POOR SCHNITZ
Grim and terrible fighting now marked what turned out to be one of the
decisive engagements of the war between the Americans and the Germans.
At this sector of the front, and just about where the 509th Infantry
was included in the army that was expected to smash the German line,
there was what is called a "spear head." That is, the Germans had so
thrust forward their forces as to occupy a small point of territory
with its apex toward the American front. It was in such ways as this
that the salients were made, and these were always dangerous.
Sometimes the danger was to the force making the spear point, for they
laid themselves open to flank attacks. Again, the danger was to the
side into which the point was thrust. For the point could be broadened
and so spread out as to divide the defending line.
Indeed, the object of making a salient, or spear head, was just
that--to divide and bend back the opposing force, to cut it in two, so
that there should be confusion in the ranks, with consequent defeat.
The Germans, as has been said, had created a small spear head at this
point, and it was in an endeavor to enlarge this by a surprise attack
that the present fighting was undertaken.
And, naturally, the Americans had to rally to their own defense. Well
they knew that, if the Huns once broadened the point, all sorts of
disasters might follow. So it is no wonder that Jimmy and his chums,
and every Sammie in the gallant American armies, fought to the death.
And, likewise, with the hope of victory before them, it may well be
assumed that the Germans also fought desperately.
Forward over the shell-pitted ground swept the Americans to meet the
attack and beat it back if possible. Their own barrage, directed by
aviators hovering above the contending armies, was working well. It
gave protection, but, in a way, was nullified by a counter barrage laid
down by the Boche gunners.
And not only was the shrapnel barrage sweeping over the one between the
two contending forces, but there was a constant spray of machine-gun
bullets, to say nothing of the fire from thousands of rifles.
Smashes, bangs, roars, and rattles, together with cheers of
encouragement, yells of defiance, and screams of sorely wounded
men mingled in one awful, hideous maelstrom of noise as the battle
continued.
Jimmy Blaise led his small force onward, being directed, of course, by
lieutenants, captains or majors in the advance. Two of Jimmy's squad
were killed instantly by shrapnel, one on either side of him, and their
blood spattered him. But he shut his teeth grimly and kept on. And yet
in the midst of it all--even when he was fiercely yelling to his men to
come on and while he fired his rifle until it was hot to his touch--he
could not help thinking of his four Brothers.
Where were they? Had they been wounded--killed, perhaps? Or were
they still fighting and struggling onward as was he, over the
death-impending ground, leaping from shell-hole to shell-hole, now into
some water-filled crater, now out again, ever going onward, onward,
onward unless stopped by death or a disabling wound?
"Well, I can only hope for the best," mused Jimmy, as he paused a
moment behind a hillock of dirt to get his breath. "This is fierce
fighting! I only hope we smash through them!"
Then again he plunged into the horrible din and slaughter, rallying
such men as he saw needed to be led, not because they faltered, but
because they were bewildered by the terrible din all about them.
Meanwhile Roger, Bob and Franz found themselves close together as they
advanced. They were rushing onward against a nest of German machine
guns, taking advantage of such shelter as they could find between the
bursts of fire.
"We've got to get them out of the way!" panted Franz, as he wiped the
blood from his face--blood from a cut in his head caused by a fragment
of a shrapnel shell which, had it gone a half inch closer, would have
ended his fighting days.
"That's right!" agreed Bob. "They're holding up the advance at this
point. Come on now. When they get through the next volley let's rush
'em. They must stop a moment to put in a fresh belt of cartridges."
"Their machine guns fire faster than ours--at least they load faster,"
observed Roger, as the three paused, even as Jimmy had done, in a
crater to get a moment's respite. "That flexible belt of cartridges
goes in the firing chamber quicker than our brass clips do, I'm
thinking."
"But, even at that, our boys work our guns to better advantage,"
declared Franz. "They've got the knack of jamming in the cartridge
clips, and though the Huns ought to fire faster, they don't, as a rule.
Well, come on! Let's get the job over!" he said grimly, addressing
those around him, who were waiting for the word to go on and wipe up
the nest of Hun machine gunners.
With yells they started out of the hole, but at that instant a shell
descended directly on an old house where the Germans had made a stand,
placing no less than ten machine guns in the structure, as was learned
later. The shell came from the American lines, and was doubtless aimed
according to directions signaled back by some Allied aviator. It
fell directly on the house, and being an H. E. shell--that is, high
explosive--the damage wrought was terrific.
In one great blast, directly in front of the boys, and so close as to
scatter dirt and small stones all about them, the house that sheltered
the Boches was blown apart. And with it went the machine guns and those
serving the weapons. That nest was wiped out, and with wild yells the
Khaki Boys rushed forward to take advantage of the gap thus made in the
German line.
"Well, that saved us a lot of work," cried Franz, as they swept past
the place where the house had been. Now it was but a hole in the ground.
"Yes, and it saved a lot of lives," added Bob. "But the job isn't
finished yet. We've got to go on!"
"You said it!" came grimly from Roger. "Say, look on either side of
us!" he added. "This is one of the biggest battles of the war."
And so it proved. As the boys, taking a little breathing spell just
beyond the machine-gun nest, looked to either side of them up and down
the conflicting lines, they saw how the tide of battle was going. And
at no point were the Americans giving way. Ever they were pressing
onward. The German spear-head was broken off and flattened--being
rendered harmless. In fact, it was being turned so as to become a
veritable thorn in the side of the Boche enemy.
Iggy, the Polish lad, rejoicing that he was again in the battle
fighting for the beloved land of his adoption, had, early in the
conflict, lost contact with Bob, Franz, and Roger. But this had
happened before during fights, and Iggy was so desperately in earnest
in firing his rifle at the foe, in rushing forward at the word of
command, and in seeking such shelter as there was when told to, that he
had little time to think of his friends.
Bob, Roger, and Franz, after passing the demolished machine-gun nest,
soon found themselves, together with others of their company, in a
small patch of woods.
"Rest here," directed a lieutenant. "There's a spring, and you can get
some water. There'll be plenty of hard fighting yet, so take it easy
when you can."
"Water! Oh, boy!" came the cries of delight from the thirst-parched and
wearied lads. And never did liquid taste sweeter. It refreshed them
more than can easily be imagined.
Then came the order to go forward, and in a fierce bit of fighting that
followed, Franz Schnitzel found himself out of contact not only with
Bob and Roger, but also away from any others of his company.
"This won't do! Got to get back!" he decided. "They must be off to my
left."
He turned in that direction. Then, as he passed around a small knoll,
he saw three Germans gathered about a machine gun down in a little
depression. Something seemed to be wrong with the mechanism, and the
three heads were bent over the breech.
"The beasts!" cried Schnitz in a hoarse whisper. "They must have hidden
here when our lines passed over, and now they're going to pepper them
from the rear. But not if I can stop it!"
Making sure that his rifle magazine was filled and that he had some
hand grenades and that his pistol was where he could get at it, Franz
worked his way quietly along until he was within a few feet of the
three Germans.
"Hands up!" he suddenly cried, leveling his rifle.
Whether or not the Huns understood these characteristic American words
is a question. But they could not mistake the tone of voice Schnitzel
used. Immediately six hands were elevated, and with one accord, as the
Germans turned and faced the lone lad.
"_Kamerad! Kamerad!_" they cried.
"That sounds like it!" said Franz grimly. "Take off your pistols
and toss 'em on the ground. Then form in line and march. You're my
prisoners!"
The men obeyed sullenly enough. By gestures Franz indicated that they
were to march ahead of him back toward the American lines. His heart
was jubilant at the capture. Not only had he prisoners, but he had,
alone, cleaned up a machine-gun nest.
But alas for poor Schnitz! He had hardly marched his trio of Huns more
than a few hundred feet when, as they turned around a clump of bushes,
they came face to face with a large party of Germans led by a pompous
captain.
Instantly the three prisoners set up a yell, explaining the situation,
and with answering yells their comrades rushed toward them.
"I guess the game's up!" thought Franz grimly. "This was too good to
last!"
He fired into the midst of the Germans, seeing two go down. Then some
one either crept up behind him and struck him or he was hit by a
missile thrown or by a glancing bullet, for he suddenly fell and lost
consciousness, and when he revived, under a rain of kicks bestowed on
his prostrate body by a brutal soldier, it was to find himself in the
midst of a circle of Huns.
"Get up, pig-dog of an American!" spluttered the German captain. "You
will capture our men, will you? Now you are a prisoner. The tables are
turned!"
He spoke in German, and, of course, Franz understood. Before he
realized what he was doing he snapped back an answer in the same
tongue, not thinking what the consequences would be.
"I won't be a prisoner long!" said Franz. Hearing his own language from
an enemy prisoner, he reached the conclusion that the speaker was of
German parentage. This seemed to enrage the Boche captain. With crimson
face he yelled:
"Ho! So you are a renegade German, are you? You fight against your own
countrymen! Well, we know the right punishment for that. Get up, you
traitor!" and he kicked poor Schnitz brutally. "Drag him along if he
won't walk!" cried the captain to his men, and some of them, with ready
bayonets, drew nearer to Franz.