To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [355]
Parker looked down at the scattering of men, said, “How much ammo?”
The answers came back, most of them the same.
“Not much.”
“Damned near out.”
Parker looked behind them, stared up toward the top of the ridge.
“We should make our way to the top. Join up with those boys there. What do you think, Sarge?”
Temple looked toward Osborne, who said, “Sit tight for now. Those boys are in no better shape than we are. They’re keeping our backs clear. We have to do the same for them. Awfully damned quiet.”
No one spoke for a long moment, eyes straining to see movement down the hill, out on the flat ground.
“There! Look! To the left!”
Temple saw what they all saw now, a wave of gray, several lines of enemy troops suddenly appearing in the burned timber, another thick line coming up from behind the low hills in the flat ground farther north. Across the base of the hill, there was another wave, enemy troops who were close to the cover down below, where Lucas was wounded. There were dull pops of rifle fire, Springfields, from Marines farther down the slope. After a silent moment, Parker said, “Hey, Sarge. How many men in the Hun army?”
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“Well, we’re about to find out. ’Cause they’re all coming.”
Temple felt the cold shiver, stared down the rifle barrel again, focused on the gap in the brush. He tried not to see what the others were watching, heavy lines of enemy troops moving at a steady pace toward them, the great masses converging, like a monstrous gray pincer. Temple said, “Sarge? I don’t have enough ammo to do much good. We can’t hold ’em back for long.”
Osborne said nothing, and Temple looked toward him, saw Osborne with his head down. The sergeant looked at him now, said, “They didn’t teach me how to retreat, Private.”
Parker said, “Well, Sarge, maybe it’s time you learned. We sit here, we’re dead in a half hour. And that ain’t gonna help those boys up top. We get up there with ’em, we can pool our ammo, make our stand on the high ground. The higher up we are, the harder it’ll be for the Huns. My granddaddy learned that the hard way at Gettysburg.”
Osborne stared down, scanned the open ground where the gray waves were rolling closer. He pulled himself to his knees now, said, “Pass the word. Everybody to the top of the ridge. Pick up whatever ammo you can.”
Temple looked down at the rocks where Lucas had gone down.
“Sarge, what do we do about the wounded?”
Osborne didn’t answer, stood, began to move up the hill. The others began to follow, men rising up all along the side of the hill, the word passing. Temple grabbed his rifle, and beside him, Parker said, “We’ll get ’em later, Roscoe.”
THEY HAD FORMED A DEFENSIVE LINE IN THREE DIRECTIONS, MOST of the movable cover placed to the west, blocking the fire from the Maxim guns on the high part of the ridge. The rifles mostly pointed down, the Marines seeking a field of fire, waiting in cold silence for the enemy to come into range on the wide hillside. There were no officers, and the few sergeants who remained had made a quick count of the available ammo, barely twenty rounds per man, and altogether no more than thirty grenades among them. They could hear sounds of a fight to the east, the division’s infantry regiments battling on the low ground near the Medeah farm. Far down behind the ridge, from the French positions, another fight had broken out. The French seemed to be fighting their way past the old German trench works, were pressing an attack against the far end of Blanc Mont Ridge. But both fights were far away, and the Marines could focus only on what lay right in front of them. They were about to be swallowed up.
The rifle fire began down to Temple’s right, men shouting out, targets finally appearing close below them. The Germans were returning fire, a rolling chatter that spread all down to the east. Below him, the open patches of hillside were suddenly alive with men, the lines of gray pressing up the hill. He tried to calm the quivering in his hands, aimed the rifle as he had done so many times, picked his target,