Marines, the men probably dead before the dirt covered them up. Had to be a seventy-seven. Thank God. Anything bigger, and there’d be a hell of a bigger hole. I’d be in it. Temple followed Scarabelli again, ignored the mud, felt himself breathing hard, painful breaths, realized he was nearly running, automatic, hard splashes around his boots.
“File right! Dugout ahead. Another fifty yards! Frenchies coming this way, make room!”
The voice was Lucas’, familiar, comforting, and Temple