ARMY BOYSMARCHINGINTO GERMANYCHAPTER ITHE DISGUISED OFFICER
ARMY BOYSMARCHINGINTO GERMANY
“We’llhold this position, boys, if we die for it,” exclaimed Frank Sheldon, as he wiped the grime and sweat from his face with his sleeve and reloaded his rifle.
“We’ll die all right,” muttered Tom Bradford, as his rifle cracked and accounted for another German, “but we’ll take lots of those fellows with us anyway.”
“There doesn’t seem to be any stopping them,” grunted Billy Waldon. “Looks as if the whole German army’s wading into us.”
“Heinie’s there with the goods all right,” admitted Frank, “but it’s his last kick. He’s about due to pass out now. We’ve got his number.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” cautioned Tom. “It’s still a long, long way to the Rhine.”
“Stop your chinning, you fellows,” warned Billy. “Here comes another rush. Stand fast.”
Down over the slightly sloping ground came a great wave that threatened to engulf the little band of army boys who were holding the position.
A hail of bullets and of hand grenades met the assailants and tore great gaps in their lines. Men by the score threw up their hands and fell, but their comrades pressed on over them in a fierce determination to wipe out once for all the American detachment that had been holding them so obstinately at that point of the long battle line on the edge of the forest.
“They’re gluttons for punishment,” panted Tom, as he pumped bullets into the oncoming ranks until his gun grew hot in his hands.
“It’ll be hand to hand this time,” gritted Frank between his teeth. “Bullets won’t stop them. We’ll have to give them the bayonet.”
“That’s what,” growled Bart, as his fingers tightened on his gun stock and his muscles tightened.
“I’m glad of it,” muttered Billy. “I’m tired of lying here and holding them back. I’m aching to get into the middle of that bunch and give them a taste of cold steel.”
“They’re twice as many as we are,” observed Frank, “but that’s just about right. One American ought to be able to handle two Huns and give them all that’s coming to them.”
On came the enemy until they were so close that the boys could see from the marks they bore that they belonged to the Prussian guards, the choice troops of the German army.
“Tough nuts to crack,” muttered Tom, “but we’ve cracked them before and we’ll do it again.”
Nearer and nearer that mass of field gray came until the boys could literally see the whites of their eyes.
But it was no part of the American plan to take that shock standing still and give the enemy all the benefit of the momentum. A bugle rang out with a call that the boys well knew and that thrilled them to the marrow. Then down the line came the sharp, quick command:
“Fix bayonet. Ready. Charge!”
The American boys swarmed out of the trenches and with a shout rushed forward to meet the foe.
The two forces met with a tremendous shock that seemed at first as if it would annihilate them both. The impact was terrific. The Germans had the advantage of a greater momentum, but this was offset to some extent by the fact that they were more tired by their exertions while the Americans were comparatively fresh.
There was very little firing done now. The machine guns on either side had ceased, as they were as likely to mow down their own men as theenemy by shooting into that dense mass. Rifles and revolvers were used until their charges were exhausted. Then revolvers were thrown aside or hurled into opponents’ faces, the rifles were used as a backing for the bayonet or whirled about the head like a flail, and the fighting became a conflict between individual men or groups battling to the death.
For a few minutes it was a mêlée of hacking, clubbing and stabbing. Men by the dozen went down, killed or wounded. Some of the latter, who could still move, crawled or fell into shell holes that offered some slight measure of protection. Often a pair of combatants went down together, locked in a close embrace from which neither of them rose again.
Frank found himself engaged with two husky Germans who attacked him at the same moment. He side-stepped one and drove his bayonet through the shoulder of the other. He tried to withdraw it, but could not pull it out before the other German was again upon him.
Like lightning he dropped his hold on his gun, his fist shot out and landed flush on his assailant’s jaw. The man went down, and Frank, content with having put him out of action, wrenched his gun free from his other fallen enemy and hurried to the help of Tom, who was hard beset.
Whirling his gun about his head, he cleared aspace about himself and his panting comrade. A moment’s respite and again they plunged into the thick of the fight.
“Hot stuff, eh?” said Tom, with a twisted grin on his lips that had been cut by a glancing bayonet thrust.
“Hot’s the right word,” gasped Frank. “Where are Bart and Billy?”
“I don’t know,” replied Tom, and then, as a group of Germans surged in upon them, they said no more but went at it tooth and nail.
It was not an easy victory, for the Germans fought desperately. But victory at last it proved to be, as the Yankee boys pressed forward with that same splendid get-there-or-die spirit that they had shown ever since the first glorious days at Belleau Wood and Château Thierry. Soon the long lines broke up into separate groups and a few minutes later the Germans began to retreat, slowly at first and then more rapidly, until the wood in front of the old Thirty-seventh had been cleared, and the American line had been advanced far beyond where it had been when the fighting had begun.
The Americans had lost a considerable number of men, but not so many as the enemy, for the ground was covered with German dead.
Frank had come through unscathed, except for a slight ridge in the scalp that a bullet had barelygrazed, but Tom’s cut lip had swelled so that his mouth was twisted in a ludicrous shape and he could only speak with difficulty. At any other time Frank would have been inclined to “guy” him over the comical appearance he presented, but now, as always after a hot fight, his first thought was of Bart and Billy. He looked about him anxiously, but could see nothing of them as his glance darted in and out among the trees.
“Could anything have happened to the old scouts, do you think?” he asked of Tom.
“They’ll turn up all right,” answered Tom, with more confidence than he really felt. “There’s Billy now,” he exclaimed with great relief, pointing to the right, “and I’m blessed if the old boy isn’t driving a couple of Huns in front of him.”
It was Billy, sure enough, as jaunty and chipper as ever, walking behind two Germans who shuffled along sullenly enough. Billy’s face broke into a broad grin as his friends hurried toward him.
“Some class to this child,” he chuckled, as he indicated the prisoners. “Copped them out all by my lonesome. But where’s Bart?” he asked, his tone changing as he noticed the absence of his comrade.
“That’s just what we want to know,” replied Frank with great uneasiness. “He got away fromus in the early part of the fighting and we haven’t seen him since.”
Billy signaled to Fred Anderson, who was passing.
“Take these fellows back to the pen, will you, Fred?” he asked. “I want to help the boys hunt up Raymond.”
“Sure thing,” responded Fred good-naturedly, as he relieved Billy of his charges.
“Now,” said Billy, “let’s get a hustle on and hunt among the wounded.”
Each of them felt in his heart an awful fear that something worse than wounds might have come to Bart, but by common consent they kept the word “dead” away from their lips and tried to keep it away from their minds. All of them had been face to face with death again and again and had been wounded more or less severely, but so far death had spared them and the four had grown to feel that they would all pull through safely. But Bart was missing. Had a break come at last?
Already burial parties were going up and down the field and the stretcher parties were gathering up the wounded to convey them to the advanced dressing stations. The three chums attached themselves to these and searched frantically among both the wounded and the dead.
For some time their search was unavailing,and then suddenly Frank gave a call that brought the others instantly to his side.
“I’ve found him!” he cried. “But I don’t know whether he’s living or dead. Help me to get him out of this pile of bodies.”
In a moment their sinewy hands had extricated their comrade, and Frank knelt down and lifted Bart’s head in his arms, while Tom tore open their chum’s shirt and put his hand on his heart.
There was a great gash in Bart’s forehead from which the blood had flowed freely. His face was as pale as chalk except where it was streaked with blood, his eyes were closed and he showed no sign of life. But just as Frank was fearing the worst, Tom gave an exclamation of relief.
“He’s alive,” he cried. “His heart is beating.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Frank fervently and was echoed by Billy. “But I’m afraid he’s pretty badly hurt. We’ve got to get him to the hospital in a hurry.”
He called out to a couple of litter bearers and they hurried toward him. With infinite care and tenderness they lifted Bart and put him on the stretcher. They would have taken him to the hospital themselves, but that was the work of the bearers, and duty held the boys to the line that might at any moment be assailed by the Germans in a counter-attack.
“Good old Bart!” murmured Frank. “He’s alive anyway and while there’s life there’s hope.”
“Bart’s luck will stand by him, all right,” prophesied Billy, reassuringly. “But that was a fearful swipe he had across his forehead. It must have been made by a bayonet.”
“I don’t think so,” said Tom, who had been looking about him. “See that stump? It’s covered with blood. Bart stumbled over a body or something and struck his head against this stump and it’s knocked him out.”
Further conjectures were deferred by a sharp, quick summons for the men to get back into line. An aviator had signaled that the Huns were again preparing to attack with fresh regiments that had been hastily brought up, and the old Thirty-seventh, like the veterans they had become, hurriedly consolidated their positions and awaited the worst that the enemy could bring against them.
Just then there was a stir in the lines and a staff officer, in the uniform of a colonel, came galloping up, attended by an orderly. He dismounted, threw the reins to the orderly and came up to a group of the Thirty-seventh’s officers.
“Who is in command here?” he asked briskly.
Major Willis, who had charge of that portion of the line, stepped forward and saluted.
“I am,” he declared.
“Orders from headquarters,” said the newcomer, as he returned the salute. “You are to retire from this position at once and fall back to your former line of defense. The enemy has been so strongly reinforced that it is inadvisable to remain where you are.”
The major looked his surprise and seemed about to protest, but instinctively discipline asserted itself and he again saluted and turned to give the necessary orders.
The boys had been standing near enough to hear the conversation, and Frank, happening to catch sight of Tom’s face, was startled. His face was pale and his eyes were blazing.
“What is it, Tom?” he asked in a low voice and put his hand on his comrade’s arm.
But Tom shook off his hand and sprang forward. His voice rang out like a trumpet.
“It’s a lie!” he shouted. “That man is a German spy! Seize him! Seize him!”