To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [367]
Temple watched the faces of the three men, saw no emotion, Burke looking at the other two, quick nods. They moved to the slope, Burke testing the soft earth, pulling himself up. The others followed, and Temple looked up, the concrete wall still not visible. Draw their fire. He had heard the phrase too many times, never considered what it truly meant. Give them a target. On purpose. How do you do that? The men climbed up farther, slid silently into the low brush, climbed carefully up the hill, their backs concealed by the vines.
There was a sudden blast, thirty yards behind them, the soft dirt tossed in the air. Now another, whistles of shrapnel, the men dropping to their knees, flattening out along the base of the slope. The voices were above them now, and Temple saw the grenade coming down, a soft thump in the dirt, twenty yards, the blast throwing the dirt high. There were pops of rifle fire now, the Springfields, the German voices loud, orders, one sharp cry. He felt a hand on him, Parker pulling him up, Osborne now waving frantically, the silent order, move! They jogged ahead, the rifle fire now silent, no targets for the Marines, the Germans withdrawing back into their cover. Temple was breathing in short gasps, thought, Yep, they know we’re here! Thank God for those men out there. Thank God for Springfields! He looked at Osborne, grateful, the man with no more experience than any of them, thought, Covering fire. Damn! I wouldn’t have thought of that. Maybe none of us would have. Thank God for sergeants! He saw Osborne looking back, scanning the side of the slope, and Temple saw now, a single hand, emerging from the brush halfway up the slope, a slow wave. Burke! They’re still okay. Osborne looked at each of them, focused on the new men, wide-eyed fear, the men who might panic, do something supremely stupid. He put a finger to his lips, quiet, held out both hands, a gesture of calm. The voices came again, straight above them, and Temple looked up, felt a bolt of ice in his chest. The ravine was more shallow now, a concrete bunker no more than ten feet above them. The men leaned flat against the brushy slope, and Temple slid up beside Parker who gripped the shotgun close to his chest. Parker seemed to be having a silent talk with Osborne, pointed a finger up the hill. Osborne nodded, made the sign with his fingers: two. He put a hand on Temple’s shoulder, then did the same to Parker, and Temple understood. It’s the two of us. Temple glanced at his bayonet, the breech of his rifle, his mind focused, fixed on the muffled voices just a few feet above them. The Germans were suddenly quiet, and now the Maxim exploded to life. The burst cut the air right above them, the Marines holding tight to the slope, frozen. The Maxim was silent again, and he heard a man laughing, the click of metal, reloading, more talk now. Parker moved away, and Temple followed, kept his eyes up on the concrete wall, could see the openings, a row of round holes, one narrow rectangle. Parker jerked his arm forward, pointed, a trail leading up through the brush, the trail the Germans had used to climb the hill. Parker started up through the narrow gap, the ground not as steep now, pulled himself up by the thick bases of the vines. Temple crouched low, followed, the voice in his head, stay low! Parker was flat against the slope, lying on his belly, pulled himself up to the top of the hill, an avalanche of soft sand falling into Temple’s face. Parker disappeared up over the top, and Temple stared up for a moment, waited for Parker’s legs to clear the space, now climbed up after him. The concrete wall was on their left, and he could see that the bunker was circular, maybe twenty feet across, more openings all along the front, a round hole not more than four feet above them. There was open ground behind the bunker, a low wall, no movement. He scanned the open ground, thought, Where are the foot soldiers? Are they . . . inside? The Maxim fired again, out to the far side, toward the barbed wire, and