To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [371]
Osborne said, “Somebody left us his dinner. What do you say, Lieutenant? Mind if these boys grab a cupful? Beats the hell out of monkey meat.”
Yancey seemed unsure, said, “Uh, well, I don’t see the harm. We shouldn’t advance any farther until we receive instructions from Major Hamilton. I suppose we can wait here.”
Osborne opened a row of cabinet doors, said, “Here we go. Coffee cups, bowls. Grab one, boys. Give everybody a chance. We got any left over, we’ll share with some of those boys outside.”
The men gathered around the stove, the cups dipping into the thick brown stew. Temple filled his own cup, made room for the others, moved out toward the door. He slurped at the beans, chewed a thick chunk of soft salty meat. Behind him, Osborne said, “Temple! Give a holler to those other boys out there. We got plenty here. Might as well share.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
He stepped outside, heard Parker say, “They got a woodstove here, all packed full, and ready to go. Let’s warm the place up. I’m outta matches. Somebody give me one.”
Temple looked out across the open hillside, saw a dozen men sifting through the wreckage of a bunker. He moved that way, raised his hand, shouted, “Hey! We got food here—”
Behind him, the building erupted with a thunderous blast, a flash of fire and smoke, a fist punching Temple hard to the ground. He tried to move, the debris of the concrete now tumbling down on him, thick black smoke blinding him, burning his throat. He tried to crawl, his mind screaming, Move, cover! He expected more blasts, the air coming alive with the horrible screams of artillery, but there was only a hard numbing roar in his ears. He tried to rise up, saw men running toward him, could see pieces of the building scattered all around him, the smoke clearing, hands on him now, loud voices:
“What happened?”
“Anybody inside?”
“How many inside?”
He tried to pull away from the hands, stared back into the thick cloud of dust and smoke, saw what was left of the concrete building, the walls cracked and shattered, the roof blown apart. He stared for a long moment, more men around him now, a man’s face, leaning close, a medic.
“Lie back. You’ll be okay.”
He ignored the man, sat up, stared at the wrecked building, said aloud, “Dan . . .”
“How many men were inside, Private?” He was drawn to the voice, deep, older, saw an officer, recognized Major Hamilton. “What happened, Private?”
“Artillery shell, sir.”
“No. It wasn’t a shell, son. No warning. The building just blew up. What were you doing?”
“Sir!”
The shout came from the smoking wreckage, and Temple saw them crawling through the debris, some pulling bodies out, and the man said, “There’s an officer here, sir! A lieutenant. Looks like maybe eight more besides him. They’re all dead, sir. It’s not pretty.”
Hamilton leaned close to his face now.
“What were they doing, Private? What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I walked outside and Dan was gonna . . . light the stove.”
Hamilton straightened up now, said, “Son of a bitch! Another one!”
Temple wiped at the grit in his eyes, could see more clearly now, men swarming through the debris. He tried to stand, his legs unsteady, sat again, the medic close beside him. Hamilton said, “He all right, Corporal? Any wounds?”
“Doesn’t appear so, sir. Pretty shook up. Looks like he lost a bunch of his buddies.”
Hamilton said, “That damned lieutenant should have known better.”
Temple said, “I don’t understand. What happened, sir?”
“You know what a booby trap is, son? The Huns left ’em all over the place. They probably packed the stove with gun cotton or a powder charge. Bastards.”
Temple stood now, the medic supporting him under one arm. The Marines were dragging bodies out of the debris.
Hamilton moved away, said to an aide, “Get a burial party up here! The rest of you, keep moving! Gather up with Lieutenant Hawkins. We’ve gone farther than anyone expected us to. There may not be much else happening today.