To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [349]
Temple lay flat for a few seconds, the artillery shells impacting farther away. He rolled over, looked back down the hill toward the massive crater.
“Dan . . .”
“I see it. My God, Roscoe. It took half the platoon. There were twenty or thirty men there.”
Temple could see them now, bits of uniform, broken rifles, smashed helmets, ripped pieces of men. On all sides of the massive hole, men were pulling themselves together, helping hands, the medics scrambling among them, tending to the wounded. But there were not many wounded. Temple slid on his backside, moved closer to the wide smoking maw, looked at the men scattered around the crater, most crawling forward, every man putting distance between himself and this horrific wound in the earth. He saw Murphy, coated in white dirt, moving up the far side of the hole.
“Murph! You okay?”
Murphy looked toward him, nodded, then looked into the hole, stared, frozen.
“Hold on. I’ll give you a hand!”
Temple started to move that way, saw Murphy still just staring, but the artillery came closer again, punching the ground just beyond the ridge in front of them. Temple saw Murphy sit up now, his eyes fixed on the shell hole, and Temple thought, he’s hurt. Damn. He needs to be in cover. He slid along the ground, close to Murphy now, said, “Murph! Come on! We gotta move!”
Murphy looked at him with empty eyes, said, “They’re gone. Allen, Knight. Stevie.”
Temple tried to ignore the hole, pulled at Murphy. “I know, Murph. We gotta go.”
The man seemed rooted, immovable, looked at him now, blinked hard. “Gino.”
Temple felt a cold burst in his chest, looked into the chalky hole, wisps of smoke still rising, shredded khaki, canteens, a broken rifle. He looked back up the hill, saw Parker lying on his side, staring down at him. He scanned the other men around the hole, familiar faces, none of them the small young man from New Jersey. He was right here, he thought. I was beside him. Oh Christ, Gino. He wanted to crawl down into the hole, something holding him back, a gray shroud, the chemical smell. The sergeants began to shout, the men moving up the slope. Temple ignored them, ignored the piercing shrieks of the shells, the blasts that punched the ground beneath him, closer now, the gunners finding the range. A medic was there, his hand on Murphy.
“It’s okay, Private. I’ll take care of him.”
Temple looked again at Murphy, the eyes staring down past him. There was blood on Murphy’s shirt, the medic pulling at him, laying him on his back, tearing the shirt open. The medic said, “Not too bad. Shrapnel wound.” He looked at Temple now. “Your buddy’s gonna be okay. Messed up his shoulder. You better get going. We’ll get him outta here pretty quick.”
Temple pointed to the shell hole, tried to speak. He flinched from a sharp whine, a shell landing in the crater, a burst of fire, the medic leaning over Murphy, shielding him from the spray of dirt.
The sergeants were shouting again, and the medic said, “Move out, Private!”
He looked at the man, wanted to explain, heard the medic’s words in his mind, your buddy. He fought the tears, stared into the shell hole for a long moment, tried to see Scarabelli’s face, gone now, like Ballou, like so many of the rest. He heard another blast, heard the whistles of shrapnel, the deadly splinters of steel, the ground rumbling under him. He rolled over, looked up the hill, saw Parker sliding down the slope toward him, the big man motioning with his hand, lie flat. He was there now, grabbed Temple’s shoulder, pulled him over onto his stomach, flattened out beside him, said to the medic, “How’s Murph?”
“He’ll be okay. Busted shoulder. You guys need to go!”
The shelling was becoming more intense, consistent, the blasts erupting among the men, great gaping holes tearing through the battalion. There was a single breathless pause, and Temple heard the high scream again, the enormous roar of