Collection 1980 - Yondering (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Read Free Book Online Page A

was muttering curses and firing rapidly. He did not like long-range fighting. Jerry leaned against the sandbags, resting his forehead on one. Dugan could see a trickle of sweat cutting a trail through the dust.
    Somewhere down the parapet one of their own machine guns opened up, the gray and white line before them melted like wax, and the attack broke. Slim grounded his rifle butt and leaned against the sandbags, fumbling for a cigarette. His narrow, cadaverous features looked yellow in the pale light. He looked around at Dugan. “How d’you like it, kid? Had enough?”
    Dugan shrugged and reloaded his rifle, then stuffed his pockets with cartridges. The powder smoke made his head ache, or maybe it was hunger and the sound of guns. His cheek was swollen from the rifle stock, and his gums were sore and swollen. All of them were indescribably dirty. For seventy-five days they had held the outpost against a steady, unrelenting, consistent, energy-draining attack that seemed to take no thought of men lost. Their food was gone; only a little of the brackish water remained, and there would be no relief.
    “They’ve written us off,” Slim said. “We’re dead.” He was hollow eyed and sagging, yet he was still a fighting man. He looked at Jerry. “How about that wine?”
    “Let’s go get it. There’s a machine gun there, too, and enough ammo to fight the battle of the Marne.”
    “Does the sergeant major know?”
    “He did.” Jerry indicated the line of dead bodies. “He’s over there.”
    “Who’s in command?” Dugan asked.
    “Maybe nobody. The lieutenant was killed several days ago, shot from behind. He was a fool to hit that Turk. He slugged one guy too many.”
    The sun was gone, and darkness was falling over the low hills. There was no movement in the trenches across the way. The Russian stood up, then sat down abruptly, his throat shot away. He started to rise again, then just sat back down and slowly rolled over.
    Slim picked him up as though he were a child and carried him to the line of bodies, placing him gently on the ground. Then he unbuckled his cartridge pouches and hung them around his own waist. Dugan looked through an opening in the sandbagged parapet at the broad shoulders of shadow along the slope. A dead Moor hung head down over the barbed wire about fifty feet away, and a slight breeze made his burnoose swell.
    When it was dark, the corporal came along the trench. He looked old. His thin, haggard face was expressionless. He said what they all knew.
    “There won’t be any relief. I think everything behind us is wiped out, too. We wouldn’t stand a chance in trying to get away. They’re out there waiting, hoping we try it.
    “There’ll be at least one night attack, but with day-break they’ll come. There’s thirty-eight of us left. Fire as long as you can, and when they get through the wire, it’s every man for himself.”
    He looked around vacantly, then started back up the line. His shoes were broken, and one leg was bandaged. He looked tired. He stopped suddenly, looking back. “If any of you have the guts to try it, go ahead.” He looked from Jerry to Slim, then at Dugan. “We’re through.”
    Slim walked over to the dead officer and took his automatic, then the cartridges for it. He took some money, too, then dropped it into the sand. Having a second thought, he picked it up.
    “If a man could get away,” he said, looking over at Dugan, “this would pay a boatman. Gibraltar—that would be the place.”
    Dugan sat down, his back to the parapet. He glanced along the trench. Far down he could see movement.
    Thirty-eight left! There had been 374 when they occupied the post. He tilted his head back and looked at the stars. They had looked the same way at home. How long ago was that?
    Jerry got up. He glanced at Slim, and the Texan shrugged. “Let’s go,” he said. And they went.
    Jerry pointed. “We’ll go down that shallow place, and there’s a ditch. Follow that to the