Captain, lieutenant, and guide slipped out of camp and struck into the
road that leads northward along the brook. The high ground to the right
was dim with yesterday’s smoke. A mill was burning with spectral blue
flames, and the underbrush reeked of gas.
The Germans had brought chlorine because they had more than they needed
to bleach cotton. Not twenty men on earth were thinking seriously about
the chlorine atom. Marvin believed it to be a mixture of two masses, and
considered the fact important.
Beside the road was a dry ditch that presently revealed a straggler
lying asleep. The lad had discarded his hot wool blouse, and the morning
was so cool that Marvin thought he would step down and wrap it around
the sleeper. But when he descended he saw there was no need. Nothing
would ever warm that sweet-faced American boy again. He removed one of
the identification tags and lingered a minute. It was piteous that this
beautiful thing had to be buried, but he was not sorry that it had been
born.
After a while the guide made them stop, while he proceeded up the hill.
When he neared the crest he wormed his way on his stomach till his nose
was over the top. Presently he beckoned to them, and the officers worked
their way up and lay at his right. They perceived that the road to the
north was pitted with craters.
“Well, Mr. Gregg, you see what the road looks like. This is about as far
as we can get with our transportation tonight. It will save time to
carry from here.”
“You will have the train stay here, sir?”
“No, we’ll let it go back to the woods west of Connigis, where it was
before the last move. But we’ll unload the ammunition carts and
establish a dump. We have plenty of spare guns.”
“Nobody left to man them, sir.”
“No, but we won’t mount them—just keep them here for replacement, and
leave a loading detail. Better use that clump of trees down there in the
dark. What are they, Fisher?”
“Aja-wee-mig.”
“O. Fisher, when in France better talk American.”
“Beech, sir.”
“Well, do you think you could find those beeches in the dark?”
The promised question had been asked, and they grinned at each other.
“Best of scouts, I want you to write a letter home to your folks before
tomorrow morning. I don’t know where they live, but you do. And I shall
want you to bring back a carrying detail for more ammunition as soon as
the forward platoons get set. Now let’s look for field-pieces.”
The glasses revealed no activity in the captured trenches, and no sign
of field-pieces. Even O. Fisher’s reinforced vision could see nothing
wrong. The world was apparently engaged in no other occupation but
farming. There was booming in the distance, but that was as common as
thunder.
The sun’s disk appeared. Marvin got up and stretched his legs.
“We must be getting on to pick positions. While I think of it, Mr.
Gregg, give Taylor all the men you can spare so that he can have some
hot slum here in time to go up with Fisher and the ammunition detail.
Now from here it is easy to see what our general disposition will be.”
The others followed his gaze.
“At last reports, that ridge at the left—” Marvin pointed with his left
hand and turned to Gregg. But just then Fisher seemed to strike him a
sharp blow on the outstretched hand.
Marvin swayed to the left Fisher was lying on the ground with his hat
off. Marvin stooped to drag him into shelter, but as he did so his own
left arm swung forward, and he noted that it resembled a garden hose
spouting red. He sank to his knees. Gregg seized the arm and fumbled for
his first-aid package. Marvin tried to help him, but his head was
getting light; he felt like a drifting leaf. Gregg got the bandage on
and two handkerchiefs around the arm above the elbow, and twisted them
tight with a stick.
Marvin lay flat on his back, but turned his head to see if he could make
out how badly his Indian was hurt. He could see that red was trickling
from O. Fisher’s mouth, and that it bubbled when he spoke. He could not
hear what was said, for within his own ears was the sound of many
waters. But he perceived that Gregg was taking out his pencil and
notebook. Gregg held the book directly over O. Fisher’s chest until the
guide wrote something.
The pencil grew larger until it seemed a tree. O. Fisher’s fingers were
slow brown animals making that tree move back and forth. They were
trying to ride it down to get at the leaves....
Leaves, more likely straw, like that in the dugout. From one ton of
wheat-straw could be produced alcohol equal to forty gallons of
gasoline. Of course he did. Why should anybody ask him if he felt
better?
He opened his eyes and saw Gregg looking down out of a cloud. He turned
his head. This was no hillside, but the dressing station.
He raised himself on his right elbow and saw a form quite covered with a
blanket except for the tan shoes. He studied the shoes. The toes did not
lie wide apart, but turned in a trifle. That fact had some significance,
but he felt too dizzy to say what. So he went to sleep again as if
chloroformed.
Gregg returned to the company and took command. When he told the second
lieutenants why, he saw that it was no use to attempt to preserve order.
In five minutes the whole company was mobbing him, demanding details and
receiving them as a personal insult. With oaths unbecoming the young
they demanded that they be led back into position, and daylight be
damned. They were made to know their place, but early the next morning
they exacted reparation for that hand.