To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [344]
Lucas moved past Temple, dropped down the short steps into the lamp-lit room. Temple was close to the opening, could see officers, recognized the face of Major Hamilton, saw another man, a blue uniform, French. The officers were talking, and Temple saw Scarabelli lean closer to the yellow light, listening. Temple moved close up behind him, heard the major’s voice.
“Who’s in command here?”
“That is me. Lieutenant Bernard. There are no other officers.”
There was a silent moment, and Temple tried to see their faces, realized that more men had gathered close behind him. Lucas said, “How long before your men are out of here?”
“They are leaving now. There are being now ten platoons. Ninety men, perhaps less.”
Temple looked around, saw the poilus still filing past, thought, Ninety men? Ten platoons should be near five hundred.
Hamilton said, “What are we facing? How far is the enemy?”
“A hundred meters, Major. There are four communication trenches that go forward to the next line. There are barricades thickly. The enemy is there, and cannot be moved.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Major, we have tried. You will see, in the daylight. They have too strong for machine guns. Seven days we have been here.”
Lucas said, “Then we’ll go around. How far is the flank?”
“I do not know. We have lost too many men. Every time, they cut us down. You must know that this trench here . . . we do not hold it. The Boche are on the left flank.”
Hamilton said, “What? This trench?”
“Oui, yes. There are heavily barricades that way. Two hundred meters.”
Lucas said, “You mean this very trench? The enemy is down at the far end, just like we are here?”
“Yes. You must be careful.”
The men behind Temple began to back away, a voice behind him.
“Keep moving, boys. The Frenchies are clear.” Temple saw Osborne now, the tall sergeant pointing the Marines down the trench. Osborne looked at him, said, “You boys get your ears full? If the officers want you to know what the hell’s going on, they’ll tell you. You keep your mouth shut if you heard anything. Understand?”
Temple glanced at Scarabelli, who said, “Didn’t hear anything, Sarge. Just that if we were to go off thataway, we could share rations with the enemy. They’re right next to us.”
Osborne glanced off to the side, smiled. “Well, then, we best put on our company manners. You’ll be moving out this way a piece. And clean your damned weapon, Private. Maybe Fritz will drop by for some coffee later. Now get moving, and keep quiet.”
Temple followed Scarabelli up out of the wide dugout, climbed back up into the open air, the light gone now. He felt the wetness again, the rumble of artillery louder. They were in the mud again, the air cold, chilling the wetness in his uniform. He thought of the poilus, the words of their lieutenant . . . seven days. We stay here that long, we’ll look like that too. Nope. They didn’t send us up here to eat rations for seven days.
Rations. The word sent a shiver