To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [374]
Unlike the veterans, the new men listened breathlessly to the officers, the sergeants. With the mission explained, the bravado would begin again, so many of them caught up in the celebration of the success of those men before them who had done the work, none of the replacements understanding the horror, the cost, and none of them believing that after the next mission, it might be their buddy who didn’t come back, or, as Temple relived now in his own violent nightmare, if you came back, it just increased the chance that your buddy didn’t.
The rations had come forward, a brief rest, the entire division drawing up close to the river. Temple probed the meat on his plate, drank from the canteen, ignored the low talk that drifted through the darkness around him. He stared out, guessed at the direction of the river, had seen a glimpse of it in the last glow of sunset, the water narrow and swift, the ground beyond a high curving ridge. The engineers had tried to build some kind of crossing to the north, up near the village of Mouzon, but the German artillery had been placed in perfect position to shell every possible location. Down to the right flank, the Eighty-ninth Division was in place, and the Marines were shifted down close to their front, the officers talking about better ground, better cover. No one seemed to ask why the Eighty-ninth wouldn’t lead the crossing in front of their own sector. Temple knew, as they all did. The plan was for footbridges and wading through black water, to an invisible shore beyond. That wasn’t a job for infantry. It was a job for the Marines.
He finished the salty beef, another long swig from the canteen. He looked back through the darkness, heard the sound of tin plates, knew the water wagon was out on the road, behind a small hill. He stood, slid the rifle up on his shoulder, stepped past silent men, heard a low voice, “I heard it from some MPs. They say word’s going out to every division headquarters.”
“Bull. Never believe it.”
“Well, hell, I don’t believe it either, but the MPs were real excited.”
Temple moved past them, made his way to the road. Men were gathered, filling canteens, and the talk came again.
“I heard Major Hamilton say he knows nothing about it. Rumors, all it is.”
“Some damned Hun trick. Put out the word of an armistice so we stop fighting. Give ’em one day to regroup, hell, no telling what they can do.”
Temple pushed forward, the mess sergeant directing the men toward the spout.
“Keep moving, you grunts. Hurry it up. This one’s about empty. May not be another one. Careful, you jackass. Don’t spill it.”
His canteen was full now, and Temple moved away, felt the dull rumble in his gut, the usual response to the oily corned beef. He saw a small tent, thought, Major Hamilton, saw a cluster of officers standing beside it. There was more of the low talk, words finding him, “. . . no way to know for certain.”
“I heard it came from Lejeune himself.”
“I’ll hear it from him before I believe it.”
He stopped, listened, could tell that others were doing the same. The MPs were there now, moving men away, one man standing in front of Temple. “Get moving, grunt. You got some other place to be.”
Temple backed away, had no energy for arguing with a man who stood a head taller than him. He climbed up off the road, moved toward the camp, familiar steps toward another platoon, another squad, another sergeant who would lead them toward the next walk into hell.
THE NIGHT HAD TURNED COLDER, THE MEN SHUFFLING THROUGH the darkness, fighting the hard chill that stiffened and numbed their fingers. Temple followed a man he