To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [353]
He curled up tightly, listened to the smack and thump of the bullets, the sharp whiz and zips above him. Now what? We have to go back up there? All of us? He peered around the stumps, saw muddy boots protruding from behind a fallen tree.
“Dan! You see the lieutenant? You tell what’s going on?”
The stump above his head was suddenly splintered, and he ducked low, the firing coming from another direction, closer. He jerked his head around, saw streaks of fire coming from the opposite direction, the sound of machine guns. He felt a burst of panic, the fire coming from the low ground to the north. There was a shout, a single word, “Crossfire!”
There was nowhere for him to move, no shelter, the pops and thumps of rifle fire finding the men in their cover. Around him, the Marines began to return fire, blind, men shooting in different directions. There were angry shouts from men he couldn’t see: “Hold your fire! No targets!”
Beyond the stump, Temple heard movement, Parker crawling quickly, the big man moving up close, lying flat beside him. “We’re in trouble, Roscoe.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Don’t know. Feels like we’re in a box. I’m guessing we’re about to get the order to attack. Either that, or the Huns’ll just mop us up. I’d rather go after ’em than just wait here.”
The order came now, the tall frame of Osborne suddenly rising up close to Temple.
“Marines! Up! Pull back toward the ridge! Let’s go!”
Osborne began to move through the timber, and Temple took a long deep breath, the stump above him splattering again from machine-gun fire. He waited, another breath, saw Parker pull himself up, and Temple rose as well, followed the wave of men toward the hill.
They moved over low hills and brushy ravines, the same kind of ground they had fought through so many times before. But they could not stay in the short cover. The Germans high on the ridge had perfect targets, and the new sounds came, sharp blasts, mortar shells coming straight down off the crest. Temple ran as hard as he could, ducked low into a narrow ditch, then up again, pushing through brush. The ground around him was peppered with machine-gun fire, the familiar sickening chatter of the Maxims. Men were falling all around him, one man a few feet in front of him suddenly rolling over. Temple wanted to stop, help the man, but the voice in his head was screaming, No, keep moving!
They were on the steeper slope now, and he saw a narrow hole between two rocks, fell into the gap, stopped, gasping, turned, saw the men swarming up around him. He could see out across the base of the ridge, the entire battalion, all of them in motion. Far to the north, there was movement as well, a wave of gray, Germans moving in line, coming toward them. To the west, there were flickers of fire, the enemy moving closer along the base of the ridge, firing into the Marines from the flank. A bullet smacked the rock close to him, and he ducked, looked up the hill, saw men crawling up through the thickets, more shouts. Lucas rose up, crawled up onto a fat rock, waving his arm, pointing the way. Temple watched the man for a long second, felt a dark place suddenly burst open inside of him, no, dammit, get down. . . .
Lucas fell now, tumbled off the rock, the wave of men pushing past him, not stopping. Temple felt the panic again, slid out from between the rocks, moved up the hill, saw a body, bareheaded, a bullet through the man’s forehead. But it was not Lucas, and Temple searched frantically, moved beyond the rock, saw another body.