A MACHINE-GUN BARRAGE
That settled it in Phil’s mind. There would be no “over the top” from
the enemy lines that night. Probably, after all, he was mistaken in
assuming that the boches, conscious of their own insufficiency of
reserves, would hesitate to make a morning attack. They were planning to
harass the Yanks all night with gas and a hurricane of shells, and in
the morning make a charge that would sweep everything before it.
With the putting on of the masks, the conversation between Phil and Tim
stopped. It really seemed that the former’s soliloquy following this
operation was better reasoning than his earlier conjectures had been.
The cannonade that followed the “gas wave” was terrific and it seemed
that such a barrage must mean something in the nature of a sequence, but
they would hardly charge right into the gas they had shelled into the
Yank’s lines.
But again Phil was privileged to change his mind, and that very
suddenly. The bombardment continued until after dark and many shells
exploded perilously near the Pershing forces—a few did fatal damage
right in the midst of the waiting Americans at the edge of the woods.
At about 9:30 o’clock this bombardment ceased as suddenly as it had
begun. Neither Phil nor Tim had taken part in or witnessed a night
attack, except in the nature of a cannonading, since their first
experience on the Verdun front, and they were greatly astonished at what
came next.
But they were not without warning, for the signal service was on the qui
vive constantly, as were also the advance sentries, and about two
minutes before there was any sign of the approach of the enemy, word
went along the line to be on the lookout for an attack.
“So my first surmise was right, after all,” Phil mused. “They’re going
to attack under cover of the darkness so that they may retreat more
successfully if their attack fails.”
Another surprise was coming not only to Phil and Tim, but to many other
“dug-in” Marines along the American front. It had to do with the
character of the attack.
Suddenly the American lines were swept with a sharp, snappy, vicious
machine-gun fire. The boches had crept up under cover of the darkness
and succeeded in planting a score or more of machine guns at various
places in the timber a hundred yards ahead and started pumping a
murderous storm of bullets at the doughboys.
But fortunately it was murderous in sight and sound chiefly, for very
few of the Yanks were hit. In the first place, it was almost a random
attack, for the muzzles of the guns were elevated a degree or more too
high to rake the edges of the funk holes in which the Americans were
crouching. Moreover, the intervening trees intercepted many of the
bullets, as was evident from the tattoo thuds that could be heard even
amid the noisy spitting of the machine guns.
Just what the enemy hoped to accomplish by this method of attack it was
difficult at first to determine, although the Yanks were destined to
discover very shortly that it was a clever sort of camouflage.
But the cunning boches were destined to discover something, too, and to
Phil was due the credit for this rather startling enlightenment of the
enemy.
“Tim,” he called out to his friend, “I believe that is nothing but a
machine-gun barrage intended to throw us off our guard. They’re planning
a surprise attack.”
A “machine-gun barrage” was a new one to Tim, but he listened
respectfully for further explanation.
“We can expect them to come over any minute,” Phil continued rapidly.
“I’ve got an idea of how they’re going to do it. By the way, I’m going
to make a dive over to Lieutenant Stone and tell him what I’ve got in
mind. He’s only a few jumps away. He’ll probably reprimand me, if he
doesn’t report me to headquarters, but the suspicion I’ve got seems to
me so important that I’ll risk any punishment this side of the firing
squad.”
The thunder of the cannonade and the sharper rattle of the machine guns
were so intense that Phil found it necessary to scream his message to
his next-trench neighbor to insure being heard.
“Well, if it’s so very important, don’t stop to tell me about it, but
hurry up and get it where it will do most good,” Tim yelled back. “They
won’t take me by surprise.”
A moment later Phil was dashing over the underbrush and among the trees
in momentary danger of butting his head against a very solid and
substantial interference or of sprawling violently on the ground. But he
had surveyed the vicinity carefully before the shadows of evening
thickened in the woods and knew pretty accurately where the lieutenant
had dug in. He had to move just as carefully also as if he were stealing
along an enemy line of trenches, for some of the American soldiers were
likely to discover him and shoot him as a spy.
He succeeded in making his way within a few feet of the lieutenant’s
trench and, crouching low, began to signal to him by calling his name in
graduated rising tones. Presently the officer replied and Phil informed
him who he was.
In a few words the sergeant communicated his self-imposed message to his
superior officer.
“That is probably the best suggestion that has come from any source on
this front since the American Marines were stationed here,” remarked
Lieutenant Stone. “Now, you get back to your post as fast as ever you
can, or I’ll order you sent back behind the lines under guard.”
Phil darted back gleefully along the rear of the American line and
toward his empty funk hole, which he reached with very good caution as
well as expedition.