To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [354]
“I got you, sir! Come on!”
“Get the hell out of here, Private! Find cover. They’re hitting us from every direction! Find Osborne, any officer! Tell them to pull the men into a defensive position! We have to get up as high on the hill as we can!”
“I can’t leave you here, sir! Let me wrap your leg!”
“I’ll do it, Private! Go! Find an officer!”
Temple stared at the man’s leg, blood streaming out in a pool on the ground. Lucas pulled his knife, sliced his blanket. He glanced up at Temple, his hands never stopping, said, “Private! Get up that damned hill!”
THE MEN SOUGHT ANY KIND OF COVER, HELMETS AND BAYONETS ripping the ground, many digging shallow one-man trenches. Temple worked his way up the hill, saw bodies in every open place, others firing down at the enemy pressing them from below. Out to one side, others were lining up to fire up along the crest of the hill. There had been only sporadic artillery, the Marines too close to the enemy positions for the German gunners to draw a clear field of fire. The worst danger was still the Maxims, many firing from concrete bunkers, or the occasional mortar shell lobbed down from the west end of the ridge.
Temple had found Osborne, had given him Lucas’ order, the lanky sergeant passing the word to a desperately frightened runner, who disappeared into the brush. Osborne was close to him now, Parker as well, others working with them to carve out some kind of shallow ditch, a vantage point to put up some kind of fire line toward the enemy down below the hill. Temple was exhausted, sweating, lay on his stomach, peering down. He had positioned himself where he could see an opening in a line of brush, a trail that he had followed up the hill. All across the slope, men were finding someplace to make a fight, others moving farther up, strengthening the ridgeline itself, a desperate stand to keep the enemy from moving straight across the high ground behind them.
He stared down the barrel of the Springfield, then raised his head, slid the rifle straight out, then back toward him again, seating it firmly into a soft cradle of dirt. The ground erupted off to one side, another mortar shell, the men responding with low curses. The mortar shells gave no warning, dropped too slowly to make the whine or scream of the artillery shell. In the open ground, you could see the mortar shells coming, the high arcing dot, might even have time to move out of the way. But there was nothing to see now, the shells falling on them by pure chance, finding men who had no time even to flinch.
As the Germans below tried to push up the hill toward them, the Marines had made good use of their grenades, deadly bombs that were as effective as well-aimed rifle fire at holding the Germans at bay. Thrown from the slope of the hill, the grenades could go a long way, falling into the scattered clusters of the enemy with the same silent effect as the mortar shells. Parker had the reputation as the man with the strong arm, several of the men passing their bombs to him, cheering the big man who threw the grenades like a baseball pitcher. Parker had never done it correctly, had infuriated the training officers by never following the correct procedure. But there were no officers now, no one to judge him but the men grateful for his gift of strength. More men were gathering around Temple now, some still digging, the firing growing more scattered, quieting down. Parker slid along the makeshift trench, moving closer to him, and Temple saw that he was carrying two guns, the shotgun, and a Springfield.
Parker crawled up close to him, laid the Springfield up on the edge of the dirt pile, said, “Shotgun not much good unless they charge right on us. Figured I better find a rifle. Plenty of ’em to be found. How much ammo you got left?”
Temple ran a hand over the ammo belt, said, “Not much. A dozen rounds.