READY TO GO
ALTHOUGH there was scarcely an officer who long ago had not realized the
full import and significance of the gigantic movement which had
concentrated so many hundred thousand Americans in and around that
section opposite the German-held St. Mihiel salient, comparatively few
of the lads in the line had looked quite so deeply into the situation.
Now it was perfectly clear.
Hundreds of the biggest guns, together with the famous French “75’s” had
been concentrated in position a few miles back. Aeroplane squadrons had
been constantly patrolling the skies. Every branch of the Engineers had
been brought up, and now those brave and intrepid men, the Pioneers,
were adding the final touches to the preparations for their hazardous,
self-sacrificing task.
For the Pioneers, if you did not know it before, go first of all when it
is a concentrated attack upon a well fortified and entrenched position.
It is the Pioneers who pave the way, doing what previous artillery
bombardment may have failed to do in cutting wire entanglements, etc.;
theirs is the necessary preliminary work, in which, much of the time,
they are open targets for the enemy fire.
And then come the engineers, bridging streams, cutting and blasting away
earthen and concrete obstructions, filling in shell holes, levelling
roads—making ready for the great attack in which every branch of the
service on land will participate; infantry, cavalry, light artillery,
tanks, trucks, ambulances, field hospitals, everything.
These were the things for which everyone was making ready at ten o’clock
the following morning when the first actual order was received. It was
an order which in no way affected the men and lesser officers directly,
and yet it was one which marked the first step in the tremendous
program.
Brigade, regimental and even battalion commanders, which is to say
brigadier-generals, colonels, lieutenant-colonels and majors, were
summoned to Division Headquarters.
There, as it soon became known, they met not only the major-general in
command, but General Pershing himself. Unheralded, he had arrived by
fast auto with the break of dawn, and since that time, as hundreds of
maps spread out before them testified, he and the major-general had been
in most important conference.
To Corporal Tom Walton fell the never-to-be-forgotten privilege of
witnessing this historic sight.
His colonel’s aide arrived back from the conference a few moments after
it had begun, to get some maps from the colonel’s quarters. He needed
someone to help carry them over.
“Corporal Walton,” his direct commander’s voice called, “you will
accompany and assist Lieutenant Behring.”
And that was how Tom Walton got his first glimpse of the great American
commander, General Pershing. It was a close view, too, for he had to
deposit the maps and photographs upon a table only a few feet away from
where the generals sat.
In that instant, while Tom was furtively staring at him, General
Pershing looked up. It may have been that he did not give a thought to
the youth who thus was overcome by a sudden confusion, but Tom believed
otherwise, for the eyes seemed to twinkle kindly for just the fraction
of a second, the square jaws relaxed just a little, and the line of the
mouth relaxed.
Perhaps, on the other hand, with the biggest job of his big career
before him, General Pershing was not unmindful of the fact that he had
behind him a whole army—thousands upon thousands—of just such clean-cut,
courageous, never-say-die Americans as this young man from Brighton.
In a second, however, he was concentrated again upon the problems before
him, and Tom, his job completed, was on his way back to his comrades, to
tell them over and over again just how General Pershing looked, spoke,
acted, and a dozen other details of information which Tom did his best
to give.
What actually was going on at that conference was American and world
history in the making. It was, as it became known later, the beginning
of the end for the Boche and for Germany.
Thousands of maps and photographs were distributed. Every foot of ground
to be traversed by every separate unit was marked off, timed and
scheduled to the whole program. Each colonel knew to the exact moment
the time when his regiment was to go forward from a given point of
concentration; every major knew how his battalion was to be divided and
thrust eastward under instructions which he was to convey to his
respective captains.
No war strategy ever was worked out to finer detail. None ever attained
its objective so quickly and successfully.
That afternoon, as the captains were summoned to receive their detailed
orders, the greatest excitement prevailed everywhere. Orders are not
revealed to the men and non-commissioned officers until the time has
arrived to carry them into effect. But there was no longer any
concealing the fact that activities of tremendous import were imminent,
and all down the lines, as men examined their accoutrements, the word
passed and was repeated, “We’re going in.”
And finally some bright mind hit upon a recollection, and thenceforth
there was no further doubt as to the day of the advance; only the hour
was in doubt.
On September 12, 1914, the Germans, at tremendous sacrifice in their
first drive toward Paris, had established the St. Mihiel salient. It had
been held steadily ever since, and on this September 10, 1918, it was
within two days of that fourth anniversary. It would be fitting
punishment that the Huns should begin to suffer retribution on the very
day when they might be expected to be feeling as boastful as only a
German can.
Yes, there was no doubt about it in any man’s mind. They were going to
attack on September 12th.
And so, with this almost definite assurance in mind, the preparations
went forward with even renewed vigor and anticipation. No need to urge
the men. They worked as boys would for a holiday. The rain, which
continued with only slight and infrequent abatement, was no annoyance,
was hardly even noticed now.
The big work for which they had prepared for months—first in America,
then in England, and finally behind the lines in France—was now at hand.
Their mettle was to be tested against the Boche. Their numbers, their
ability, their courage were to be thrown into the world contest of
Liberty against Autocracy.
“Do you remember how you used to feel just before we went into a game
against an eleven that we knew to be at least our own weight?” Ollie
breathed to Tom and George, as the three of them were completing the
last essentials to a critical inspection.
“Sure do,” replied Tom, the biggest and heaviest of the three, “and I
never put on a head-piece with greater anticipation than I do this,” and
he clamped his heavy helmet on as though the battle already were under
way.
In a muffled voice Harper wanted to know how his gas mask became him,
and if really, after all, he wasn’t the long-sought missing link.
There is a cheerfulness about men about to go into battle that only
those who have been through it can understand—a thrilling of every nerve
that makes one jest, even though death may be stalking only a few yards
or a few hours ahead—a forgetfulness of all else but the determined will
to fight to the last, and to win.
Suddenly from far to the east there came the muffled thunder of heavy
cannonading which brought all three men upright. For a moment they
thought that real hostilities were on; but the illusion was not for
long. The sporadic reply of their own batteries told them as clearly as
words could that it was just “one of those messages from Fritz and
Heinie” which of course required a reply, but did not after all amount
to very much. It was a sort of exchange of compliments, the lads in the
trenches termed it.
Nevertheless every man was on edge, and when a simultaneous shout of
warning and expectancy went up from two or three alert fellows who had
been gazing skyward, a thousand heads went up, to witness one of those
most daring and spectacular exhibitions of the entire war—a battle in
the air.
The three Brighton boys—for as such they were known to all their
companions—rushed for an elevation already occupied by half a dozen
others, and from which a wider sweep of the skyline was to be had.
Even as they did so the real preliminaries to the battle began. The
American pilot, who it was now plain had been merely playing the role of
the pursued to lead the enemy beyond the aid of any of his own machines,
suddenly swerved for the attack.
The Boche pilot was in a small and speedy Albatross, but in maneuvres
and tactics he was outmatched by the American, who came at him with such
speed and directness that the witnesses, a thousand feet below, held
their breath in expectation of a crash that would bring both machines
and their pilots to the ground a battered, mangled mass.
But the American pilot knew his game well. He swerved a little upward
and over, just as the Hun took a swift nose dive to avoid contact. There
was the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire, that sounded from the distance
more like the popping of toy guns. Neither made a hit, apparently, but
the American plane had the position in which the Boche had to pass
under, over or around him in any attempt to reach his own lines.
The German had no heart for battle and headed straight south. Again the
American came at him like a streak of lightning, began to climb at the
same time, and the enemy tried a downward sweep and a turn northward at
the same time. The American turned, too, and those on the ground began
to applaud at the advantage he had gained. He was but a relatively short
distance behind, but at a much higher altitude.
As the Hun headed northeastward with all the speed he could get out of
his Albatross, the American came down the wind, dropping as he came, and
with momentum adding to the power of his propeller. When just within
range he opened up with a fusilade from his machine gun. The German
tried swiftly to change his course, but the effort was made too late.
His plane was seen to hover for a moment first on one wing and then the
other, as it seemed to come to a dead halt, and then, just as a little
tongue of flame shot outward there was a loud explosion, the Albatross
turned its nose downward and crashed to earth.
The American machine circled for a moment, as though the pilot were
seeking his exact bearings, and then began a long, slow, gliding
descent.
From all directions men by the score hurried over to where the machine
would land, learn the identity and get a glimpse of the pilot who had
furnished the entertainment.
As he came to the ground, the plane halted and the first of them
gathered around, there was a gasp of astonishment and sympathy, the
pilot lay back in his seat as white as a ghost, his left arm hung limp
at his side, blood trickled from a wound in his shoulder, and obviously
he would have fainted and fallen had the battle lasted a few moments
longer.
“A stretcher!” cried a lieutenant of the Aviation Corps, who had run to
the spot to congratulate his colleague.
A stretcher was brought, and an ambulance came hurrying up. The man was
unconscious when he was lifted in.
“Serious, but not fatal,” was the abrupt diagnosis of a surgeon after a
cursory examination. “Mostly weakness from loss of blood.”
“But why did he stay up after being hit?” asked one man, more of himself
than anyone else.
“The Hun would have been glad to get away at any time,” put in another.
The lieutenant who had called for the stretcher turned in no unfriendly
way toward them.
“He didn’t come down until he’d gotten his objective,” he said, “because
of the stuff that he’s got in him—the same stuff that you fellows have
got, too. You’ll be doing the same and just as good things on land, once
you get started—and that won’t be very long now.”
He added the last few words in more of an undertone, as though speaking
to himself, but everyone caught the significance of them.
“I believe it’s a good sign,” said Ollie Ogden, as the three friends
were slushing over the still slippery return journey, although the long
rain had ceased early that morning.
“Believe what’s a good sign?” demanded Harper, impatient that Ollie
should be so indirect.
“The way that pilot stayed up and won his fight.”
“Well, how’s that a sign? A sign of what?” Tom broke in.
“Why,” explained Ollie, “I believe it’s a sort of a forecast of this new
drive we’re going into, and for that matter the whole war. Some of us
may and will get hurt, but we’re going to stick at it until we win, and
we’re going to make the quickest possible job of it.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Tom, “Only in our case we’re not going to invite the
enemy over our lines to do it. We’re going to carry the fight to him.”
“You’re right,” added Harper, “and this looks as if it’s not many hours
off.”
He pointed to a long string of motor trucks bearing pioneers, engineers,
snipers, wire-cutters—the forerunners of a battle in which preliminary
difficulties must be overcome.
Tom looked at his wrist watch. It was 6.16 and the sun was just setting.
Darkness would soon enclose that part of France in the cloak of
night—and it was upon the eve of the fourth anniversary of
German-established St. Mihiel saliant!
“Not long is right,” he said, reminiscently.
And Harper added, while Ollie nodded his head in assent:
“We’ll soon be ready to go.”
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