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To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [376]

By Root 2399 0
breath, put his feet down. He touched something hard, stood, realized the water was only up to his chest. He took a hard breath, coughed, the air singing above him, boots on the wooden bridge, splashes again, a flash of light, the sharp blast of a shell behind him. He tried to step forward, the river bottom sloping up, pushed himself through the water, shallower now, voices in front of him, more flashes of light. He was in mud now, out of the water, drove his legs forward, aching exhaustion, his lungs searing pain, was stepping on rocks, tripped again, his hands out, a hard fall. The pain rolled through his knees, his arms, and he pulled himself up, the hard chatter of the Maxims in front of him, soft specks of light in the fog. He dropped back down, lay flat for a long moment, the screaming blasts behind him, the river still churned and splashed, the Maxim gun close in front of him. He tried to focus, fought through the pain in his lungs, his hand coming up to his chest, gripping the grenade. He snatched it from his shirt, jerked the pin, stared into the darkness, waited for the glimpse of light, the gun bursting into life again. He had no idea of the distance, took a deep breath, pulled himself to his knees, blinded by the water in his eyes, the darkness and fog, saw the image of Parker, the big man throwing the grenade like a baseball pitcher. No, Dan, not this time. He straightened his arm behind him, another breath, saw the flickers from the Maxim again, his shoulder now uncoiling like a spring, his arm arcing up and over his head, the grenade tossed high. He dropped flat, his face on rock, long unending seconds, and the blast came now, the Maxim silent. He pulled himself up, stared blindly, crawled forward, the rifle gripped in one hand. He crouched low, moved forward quickly, blindly, the rocks giving way to grass, a sloping hill, soft dirt. He could smell the powder, the smoke from his own grenade, dropped down again, crawled into a small crevice, pulled his bayonet from his belt, and began to dig.

THE EAST BANK OF THE MEUSE RIVER—NOVEMBER 11, 1918

The fog was still thick, hiding the far bank of the river, but there was light now, and he could see what was left of the bridge, shattered planks of wood, drifting down the near shore, strung together with short pieces of shredded rope. It had been the extraordinary work of the engineers, men kneeling on buoyant bundles of wood, paddling themselves across a river in total darkness. They were linked to the shore behind them by a thin strand of rope, had probed and felt their way to the far bank, within yards of the enemy whose guns had a perfect field of fire. With the rope secured, the bridge had come to life, flat boards that sagged into the water under the weight of the engineers who survived the enemy fire long enough to anchor it, just enough so that the Marines could move across. Many of the engineers had died around the bridges, some dying as they guided the Marines to the ropes. Even the wounded had little chance, so many falling into the river, death by drowning, the same as so many of the Marines who lost their footing, some shot down by the Maxims, or jolted by the shock of the artillery shells. But they had continued to come, and when the bridge was cut by the impact of a shell, the engineers had done their work again, another man paddling another rope across the black water. All night the Marines crossed as quickly as the bridges would allow, pushing into the fire of the enemy. Now, with the daylight the Maxims continued their assault, the Germans on the bluffs above them seeking targets in the fog, peppering the far bank with a constant storm of fire. The bridge was useless now, and as long as the Germans held the heights above them, the engineers could only wait for the darkness before trying again.

Temple had hollowed out a depression in the side of the hill, was protected from any kind of fire from above. From first light, he had seen the riverbank, only a few yards from where he sat now, could see a carpet of bodies, some partially in the water,

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