A white horse, like a manic ghost, its eyes crazed, its nostrils flared, suddenly materializes from what’s left of the fog, gallops into the attacking force, knocking men down and stomping them as it snorts and whinnies with fear.
“What the hell!” Culhane says. He screams “Kill the horse!” as the crazy animal flails among the advancing Marines. A soldier shoots it in the leg and the hobbled animal goes even crazier, whinnying wildly and kicking out its back legs even as it begins to fall. Culhane jumps from his nest, runs toward it. For a moment, his mind sees an image of Cyclone, the beautiful white horse from his youth on the Hill, then quickly flashes back to the frantic horse, and he fires a shot from his. 45 into its brain. The horse’s head snaps and it collapses. The wave of Marines sweeps on.
Culhane races back toward his machine gun, hears the banshee scream of the howitzer shell, feels the hot concussion smack his back, the shower of mud, a searing pain in his right leg as he is blown into his shallow foxhole. Culhane looks down at his leg. It is shredded by shrapnel.
He thinks he hears somebody, somewhere, screaming, “Corpsman! Corpsman!”
Big Redd sticks close to the wall of the gully. The German artillery line is in havoc. They are too busy shooting horses, shoving them into the gully to clear a path for the tank, and getting shot, to pay attention to him as he creeps up beside the tank. On the other side of the road he can hear Merrill’s men charging the trench line.
In the tank, the machine gunner sees Redd as he steps back to grenade the tank. He fires a burst.
In the ditch, Redd ducks as bullets spout along the rim of the gully. He falls against the wall, spins about ten feet down it, jumps up, the Sharps already against his shoulder, and fires one shot. It zings down the machine gunner’s barrel and hits him in the forehead.
Redd lobs two grenades under the front of the tank’s screeching gears. Both grenades do the job. The tread splits in two and rolls off its runners. Crippled, the tank turns to the right. The turret man swings the cannon toward Redd, but before he can get off his shot the tank goes over the opposite side of the gully and crashes on its side.
Lenny crawls out of the ditch and runs toward the advancing Marine line. The German infantrymen are still bottlenecked at the trenches; hundreds are being slaughtered by both the American gunners and the mines when they jump into the trenches for cover. As Lenny jumps over the last trench, his foot slips in the mud. He scrambles to keep from falling into the deadly pit. He tries frantically to get a handhold but the mud defeats him. He slowly slides over the rim of the trench, flips over, and falls headfirst into it. When he hits the murky floor, he hears the deadly click of a mine as it is triggered. He dives away and rolls over as the bomb explodes. The blast slams him against the trench wall, showers him with shrapnel, and blows off the lower part of his left arm.
Above him, the attacking Marines jump across the trench.
“Hey,” he yells, “somebody gimme a hand!” He holds up his good arm and one of the charging Marines falls to the ground, reaches down and pulls him out of the death trap. It is then that Holtz realizes his other arm is gone at the elbow.
“Maybe I shoulda said ‘gimme an arm,’ ” he moans, before passing out.
As Merrill leads his men toward the embattled Germans, he runs past Culhane’s foxhole and drops down beside him.
“The trap’s working like a charm,” he says and then he sees Culhane’s leg. “Sweet Jesus!” he cries out.
“Don’t let ’em take my leg, Major,” Culhane says, his voice so weak Merrill can hardly understand him.
Merrill looks through the charging company of Marines and sees a red cross. “You, Corpsman, get over here!” he orders.
Culhane grabs a handful of Merrill’s shirt.
“I got you your ten minutes, Major.” His voice gets stronger. “Don’t… let… them… take… my… leg.” He begins to shake. Shock is setting in. The corpsman drops beside them and puts a tourniquet on Culhane’s upper thigh.
“Promise me, damn it!” Culhane yells above the din of battle.
Merrill grabs a leatherneck by the arm. “Listen to me,” Merrill bellows, shouting above the sounds of the Hell Hounds screaming, the peal of bayonets clashing, the thunder of guns. “You stay with your sergeant, get it? You stay with him when you get to the field hospital. You stay with him when they operate, and you tell whoever takes care of Culhane that I said if he takes off that leg, I’ll personally take off one of his.”
“Yes, sir, Major Merrill.”
“Th’nks,” Culhane stammers, and Merrill races into battle. He doesn’t hear Culhane’s last whisper before he passes out: “Good luck.”
1920
The winter rainstorm passed quickly and bright hard sunlight urged buds into blossoms in the winter garden Madeline had loved so much. Eli shifted in his wheelchair and stared at the flowers through the large library window. His mind, as sharp as it ever was, raced back through time and he remembered the first time he saw her. San Francisco. She was wearing a pink dress with an enormously wide-brimmed hat and she was framed by ferns in the corner of the Garden Terrace restaurant. Thirty-two years old and she hadn’t looked a day over twenty, and when she smiled as they were introduced, he was immediately her captive.
His memory dissolved into another image. A young boy in tatters, with such an arrogant, cocky smile, standing beside Ben the first time Eli ever saw him. He saw that image reflected in the window but he seemed older and taller, no longer a teenager but a man in a uniform. Then he snapped out of his reverie and realized he was staring at a reflection.
“Hi, Mr. Eli,” the voice behind him said.
He wheeled his chair around and looked up at Brodie Culhane in Marine dress blues, medals-a Purple Heart, Silver Star, French Croix de Guerre-gleaming on his chest, eyes as bright as new coins, the smile as challenging as ever. He had grown into a handsome man, his face a bit lined by age and harsh experience. And he was leaning on an oak cane.
“Well, look at you, Thomas,” Eli said affectionately and held out his hand. Brodie clutched it eagerly. Eli’s hair, what little he had left, was white and his body looked ravaged, his legs mere twigs, but his face seemed as smooth and ageless as ever.
Brodie leaned over and put his arm around the old man.
“I knew you’d come home,” Eli said, embracing him, patting his back. “Sooner or later, I knew you’d come back to us.”
Brodie hooked a chair with the crook of his cane, pulled it to him, and sat down as Eli wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, then blew his nose.
“So, how’s the leg?”
“Another month and I can throw away the cane.”
“Look at you! I wish Maddy were here to see you. Not a day went by she didn’t mention you.”
“I’m sorry,” Brodie said. “I know how much you must miss her. I tried to write you from the hospital but, you know me, I never was much for writing.”
“How long were you laid up?”
“Eighteen months. They put my leg back together with glue and tape. I had to learn to walk again, but it’s almost good as new.”
“Did you stop at the bank and see Ben?”
“Not yet. Mr. Graham was on the train with me. He remembered me. Dropped me off here on his way home.”
“They have a taxi now, you know. Very sophisticated. My God, Ben will faint with excitement when he sees you.”
“How’s his pitching arm?”
“Not what it used to be. He coaches the high school team now.”
“Got a high school, huh?”
“It was time for a good school. We have twenty-two families living on the Hill now. There are a few families in Eureka who attend. And the kids from Milltown come over on the bus.”
“And Eureka has a sidewalk and paved streets. Never thought I’d live to see that day.”
“Well, Riker had to do something. You hardly see a horse and carriage anymore. All automobiles.”