To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [372]
Temple nodded, stared at the rubble, said, “Yeah. Thanks.”
He thought of Hamilton’s words, booby trap. This was somebody’s plan, some clever officer, tempting hungry soldiers. Men died . . . for a cup of beans. But not me. Why the hell am I still alive?
He looked down, saw his rifle coated with a thick layer of gray dust. He picked it up, pulled on the bayonet, made sure it was tight, blew a sharp breath into the breech. He stared again at the wreckage, wanted to see, a last glimpse, but the hard fist in his mind held him away. Let him be, he thought. If Dan was here, if he had come outside with me, you know what he’d say now, what he always said. Let’s go.
BY LATE AFTERNOON, THE SECOND DIVISION HAD PUSHED FORWARD nearly six miles, had reached their objectives, the Heights of Barricourt, which placed them so deep into the German position that they directly threatened the German artillery batteries. But the Germans responded by backing their troops into their strongest positions yet, had gathered as much reserve strength as the High Command could send to that part of the line. With the certainty of appalling casualties, the senior American officers met to design a new strategy, some way to neutralize the power of the German defensive position.
As the sun set on the field, the Americans could count their assault as another overwhelming success. Men on both sides settled into their routine, rations, sleep, guards and lookouts posted. But as the orders from headquarters reached the front lines, the Marines began to realize that their routine was about to change completely.
NEAR BARRICOURT—NOVEMBER 5, 1918
After so many night marches, they had become used to the dark, had begun to expect rain as well, just another part of the job. But there were no guides now, no signposts, no headquarters or maps to mark their way. They marched along narrow pathways that cut through patches of woods, through gullies and low valleys. In front of each company, the lieutenants had their compasses, tried as much as possible to keep the men moving north. Unlike so many night marches before, they were not simply moving to a new deployment, some field where the dawn would bring the grand assault. The night march now was slow and silent and dangerous. And it wasn’t a march at all. It was an attack.
Lieutenant Hawkins passed along the instructions. The attack was to be made by the Twenty-third Regiment, with one battalion of Marines in support. Their mission was simply to march into the German lines until they found something, taking advantage of the hurried deployment of the retreating Germans, capturing as many men as possible, causing chaos in their new position.
Temple followed the man in front of him, climbed up out of a muddy ditch, felt the ground hard under his boots, knew they were on some kind of road. There were no sounds but the steady spatter of rain, the men able to move more quickly now. They stayed on the road for another hundred yards, and the men in front of Temple began to stop, gathering, moving off to the side of the road. He stared into the darkness, tried to see shapes, the rain different now, an odd echo, louder. He moved up close to the men in front of him, heard a soft whisper. “Tin.”
It was a building, the rain bouncing off a tin roof. He strained to see, a large hulking shadow beside the road, the men moving, easing down into the mud, closer. They stopped again, listening, bayonets ready, and he heard it now, the sound of voices.
They moved again,