To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [348]
He heard the order to halt, could see the entire battalion spread along the wide sloping hillside, the officers halting them just behind the crest, the only cover they had. The men lay flat now, and Temple dropped down, listened to the rifle fire, the chatter of the Maxims, thought, Why did we stop? He felt his chest heaving against the ground beneath him, all right, we need a rest. But those boys in front of us aren’t resting. He could see officers moving quickly, a group gathering behind them at the edge of the clearing, loud voices, angry men pointing out toward the flanks. He tried to hear the words, but the officers dispersed, and he looked to the front again, heard Scarabelli a few feet away.
“Something’s not good. That was a pissed-off colonel.”
“How you know he’s a colonel?”
“Seen him before. Grouchy bastard. I bet he beats his kids.”
“Shut up, Jersey.”
The voice was Parker’s, and Temple saw him, farther up, just below the crest of the hill.
“Hey, Dan! Why they give you a shotgun?”
Parker turned, looked back toward him, said nothing.
Temple glanced back at Scarabelli, said, “I gotta get a look at that thing.”
“Jesus, Farm Boy, it’s just a shotgun. You know damned well you shot your share of bluebirds with one just like it.”
Temple ignored him, crawled forward on his elbows, his rifle resting in the crook of his arms. He was close to Parker now, said, “Let’s see that thing, Dan. Why they give it to you?”
“Guess they figure I’ll be getting a close-up look at something worth shootin’. They gave me a choice to keep the chatchat, but I decided this thing’ll do more good.”
Temple heard other men talking about the shotgun, some of them envious, offering Parker a trade. Temple crawled up closer still, stared at the shotgun, and he heard a loud screaming roar, louder now, the sound of a freight train, high overhead, deafening, dropping toward him. The explosion ruptured the slope behind him, punching the air out of his lungs, the shock flattening him, the ground close to him rising up in a massive plume of dirt and fire. He closed his eyes, pulled his arms in tight beside him, stared into darkness, the earth hanging high over them all in a frozen gray cloud, now tumbling down. He felt crushed by a great fist, a heavy pile of dirt and rock covering him. He tried to breathe, choked on the dust and smoke, hard gasps, a numb ringing in his ears. He felt a hand pulling his arm, freeing him from the chalky dirt, fought to breathe, coughed, tried to speak, no words. The hand was pulling him still, and he tried to see, his eyes full of dirt, the numbness in his ears opening up, distant voices, shouts. The hand released him, and he dropped to the ground, blinked hard, saw Parker, the big man dropping beside him. Temple shook his head, tried to silence the scream in his ears, was rolled over now, saw Parker’s face, and Parker said, “You okay?”
“I don’t know. What happened?”
“One hell of a shell.”
Another man was there now, a medical bag, the man shaking his head, No, you’re all right. The medic scrambled away, and Temple tried to sit up, looked back down the slope, saw a thick cloud of smoke still hanging in the air, a massive shell hole, thirty yards across, larger than he had ever seen. He saw Lucas crawling up toward him, heard the man’s voice.
“You’re one lucky bastard! That had to be a nine-incher. Nothing sounds like that. Biggest son of a bitch the Huns have out here.”
Temple stared at the gaping wound in the soft white earth, fought the ringing in his ears, said, “Anybody hit?”
Lucas looked at him for a brief moment, didn’t answer, moved away on his knees across the face of the hill. The cloud of dirt and dust began to drift into the misty air, the hard chemical smell rolling over him. But the screams came again, more familiar, the usual artillery fire, the shells dropping behind them, into the low