To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [345]
He was engulfed by a sickening odor, and his foot kicked something soft. The ground under his feet was uneven now, and he had to step carefully, his boots dropping into mud, then up again. He felt light rain on his helmet, cold misery dripping down his back, the awful smells boring into him. There was a flash of light, a shell impacting fifty yards behind the trench, and he saw now, under his feet, the bottom of the trench lined with the bodies of unburied men. He stumbled, pulled his foot back, tried to step over, was blind again, fought the horror, the sickness from the emptiness in his gut. He knew now, the French had indeed left something behind.
OCTOBER 3, 1918
The rations had come up, buckets of boiled beef and potatoes, but the smell in the trench had taken most of their appetites away. The artillery had continued all night, guns on both sides throwing shells into targets that had long been destroyed. He had been put into position by Osborne, and Temple found himself standing on a narrow hump in the trench floor, a place to sit that was up out of the watery goo. He felt lucky, could hear the men struggling in the wetness, kept his mind away from what it was that made the hump, what might be buried underneath him.
In front of him, the walls of the trench had been carved out, the desperate work of a man long gone, a narrow slit cut into the chalk where a man could wedge himself in, sheltered from the rain. Temple had tried to take advantage, slid himself into the tight space, tried to use the makeshift bed, but the dirt walls pressed hard against him, wrapped him like a chalky hand. There would be no sleep, nothing to erase the numbing shock of the seventy-seven shell, the direct hit on the men who had marched so close behind him, the sight and smell of the men the French had no time to bury. He had stayed awake for another reason as well. In this trench there were no cats, and so in every hole, every dark place, the rats had emerged, already seeking the bodies of the poilus, or anything else that was available.
The French had cut parapets along the side of the trench that faced Blanc Mont, and the sergeants had posted guards, the men who would stare into the darkness toward the enemy that they now knew were only a hundred yards in front of them. They had forced themselves to be still, silent, ignoring the torment from the cooties, the water soaking through their socks. There could be no noise, nothing to distract the guards, and so the only break in the silence was the rats, scurrying through the mud, startling the man who might try to lie down. The veterans knew that if there was any sleep to be had, it was best to put your helmet over your face, to keep the rats from scratching you as they ran over you. But Temple had given up any thoughts of sleep, had crawled back out of his chalky bed, sat down on his little hump on the soggy floor of the trench.
He realized the rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy and wet. Osborne was there now, quietly relieving the guards, and Temple stood, could see down the trench, a low gray light. There was commotion, back toward the wide dugout, and he saw men moving toward him, silent, heads down. Temple pulled himself back against the wall of the trench, the men filing past him, a steady flow. He understood now. They were the Sixth Marines.
At four o’clock, Lucas had come, seeking out his own platoon, giving them quiet instructions. Temple had listened hard, but the orders seemed vague, far more than Temple would need to know. The Sixth would be mostly on the right flank, but several squads would advance in a first wave from the same trench where Temple was now. With the dawn would come the first attack,