To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [387]
There had been nothing unusual about the journey, no particularly rough seas, no disciplinary problems to cause anyone concern. Temple was housed in a cabin with fifteen other men, his bunk the lowest of four, just enough space above him for him to roll his body out sideways. For the first few days at sea the mood had been boisterous, the men boiling with noisy enthusiasm for all that would happen once they were home. But it had been a week now, and the talk had grown quiet, the men settling into the boredom of the journey. There were card games, letters written, the newer men seeking out the veterans, prodding them for the stories that would be heard by grandchildren one day, whether or not the story belonged to the men telling the tale.
Temple had stayed mostly by himself, had noticed many of the familiar faces doing the same. For most of the trip, he had thought less of home than of what was left behind. The worst time was the night, and he had begun to hate the order for lights out. If there was any sleep at all, it was ripped apart by the nightmares, his mind filling with the constant chatter of Maxim guns. When the nightmares would leave him, his sleep would be jarred by the creaks and groans of the ship, haunting echoes of artillery fire, screams from the shells, or the men they destroyed. More often he had passed the night by staring into darkness, unable to hold closed those awful places in his mind, the bodies of so many men, the faces of the friends who would not come home. Already the corpses were being gathered by grim burial details, pulled out of the ground from their haphazard graves on every field the division had crossed. The official graveyards were not yet completed, those massive patches of quiet land that would serve as a permanent memorial to the fallen. But the work had begun, and already the remains of so many were being laid into French soil beneath white crosses, some with names engraved, some bearing the simple tragic word: unknown. Every unit in the AEF would have some place their men could return to, some reminder of what was lost. But none more that the men who had fought with Temple. The Second Division had suffered more than twenty-three thousand casualties, nearly six thousand dead, the worst losses of any division in the AEF.
THE WORD HAD BEEN PASSED TO EXPECT LANDFALL IN THE MORNING, and after the evening mess, the men had seemed to drift toward the bow of the ship, gathering in the darkness, many more up on every deck, peering forward, all of them trying to catch the first glimpse of the lights of New York. Temple had stayed back, moved now toward the stern, leaned on the thickly painted railing staring toward the open sea. Above him, the trail of black smoke clouded out the stars, the black water beneath his feet churning in hard swirls.
He had not sent the letter to Scarabelli’s father. It annoyed him even now, a dark sense of shame, his lack of courage to confront the man’s pain. As he stared into darkness, he tried to see his friend’s face, could only conjure up the voice, unmistakably New Jersey, the ridiculous claims, stories no one believed were true. That’s what we bring home, he thought. Ridiculous stories. What do I truly have to offer Gino’s father? Do I seek him out, find their home, knock on their door and announce myself as the man who saw his son die? What of my own mother? Do I wander back to the farm with a smile, so relieved, so grateful to be home? How can any of us be grateful to be the survivors of something that so many others died for?
He had tried to keep the faces in his mind, had even thought of making a list, all the men he had known who were now buried in France, making sure no one was forgotten. But the exercise was futile, frustrating, only made him angrier at himself. He had fought against all the clichés,