To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [366]
“On my signal, charge through the wire! Get to that damned ditch! Rifles! Covering fire!”
From a depression back behind them, the Springfields began to rattle, pops of fire directed at the bunkers, no more than two hundred yards in front of them. The Maxims answered, overwhelming, the air humming with a thousand bees. Osborne shouted again, “Let’s go!”
Temple closed his eyes, wanted to say something to God, a prayer, have mercy. But his mind was empty, his body in motion now, the men beside him rising as well. He burst up out of the shell hole, ran toward the gap in the wire, the air ripped around him, fire going both ways, a man falling, another, the wire on both sides of him. Men were passing him, the faster runners, Osborne, the ravine close now, another man hit, the ravine there now, Temple jumping down, tumbling into soft white dirt. The others came down all around him, soft cries, grunts, Parker, landing hard, rolling, on his knees, breathing hard.
“You okay, Roscoe?”
“Yeah.”
The men gathered, moved close to the base of the ridge, the fire from the Maxims slowing, the Springfields still popping, smacks of lead on the concrete above them. Osborne was there now, a hard whisper. “Everybody all right? Anybody hit?”
One man pointed out toward the wire, panic in the man’s voice. “Tucker’s out there. I saw him fall. We gotta go back—”
“Shut up! Nobody’s going back out there!”
Parker moved close to the man, said, “They’ll get him later. We got a job to do first.” He looked at Osborne now. “At least four went down in the wire. There’s a dozen of us here. We better keep moving.”
Osborne looked down to the right, said, “Lower ground down that way. Keep an eye behind us. Huns may decide to come down here and get us. I’m surprised there’s none here now. They probably got out of here when the artillery started. Let’s go.”
There were signs that the ravine had been used as a natural trench, the ground churned and trampled, bits of equipment, backpacks, ration tins scattered, dropped by men who had now pulled out. Osborne led them through the soft white dirt, the men moving blind, sweating in the chilly dampness. Temple glanced up, nothing to see, the edges of the ravine blanketed by thick brush and vines. He looked out away from the slope, could see the coils of wire, more shell holes, one close to the edge of the ravine, thought, No, this isn’t a good place to soak up shell fire. He glanced at the men behind him, most of them veterans, and a few whose eyes betrayed the terror, the men who had begun this day on their first battlefield.
They could see nothing but the brush above them, the ravine winding along the base of the ridge. He knew the concrete bunkers were right above them, at least three, in a widely spaced row. The rifle fire still peppered the air above them, mostly Springfields, the men back behind the wire doing their job, taking aim from dangerous hiding places, their shots answered by short blasts from the machine guns twenty feet above Temple’s head. They must know we’re here, he thought. They must know. What do we do now? He looked ahead to Parker, following closely behind Osborne, wanted to ask him, Where the hell are we going?
The fire from the machine guns had stopped, deathly quiet now, and Parker tapped Osborne on the shoulder, pointing up. They all stopped, and Temple could hear the voices, German, felt a hard chill.
Osborne looked back, pointed to three men, motioned to the corporal, Burke, said in a low whisper, “Climb up right here. If they try to come down, you’ll surprise hell out of ’em. And it’ll warn us they’re coming. Otherwise, wait ten minutes, long enough for us to get up close. If we start shooting, get your asses up the hill. If we’re lucky, one