To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [378]
“They’re in that cut . . . two hundred yards, sir, maybe two fifty. I saw helmets.”
Hopper said, “Be ready. They may be drawing up for a counterattack, try to drive us back across the river.”
Temple glanced down at the river, thought, No bridges. We supposed to swim?
The air screamed above them, the shell coming down squarely in the river. Temple saw the sharp plume of water, said, “I think you’re right, sir.”
He could see the streaks arcing over them, the shells falling on the far side of the river, some in the river itself. The engineers were still working, bridges slowly stringing across the river, more riflemen starting to cross. But the artillery had no precision, the shells falling without any kind of pattern, scattered, distant and close, guns firing without spotters. Temple hugged tightly to the hillside, nothing else to do, could hear new sounds, artillery shells flying the other way, the American gunners responding. The ground shook beneath him, a hard shock, one shell impacting on the flat ground a few yards out in front of him. There were smaller blasts now, mortar shells coming down along the river itself, the only way for the enemy to reach the men on the near side of the river. The sounds thundered in his ears, the ground pulsing beneath him, more men climbing the hill now, fresh men just now coming across the river. The hillside was swarming with Marines, some going up and over onto the flat ground. One man climbed up behind Temple, shouted above the roar of the artillery, “Lieutenant!”
Hopper waved to the man, who climbed up closer, and Temple could hear bits of the man’s words.
“Go . . . advance . . .”
The men around Hopper were all watching him and he waved up toward the open ground, yelled out, “Let’s go! Form up with the squads on the flank. We’re going after them!”
Temple could hear Maxim guns again, targets now, the Marines surging up, massing on the flat ground. He felt a hard shiver, sickness in his gut, had done this too many times now, too many men going down around him. Hopper hadn’t given the order, but Temple knew the routine too well. He pulled the bayonet from his belt, pulled it tight on the muzzle of the rifle. Across the top of the bluff, the American guns were finding the range, the cuts and thickets now blasted into tall plumes of dirt and rock. The machine guns continued to fire, the Marines mostly flat on the ground, waiting for the final order, the signal to move forward. Temple stayed flat against the side of the hill, the ground above him chopped by a burst of machine-gun fire, the screams of the artillery shells deafening.
And then, it stopped.
Hopper was up, began to wave them forward, other officers as well, their shouts now cutting the air, voices calling their men to the attack. Temple scanned the ground out in front of them, expected to see the enemy in motion, retreating perhaps, but there was nothing, no movement, no sound. Hopper seemed to freeze, stared out toward the German position, no Maxim fire, no mortars, no fire at all. The Marines were rising now, men staring ahead, rifles pointed forward, waiting for the signal, low voices drifting along the line of men. Temple looked back across the river, the guns silent, a steady stream of men on the bridges, still crossing the river. Hopper said, “What the hell . . . ?”
Temple heard it now, from across the river, the column of troops along the riverbank yelling, hands and helmets in the air, cheers and screams. He saw men pushing quickly past the foot soldiers on the narrow bridges, arms in the air, calls to the men who were still spread out all across the slope. The word came up the hill now, passed from runner to officer to the men who carried the rifle. Temple saw an officer coming up the