To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [352]
The plane was coming toward them, the hum growing louder, and he looked out along the low ground, saw men spread in all directions, clusters of dark blankets and khaki against the white dirt. The plane was overhead now, and he couldn’t hold still, looked up, the plane not more than three hundred feet above them. The plane moved quickly, parallel to their lines, spun away to the side, seemed to waggle its wings. The faint daylight showed the detail, the pair of black crosses on the bottom wing. The plane made a sharp turn, came right above them again, and Lucas said, “Dammit! Artillery spotter! Get ready to move out fast!”
The shells came now, a single blast, then four more, punching the ground along the ravine. Temple rolled the blanket quickly, grabbed his pack, glanced out in all directions, any signs of cover, the shells falling faster, a steady rhythm to it, some landing directly into the narrow cut. Lucas was up, running along the ravine, shouted, “This way!”
Men seemed to boil up out of the low ground, the smoke and blasts punching through them, and Temple followed, saw Parker up, running in front of him. Lucas led them into a stand of blasted trees and the men flattened out, other officers running through them, shouts, confusion, the shelling coming down behind them. Temple dropped down beside a fat tree trunk, raised his head, tried to see through the blackened timber, a vast patch of devastated forest, uneven ground. The shelling had stopped as quickly as it had begun, and Lucas shouted, “Get ready to move! They’re not done!”
He heard low talk, frantic voices, saw a runner, the man moving quickly, darting through the burned trees. More voices drifted over, officers from other companies, sergeants, useless orders to men who had nowhere else to go.
He could hear the plane again, but different now, and he rolled over, stared up, searched the sky. He saw them, counted four, looping in a wide arc, one banking hard. There were scattered cheers from the men, and he saw, Yes, they’re French! No, not all of them. He saw the black crosses again, said aloud, “Three of ours! Get the bastard!”
Others near him took up the call, cheering on the French pilots, their voices punctuated by the faint chattering of the machine guns high above. The German plane seemed to flip over, and Temple saw smoke, the men around him silent for a brief second, everyone staring hard, hoping. The German plane dipped low, the others swarming behind it, and suddenly the plane nosed down, thick black smoke, dove straight down, crashed into the ground a hundred yards from where Temple lay. The men cheered again, the French planes swooping low, verifying their kill, hands waving, new shouts from the officers, “Let’s go! On your feet!”
Temple looked around, spotted Lucas, the lieutenant moving through the burned stumps, pulling the men up. Parker rose up from behind a fat log, pointed the way with the shotgun, said, “Get ready, Roscoe. Looks like we’re going back up the hill.”
Temple could see the officers leading the men toward the great ridge, the same place they had come down the evening before. But it wasn’t the same place. It was nothing like he had imagined in the dark. He could see the whole ridge now, the sunlight revealing the hillside. They had come over the eastern crest, vague hints in the darkness of German earthworks, scattered debris, bodies of men in gray and khaki. But he realized now how large the ridge was, saw that down to the west, the hill rose up to a peak, and all along the crest there were huts and small buildings, a network of shelters and bunkers, trench lines clearly