THE BATTLE IN THE WOOD
WEARIED as they were with the long hours of fighting, preceded by a
night of the most nerve-racking vigil and anticipation, those lads went
across that intervening space and into the very jaws of death as though
it was their customary exercise before breakfast each morning—went
singing, shouting and cheering, oblivious to danger, seeing only a duty
to perform in the quickest possible way.
For a full minute after the Americans began their fearless dash, Heinie
and Fritz were so utterly dumbfounded by the utter audaciousness of the
assault that, except for the steady descent of the heavy shells which
were falling harmlessly many yards away, firing practically ceased.
Consternation seemed to seize the German snipers and crews which manned
the hidden machine guns. The assault was so boldly carried out, the
attack was so swift and vicious, that before they could recover
themselves the Americans were upon them, and mortal man-to-man combat
was on.
Those who could get away in safety began to run, but the two groups
which had been divided to escape the artillery fire had carried on a
simultaneously converging movement, and most of those who occupied the
miniature forest were caught in a trap and compelled to fight.
Tom had gotten only a dozen yards into the wood when he stumbled and
fell. As he fell he rolled down a short incline and into the very heart
of a machine gun nest. Apparently the five Huns there were more startled
than he was, but he did not wait to inquire. With a quick backward
somersault he hurtled himself out of the place, and as he came to his
feet he threw a grenade. It struck upon the machine gun itself, and
exploded with a force that made his teeth shake, but it did the work and
saved his life, at the same time eliminating five more menaces to the
peace of the world and human happiness.
Off to the left a machine gun of the enemy was playing a vicious tattoo.
Tom saw it mow down four of his comrades, and realized that situated as
it was it was there to do a great deal more damage if it was not
captured and its crew taken prisoners or killed. He felt as though he,
too, had been hit, and then, from tree to tree, began worming his way
along the ground.
He had just reloaded his rifle, in which the bayonet was fixed, but he
had thrown his last grenade. He stopped for a moment by a comrade who
would never again need his. Tenderly he clutched the explosive to him
and continued on his way.
He was almost to the spot, and realized, too, that he had gotten away
from all the rest, who were bearing off in a diagonal direction, when he
saw something darting along the ground just ahead of him. At first, in
the semi-darkness of the wood, he thought it was nothing but a shadow,
perhaps only a delusion of his eye or brain, but as he paused it moved
again, scarcely discernible as its own color mingled with that of the
ground.
But Tom knew that it was a German—and seemingly an officer—who was
trying to get away while the getting was good. He determined that the
German had not yet seen him, and cautiously took up the trail,
especially as it was in the general direction toward the machine gun
nest. He might have shot the man then, but the shot would have revealed
his own whereabouts and probably save the machine gun crew, as well as
cost him his own life.
Watching every move that his quarry made, Tom stalked him as noiselessly
as an American woodsman would follow a wary animal’s trail. He noticed
as the Boche went along on the ground, he seemed to draw himself forward
with only the right arm, the other hanging limp at his side. A little
further on Tom found the faint pathway spotted with blood. He crept
closer. As he did so he inadvertently stuck one of his own hands into a
smouldering pile of leaves which had been set afire by a bomb or shell,
and the exclamation that escaped him made it impossible longer to keep
his presence there unknown.
The German turned quickly. Tom noted all in one glance that he wore a
fierce bristly mustache turned up at the ends after the style of
Wilhelm, the Arch-Murderer, that his complexion now was a
greenish-white, and that his left arm had been shot completely off just
below the elbow. But he noted something more than that, even while he
covered the man with his gun, and the latter stuck his right hand into
the air in token of surrender. The man was a colonel in the Prussian
Guards! A regimental commander in what the Kaiser himself regarded as
his crack troops!
Tom gasped in astonishment. Seeing that the other made no move to get
his own weapon, the younger man lowered his rifle the least bit, at the
same time rose, first to his knees and then to his feet, and then
commanded the German officer to stand up.
“But keep that arm in the air, Colonel,” he cautioned vigorously, “or I
might get nervous and pull this trigger.”
Apparently the officer understood, and maybe, too, he had some sense of
humor, for he not only did as Tom bade him to do, but the features, that
were distorted with the torture of pain and fast ebbing strength, for an
instant were softened by just the flicker of a smile.
“You seem to be just a little more decent than the rest, anyway,” Tom
continued, “and that arm needs attention pretty badly. I’ll let that
machine gun nest go for a few moments while I turn you over to be taken
back a prisoner, and for treatment.”
“I thank you very much for sparing my life and giving me this
attention,” the German colonel responded, in almost perfect English.
“You are very kind.”
As Tom fell in behind him, after having directed him which way to walk,
he began to marvel over the man’s accent, and in a guarded way to admire
the manner in which he bore what must have been the agonizing pain of
his injury.
They had almost reached the point where Tom could turn his prisoner over
to those who would take him in charge and transfer him to the rear and
to a hospital, when they came upon George Harper, propped up against a
tree, apparently asleep.
But as he heard them approach he opened his eyes, and then he did what
to Tom seemed a strange and unaccountable thing. He jumped to his feet,
showing no evidence of a wound or other injury, and then, gazing
intently into the face of Tom’s high-ranking prisoner, took a few more
steps forward.
“Why, Professor Schultz,” he exclaimed. “If it isn’t the professor I’ll
eat my helmet. And with one wing gone, too, eh? You’re not looking quite
so well, professor, as when I saw you last.”
Tom, who had listened to this in surprise, turned toward the colonel as
though expecting him to explain it, but the German officer only tried to
tilt his head a little higher, make his mustaches appear a little more
formidable, and maintained an absolute silence.
“He don’t want to recognize me now,” Harper explained to Tom. “He’s got
good reasons, too. The only good it will do him to have that arm fixed
up, now that he’s recognized, will be to get well enough to be stood up
before a firing squad.”
The erstwhile proud colonel made a move as though he would make a dash
for his liberty.
“Oh, no you don’t,” George Harper snapped, at the same time levelling
his gun at the officer. “No more of that funny work this time.”
Keeping the prisoner covered with his gun, he turned again to Tom.
“This professor-colonel and I have met before,” he explained, “and the
latest time was a few hours ago. I got separated from you fellows and
tried to rush a machine gun nest. I was just about to throw a grenade
when this fellow caught me in the stomach with a whacking big rock. It
was the handiest weapon to him, for his revolver had been shot out of
his hand. I’ll say for him that he throws well. It knocked me out
completely. When I came to my senses I could hardly move, but I
remembered one thing, and that was that the man who laid me low was the
one-time Professor Schultz, confidence man and swindler, indicted and
sought by half a dozen different States, but particularly wanted by the
United States Secret Service as a daring and dangerous spy. Some record
you’ve got, eh, Schultzy—pardon, professor, I should address you as
colonel—the crookedest colonel I ever knew.”
“Will you take him back?” Tom asked, amused despite himself at the
manner in which George Harper delivered himself of his information
regarding Schultz.
“I sure will,” his pal responded. “I want to get back into the thing as
soon as ever I can, but honest, that fellow sure can heave a rock, and I
feel as though some of my intrals have gotten too crowded together.
Maybe I need a little repairing myself. I’ll be right back again,
though. Come on, Schultzy,” and Harper and his prisoner trudged off.
Tom started back for the machine gun emplacement which had been his
objective when the German colonel crossed his path, but he found it had
long since been silenced and swept aside, and his own comrades were far
ahead of where they had been when he took his prisoner.
They were now nearing the other side of the wood, with its open land
beyond, but the rear guard of the Germans still were fighting
stubbornly, the reason for which Tom learned later. The only way the
German officers could compel those poor dupes left in the rear, to stand
and fight until the rest had started well upon their escape, was to tell
them that the Americans were barbarians in war and, if they captured
German soldiers, would torture them to death. A Boche prisoner, fearful
even of accepting a cigarette, fearing it was poisoned, until the man
who offered it stuck it into his own mouth and began to smoke, finally
told his captors the secret of what they previously had put down to
courage upon the part of the Hun fighters.
Tom, coming upon the rigid resistance as it was being shown at the
fringe of the wood, jumped into the thick of the fight just as “Buck”
Granger went down with a bullet wound in his right leg. “I’m all right,
don’t bother about me,” the brave fellow shouted, as Tom wavered and was
about to stop. “Just a little hit in the calf. I’ll hobble along all
right.”
“Better stay where you are,” Tom advised him, “and if I come through
myself I’ll be back for you later in the day. The Red Cross stretcher
men will be along shortly anyway, and they’ll give you a lift.”
The injured man nodded, the while he nursed his injured leg, the knee
drawn up under his chin, and Tom started off.
“Say!” Granger shouted, before he was out of hearing, “just give Fritz a
couple for me, will you?”
“Do my best,” Tom called back, and disappeared.
He was no more than out of “Buck’s” sight when a German, lying prone
upon the ground, and whom Tom thought dead, fired point blank at him.
The bullet tore through his right sleeve and left a stinging sensation
on his arm. With fixed bayonet he charged before the man could shoot
again.
It was the second man he had killed at close range that day. The sight
sickened him. He hurried on. There was the great difference in the
armies. The Germans seemingly killed for the lust of killing. The
Americans, only because it was the only way in which to save humanity,
rescue or aid martyr nations, and redeem civilization to the world.
As he reached the edge of the wood, a hundred feet from the nearest of
his own men, he thought he heard a voice weakly calling him—calling him
by his own name.
“Tom Walton!” Silence, as he looked around; and then again, “Tom Walton!
Here I am, over here.”
It was scarcely more than a weak and quavering whisper, and the very
ghastliness of it sent the chills running up and down Tom’s spine as
fire and bullets couldn’t make them do.
He looked in the direction from whence the voice seemed to come, and saw
a man in an American officer’s uniform stretched out upon the ground.
His face was smeared with mud and blood and was distorted in mortal
agony.
Tom ran to his side. He was tugging at his blouse, as though to open it.
Tom gazed into his face again, and then gave a gasp of shock and
astonishment.
“Why, Major,” he gulped, “Major Sweeney, are you badly hurt?”
The officer tried to answer, just the effort of a smile flickered for a
moment on his swollen lips, and he weakly motioned toward Tom’s water
flask.
A few swallows seemed to relieve him a little, and with his head
pillowed in Tom’s arm he tried to move a bit, but it was no use. The
attempt was too painful, and he was fearfully weak. Tom instantly
realized that. He looked around desperately for help, but there was none
immediately at hand. The major, evidently divining his intention, gave a
slight wave of the hand. It expressed much. It was the inborn heroism of
the man—the man under whom Tom had trained and come over seas, the man
for whom he had the greatest respect and the deepest affection.
“In there,” the major gasped, after a terrible effort, motioning toward
an inner pocket. “Important papers—took them from German—officer.”
Tom reached into the pocket and extracted what seemed to be a packet of
maps and instructions. Major Sweeney was lapsing into unconsciousness,
but he rallied himself with a great effort, and, in a voice which Tom
now had to lean close to hear, he continued:
“Take them—to—brigade head—quarters,” he reached feebly and let
his own quivering hand drop upon Tom’s. “Tell them—Major
Sweeney—sends—his—respects and he’s—going west.”
The voice ceased, the big frame quivered slightly for just the fraction
of an instant, and then lay still. Tom Walton knew that for his brave
major the end had come. Gently he laid the form upon the ground. Tears
were running down his cheeks. Tenderly, as though it had been his own
father, he smoothed back the matted hair.
“Major Sweeney,” he repeated, in a choked whisper. “Gone west.”
And then the long tension snapped, his head dropped forward and his body
was shaken by convulsive sobs.
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