TIMBER FIGHTING
Early the next morning a squadron of aeroplanes flew over the American
lines dropping bombs and doing considerable damage. But it was not long
before they were met by a score of Allied planes, which poured into them
such a fusillade of machine-gun bullets that two of them dived to the
ground with a crash and the others were driven back behind their own
lines.
The cannonading from the German big guns during the night did little
damage to the Americans, for most of the shells dropped far to the rear.
Moreover, the Yankee field artillery replied with much better
marksmanship than that of the boches, as was reported in the morning by
scout aviators and balloon observers. But it was not necessary to wait
for these reports to get an idea of the devastation effected by the
Americans’ cannonading. The timber that had shielded the enemy forces,
whose attack had been camouflaged by a spitting of machine guns “at the
stars,” was now a scene of arboreal ruin. The boys decided that they had
never seen quite so abundant an assortment of splintered kindling wood
in their lives.
In the course of the day the American lines were advanced to the farther
edge of the belt of timber in which the battle of the night had been
fought. It seemed that this belt had been entirely cleared of the enemy.
Beyond the waste of splintered and contorted forestry was a narrow open
stretch of lowland, and beyond this was another woods undoubtedly
peopled with outpost of sharpshooters and machine-gun nests. The Yanks
did not have to wait long for a verification of this suspicion. Scarcely
had they taken up their positions near the edge of the area of green
kindling wood when there came a vicious spitting of machine guns and
sharpshooters’ rifles.
It was exceedingly difficult to bring up the artillery through the
shell-and-shrapnel-torn timber for the purpose of raking the opposite
woods in a similar manner. There was considerable work for the engineers
before this could be done. Meanwhile, however, the commander of the
Marines decided not to wait in idleness. Machine-gun corps were
stationed behind uprooted trees and splintered stumps and huge boulders
and in yawning shell holes and deep gullies and were presently spitting
away into the opposite timber wherever a nest could be located.
At last several cannon were brought up and a storm of shell and shrapnel
was poured into the woods beyond the clearing. This proved to be
effective to a considerable extent, for many of the machine guns of the
enemy were silenced, as were also a battery or two located behind the
enemy’s front line.
But certain nests of sharpshooters and machine guns proved to be
exceedingly difficult to dislodge and orders were given to take those
positions at as little cost as possible, _but take them_. Accordingly a
body of Marines were selected for this duty, including the company to
which Phil and Tim belonged.
It was a dangerous task, for it meant a charge across an open stretch
into another timber in which an uncertain number of the enemy were
concealed waiting to receive them with all the advantage of position and
concealment on their side. They did not make the fatal error of massed
attack that so often characterized the death plunges of the boches.
Rather, they scattered out and dashed forward with more or less
individual independence and bravery almost unknown among the usually
kamerad-encouraged enemy.
“I’m going to try Tim’s method of generating self-confidence,” Phil told
himself as he dashed with his fellow Marines across the open. “Here it
is: I’m going to come out of this without a scratch and I’m going to
kill, kill, kill.”
He saw several Marines in front and on each side of him fall victims of
the accurate shooting of the concealed enemy, but this did not feaze him
in the least. He _knew_ he was going to dash through successfully and he
_knew_ he was going to find a hidden machine-gun nest and whip it single
handed if necessary.
And he was not mistaken. He reached the opposite timber without
receiving a scratch. Then followed a more careful procedure to hunt out
the pests that were doing everything in their power to make things
uncomfortable for the Marines. The latter were armed with rifles and
hand grenades, and the timber was soon ringing with evidence of their
discoveries.
Phil had charge of a squad that worked as a unit in the scouring of the
woods, and Tim was a member of this squad. Alternately they were in
hiding in thickets of saplings and bushes or racing ahead to make a
swift surprise attack on a machine-gun nest located by the sound of
firing or the creeping cunning of a camouflaged spy. This handful of
Marines cleaned out two nests without the loss of a man, and then, it
appearing that there were no others within the sweep of their advance,
they separated in parties of two or three each to hunt for snipers after
agreeing on a place of meeting and a call by which Phil might summon
them together again whenever he desired.
Phil and Tim, perhaps by force of habit, continued together without
other company. The Marines were now driving a considerable rear guard of
the enemy ahead of them, principally snipers and machine gunners, who
were trailing behind the main body of the defeated boches to facilitate
the latter’s retreat. Realizing that the remnant of this rear guard was
moving more rapidly in its haste to get out of the way of the terrible
American butt-or-muzzle riflemen and hand-grenade throwers, Phil and Tim
put as much speed to their advance as the character of the terrain would
permit, hoping to overtake some of the fugitive snipers.
A few minutes after the squad had spread out to cover a larger
territory, the two friends arrived at the meadow-like opening into a
wooded ravine which appeared to grow deeper and deeper in the direction
taken by the fleeing boches. With little hesitation they dashed into the
ravine, becoming more cautious, however, as they entered the
timber-shaded lowland with its tangle of ferns and shrubbery.
It was really a dangerous undertaking, but these boys were in a
dangerous business. The ravine was lined with many ideal places for
concealment of snipers and the route taken by the venturesome pair along
the bottom was an ideal place to get sniped. But Phil and Tim felt that
the place ought to be explored, and as a call to summon the other boys
of the squad would serve only to alarm any hidden bodies in the
vicinity, they decided to take the burden of the investigation on their
own shoulders.
They advanced a hundred yards into the ravine without seeing another
living creature, except a few squirrels and hundreds of birds which
chattered and chirped away as if the carnage of a world war was the
farthest possible from their thoughts.
The boom of cannon was confined now to distant portions of the
indeterminate battle line, and the discharge of smaller firearms also
had ceased in the immediate vicinity. It seemed to the two boys that
they and the squirrels and the birds had the ravine all to themselves,
but they were destined presently to be disillusioned.
Suddenly—of course, for all explosions are sudden,—Phil was startled by
the discharge of two rifles from behind a thicket twenty feet ahead.
“Ping!” sung a bullet past his left ear. Tim was not startled. He did
not know what hit him. Over he went, and Phil sprang behind a tree, as a
true American, to meet the enemy Indian fashion.