To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [370]
Another man emerged from the room holding an armful of artifacts.
“Yep. Havanas too. All kinds of good stuff here, Sarge. Damned nice set of binoculars.”
Osborne said, “All right, drop that garbage right here. This isn’t a looting party. You want souvenirs, come back when the war’s over. We got work to do.”
There were low grumbles, and the men obeyed. Parker said, “Sarge, we need to tell the lieutenant to check every one of these fancy dugouts. There could still be people hiding out.”
Osborne moved to the stairway, said, “Yep. Let’s move. Daylight for a couple hours yet.”
The men filed up the stairs, and Temple could not erase the image of the women from his mind. Women in the trenches? Were they prostitutes? Why in hell would somebody bring a woman out here? Did they have any idea where they were going? The questions rolled through his brain, a disgusting mystery. He glanced ahead to Osborne, the sergeant waiting for them at the top of the stairway, wanted to ask more, but Osborne was looking away, said, “This way. Let’s go.”
Other squads were sifting through the wreckage of the buildings, some calling out with word of some kind of find. Temple saw a column of men moving toward them, prisoners, guarded by a half dozen Marines. The Germans were filthy, no helmets, the same look Temple had seen before on the faces of the retreating poilus. They passed by, one of the Marine guards making some lewd comment for the benefit of his new audience. Temple ignored the man, saw one of the prisoners staring at him, dark and desperate eyes. Temple tried to ignore the man’s stare, thought, Nothing I can do for you, Fritz. You lived through it. Count your damned blessings.
The prisoners were past him now, and Temple continued forward, saw that the ground was falling away, a wide sloping hillside, more buildings, concrete and tin. Osborne was moving down the hill, and Temple could see men gathering down below, around a low square building, undamaged, small windows, the glass still intact. Temple was surprised to see Yancey, the first time he had seen the lieutenant for many hours. Yancey seemed not to recognize Osborne, stood in front of the door to the building, shouted, “Come out of there! We have you surrounded!”
There was silence, Temple moving closer, and Yancey scanned the faces around him, said, “Well, I suppose no one’s inside. We need to break down the door.”
Parker moved past Temple, said, “Excuse me, sir. But if no one’s inside, the door should be open.”
Parker moved to the door, the shotgun pointed out in front of him, pressed the bayonet into the wood. The door opened slowly, and Parker stepped back, said, “We oughta toss a grenade or two, sir. Anybody’s hiding out, it’ll discourage ’em.”
Yancey looked at Osborne, seemed uncertain, said, “No, there could be things we might want to see. Papers and such. The major wants us to find any information we can.”
Parker said, “Whatever you say, sir. Would you like some of us to go inside first?”
“Yes. Proceed, Private.”
Parker nodded to Osborne, who said, “Surround the building. Somebody may try to go out a window.” He looked at Temple, pointed to two other men. “You three stand back from the door, and be ready for somebody besides us to come out. They might be in a hurry. The rest of you stay ready. If we holler, you come quick.”
Temple obeyed, saw Yancey moving away to one side, nervous, staring at the door.
Osborne said to Parker, “Let’s go.”
The two men slipped into the building, and Temple stared into the dark opening, his heart pounding, saw a flicker of light, and Osborne shouted, “All clear!”
The men gathered at the door, and Yancey moved past them, was inside now, the others filing in. Temple was engulfed by the smells, the magnificent odor of cooked meat, and Osborne said, “The chef’s been here. Left a pot of beans on the stove. Must be twenty gallons. Look at the chunks of meat in there. Damn! Reminds me how hungry I am!”
Temple’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he could see a long table, many chairs,