To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [351]
The German guns that had done such deadly work had been positioned where the Marines now dug in. But those guns were gone, pulled back to some new vantage point, someplace where the German observers who still huddled on the western half of Blanc Mont Ridge could again direct their fire.
Temple laid on his back, wrapped in his thin wool blanket, staring up into stars, the first clear sky he had seen for a week. His stomach churned in a noisy grumble, made worse by the emergency rations, the only rations anyone had. He still hated the grotesque beef in the small cans, what Scarabelli had called “monkey meat.” Temple had always laughed at the small Italian’s peculiar view of the world around him, the vivid descriptions, his amazing talent for reading conspiracy into every annoyance. Temple had his own vivid description now, his mind carrying him back to the extraordinary shell hole, the impact of the mammoth artillery shell, what the lieutenant said was nine inches thick. In the quiet darkness he could not help thinking of Scarabelli’s devout father, the man so concerned how his son would die. Temple had already started a letter in his mind, would not let Scarabelli’s family know of their boy’s death only from some War Department formality. All he knew of them were Scarabelli’s descriptions, the large, emotional family, newly transplanted Americans, so proud of their Marine, so proud to offer their own to this war. He had first thought of writing to Scarabelli’s mother, tried to imagine his own mother’s reaction to word of her son’s death. He imagined his mother, the strong woman who was so prone to emotion, sitting in her single chair on the wide porch of the farmhouse, unstoppable tears. It sickened him, knowing her pride in her son could be replaced by stunning grief. She had written him of her hopes for his safe return, apologizing for a mother’s concerns. Now, he imagined her receiving the cold impersonal regrets of her government, a woman whose life would be changed in such a horrible way, losing her only son to a war she knew so little about. How many mothers had been through this already, women who watched their sons board the trains or the great ships, pride tempered by tears, scolded by the men in their lives not to embarrass their sons with a mother’s fawning. He had to believe that Scarabelli’s mother would react to the awful news the same way. An Italian woman in New Jersey would certainly grieve as deeply as the straight-backed woman who worked the farm in Florida. No, he thought, I will write to the father. Easier to tell this to a man, to explain, convince him that his priest was wrong. I’m sorry for you, sir. But if it was God’s decision to take your boy, He will not explain why, not to you, not to your priest. The words flowed through Temple’s mind now: Tell your priest that your boy died fighting, that he died doing the right thing. Surely that is what matters to God. And if someone tries to tell you that God punished him for something, you must know that Gino never felt . . . anything. He never knew what happened. There was no suffering, no pain, no horrible wound. The best way to go. All that idiotic talk about the clean bullet wound, less pain. No, there is nothing clean about a bullet in your body. It should happen the way it happened to Gino. One big damned shell falls right on your head, blows you to dust, nothing left, nothing to bury, no blood, no pieces, no horrible memories to torture your friends. That’s the gift God gives the rest of us. Let us remember Gino as he was.
HE WAS SUDDENLY AWAKE, WAS STILL ON HIS BACK, STARED INTO dull light, the stars gone. The air was cold, and he shivered, glanced to the side, saw men moving slowly, some looking up, pointing. He heard the sound now, a low hum, realized it was an aeroplane, the droning growing louder. He sat up, tried to see a reflection, some glimmer of metal from the faint glow of sunrise.
“Nobody move! They’re looking for our position!”
The voice was Lucas, and Temple