VICTORY
Clem Stapley stood leaning on his rifle gazing far away over the
green fields and woodlands of that beautiful, rolling country,
not unlike his own homeland. The boy’s thoughts were filled with
memories, the reaction from the strenuous experiences of the minutes
just past caused him to sway a little on his feet. His company’s
second-lieutenant, passing near, turned and look into the boy’s pale
face.
“Hurt eh? Can you walk? Better get back--”
“No, sir. No! Only a trifle. A scratch on the arm; spent bullet went
up my sleeve like one of those black ants. I shook it out.”
“Let me see,” ordered the officer. Clem bared his arm and showed a
long white and blue welt from wrist to elbow. On the fleshy part the
skin had broken, and blood was trickling down.
“Go get it bandaged.”
“I can do it, if someone--”
“Help him, Terry. Get his jacket and shirt off. Use a little iodine.
You’ll be all right.”
“Are we going on, sir, soon?” Clem asked.
“Very soon. To the village over the next rise, about three miles from
here. Bouresches they call it.”
“I want to find my squad and tell them about poor Giddings. Have you
seen my Captain?”
“Dead. At the bottom of the hill. Lieutenant Wells, too. I am in
command now. Was Giddings--?”
“Yes. Went down while he was getting off a joke about a Hun who was
yelling for mercy. When we turned to let some others of a gun crew
have it--they had their gun trained on us--a brute fired at Giddings
at about five steps. But I got the skunk with the bayonet and then
Davidson and I went on and got two of the other gun-crew. The others
of both crews surrendered; Jones’ squad, coming up, took them in.
Then I got hit.”
A bugle call echoed sweetly along the slope. A sergeant came running
up the hill, calling right and left to officers. He passed the
lieutenant and Clem.
“Orders from the General. Form quick in place in the road due south
of the hill. Headquarters down there now. Enemy attack from the east.
We are to hold support positions.”
Again and again the bugle call sounded from the road. There was
some lively running about and falling in. Then once more, in broken
formations, the marines descended and under rapid orders lined up,
partly along this old road, behind a low bank, and somewhat sheltered
by a row of trees. Some of the regulars came up and formed beyond,
in the same line. The rest were held in reserve farther back. At the
left some regiments of French infantry stretched the line, making
a front of about two miles. Fully half a mile to the east a French
division occupied the first line facing the enemy positions.
Corporal Clem’s arm hurt considerably. A member of his squad had
treated and bandaged it with materials out of a first aid kit. But
the wound was becoming more and more painful, and his arm began to
stiffen. He could not understand why he should feel sick at the
stomach and hungry at the same time. The “Leathernecks” had not
eaten since breakfast, and it was now well on in the afternoon.
Clem looked about him, for misery loves company. There were wide gaps
in the line, though that was anything but comforting. It was horribly
depressing to think that some of these cronies, jolly good fellows
all, would now be dumped under the sod, and that others were never
more to walk, nor to know the joy of health. Perhaps some would never
see nor hear again. Many less seriously injured would bear scars all
their lives.
Martin there, formerly next in line to Giddings, and now next to
Clem, had his head elaborately done up in two-inch bandages. Replying
to a question he said, jovially:
“When I get back to God’s country, I am going to take this old pan
of a hat, hang it up in the prettiest place in the best room in
the house and keep it covered with fresh flowers. Why? The darned
old thing saved my life. I wouldn’t ’a’ had any bean left if this
inverted wash basin thing hadn’t been covering it.”
“Poor Giddings always had a pick at his helmet,” remarked Clem. “He
used to say that just a hat wasn’t much good and that what a man
wants in this war is a suit of armor made out of stove plates. In his
case he was about right.”
“But wrong in mine,” said Martin.
“Say, what’s doing, Sarge?” asked a private of the non-com in the
next squad, who now stood next to Clem in the line-up.
“The Heinies are going to make a push here, I believe,” was the
answer.
“When?”
“Pretty soon. Guess we’ll hear the barrage laid down first. But maybe
they think they’re strong enough to rush us without that.”
“Hope they do. It’s more lively. I don’t like them barrages. Make
me think o’ my old uncle across the pond. He’s one o’ those bear
hunters. Sez he’d a heap rather fight a bear than a hive o’ bees; you
can see the bear.”
“Right-o! Here, too! You can stick a bayonet into a Hun, but you
can’t even dodge these here mowin’-machine bullets.”
“Listen, fellows!” Clem held up his hand.
A distant shot, another, several, a dozen, a thousand, crack, bang,
boom, as though all the Fourth of July celebrations that ever had
been and ever would be had been turned loose at once.
“She’s on, boys! And there’ll be a lot of ricocheting bullets coming
this far--so look out for them!” So spoke the lieutenant, now
commander of Clem’s company, as he walked up and down the line.
The sergeant next to Clem turned to the officer.
“Do you think the Frogeaters can hold them, lieutenant?”
“Doubt it. They say the Huns outnumber them three to one. And they
mean to drive right through to the Compiègne road. So it’s up to us
to stop them, I guess.”
“We’ll try hard, lieutenant,” Clem offered.
Within twenty minutes the roar of the barrage ceased as suddenly
as it began. Then came a lull, followed by the rattle of small
arms which, at the distance, sounded much like a lot of youngsters
cracking hickory nuts. Within half an hour after this the expected
happened. For the tired and greatly outnumbered French, fighting
savagely, had failed to stem the Hun tide and began to give way
before it. Some retreated a little too late and these were quickly
surrounded and taken prisoner, to suffer tortures in German detention
camps for many a long day. The wounded were hurried to the rear. As
the dressing stations to the extreme right of the support line became
congested those set up in sheltered positions directly behind the
hill were called on for duty. Then the many ambulances of the United
States army, French army and American Red Cross dashed through the
line of marines, and around the base of the hill.
It was at once a solemn and a cheering sight. However horrible this
war of science and ingenuity had become, it reacted in greater
humanity than has ever been known.
The sound of an automobile horn in front caused Clem to look up and
he was almost face to face with Don Richards. The younger lad was
about to look away, but he quickly chose to salute his townsman. The
corporal nodded stiffly as Don passed on.
The sound of rifle fire interspersed with the cloth-ripping noise of
machine-guns and the detonation of heavier artillery, began to come
nearer. A company of French infantry, marching in perfect order,
but in quick time, appeared in the distance. It wheeled sharply and
passed to the south, around the extreme right of the Americans.
In a few minutes it was followed by other and larger contingents,
a regiment in part, with great gaps in its ranks, a battalion
of machine gunners, each squad with its wicked _mitrailleuse_,
ammunition handcarts, more infantry and still more until very soon
they had thinned out to scattered and broken units, often without
officers. Many of these came up and passed through the American lines.
The expressions on the faces of these French soldiers told of varied
emotions. Some were morose, angry, or despairing. Others laughed
and jested. Some smiled and wore an air of undying confidence. Clem
had learned too little French so far to understand their rapid
utterances, but the lieutenant stood near him, talking with a French
subaltern who spoke excellent English and who began to question
the retreating soldiers. There was a nasal babble and then the
translation, with some remarks, to the lieutenant. Clem easily caught
much of it.
“He says the enemy was too strong for them; that there must be half a
million men. But I think that an exaggeration.”
“This fellow says that the enemy came at them, swarming like ants. It
is no use, he says, to try to check them now; they are irresistible.”
“This man declares that they are many, but they are not overwhelming,
and that if the retreat had not been ordered we could have held the
enemy awhile.”
“He says that it is no use to try to stop them--they come like a
tidal wave.”
“This fellow hopes you Americans may stop them.”
“He says if there had only been a few more of us we could have
stopped them.”
“Here is one who insists that Paris is doomed, and all is lost. But,
you see, his companion was killed by his side.”
The officers moved rapidly away and then, almost suddenly, there was
an end of the retreating French. The ambulances also had ceased in
their errands of mercy over the ground ahead. A strange hush fell
upon everything but the forces of nature. The breeze toyed with the
wheat. Birds sang blithely; across the fields a cow was lowing, a
poor creature, perhaps that a farmer who had suddenly vacated his
home before the oncoming Huns, had failed to drive along toward the
west.
The lieutenant passed along the line again, speaking to his men. He
was a young man, tall, with fine square shoulders, a firm jaw and a
pleasant voice--every inch a soldier. He paused a moment and said to
Clem:
“Your arm is better now? Well, try to think it is. You’ll need it.
I hope it won’t interfere with your sleep tonight.” Then to the
sergeant, in answer to a question: “Yes, they’re coming; re-forming
first. There are enough of them to make us sit up and take notice.
Three divisions to our one and a half. I don’t think any of us will
take a nap during the next hour or so. But, remember, we’ve got to
give them all there is in us! Keep cautioning your men to shoot low,
to keep their heads, see their hind-sights, and try to hit what
they aim at. It will be just like target practice, boys; only more
so. Every time you score means that’s one less chance of your being
scored on.”
Anticipation often goes reality “one better,” to use a
betting phrase. The waiting for the expected battle was most
irksome--nerve-racking to some. It cannot be a joyful thing to
contemplate the killing of human beings, even though they are bent
on killing. Upon such occasions minutes drag by like hours. It is an
actual relief when the end of the suspense is at hand.
Clem glanced at his wrist watch--it was 4:45. The enemy could be
seen now in the distance, advancing steadily. They were coming on in
mass formation straight across the waving wheat that the retreating
French had avoided trampling down. The Huns gloried in this
destruction. They were going to make this place a shambles with dying
and dead when they should occupy this region. They would turn it into
a desert of burned homes, felled trees, girdled orchards, ruined
villages and looted factories--as all the territory they had thus far
occupied had been desolated.
“Cut loose, boys! The range is nearly flat. Don’t fire too high. Now,
then, every man for himself!” Thus ran the orders along the line and
the crack of the rifles this time meant more to the advancing Germans
than ever before. The French subaltern, sent to observe the behavior
of the Americans went into ecstasies after the manner of his race.
With eyes sticking out so far that there was danger of his butting
into something and knocking them off, he watched the “Leathernecks”
in long-range rifle action awhile; then he hurried back to his staff.
Shortly he was back again with some higher officers of the French
supporting line, and their enthusiasm was unbounded. The subaltern
translated liberally:
“_Voila!_ Your men shoot! _Sacre!_ They are deliberate! They see
their sights! They hit the mark! The Huns stop--they waver! Ah,
they come on again! True they are brave men! And they obey their
officers--also brave men! But behold again! The front rank is down,
gone! What say you? Yes, wiped out! And still they come again? Ah
now, it is too much. They lose all if they remain. Behold, they
break! They retreat! They hide in the wheat! They creep away!”
“Cut that wheat all to pieces, boys! Don’t let any of them get away!”
ordered the lieutenant, repeating a common order and it was just what
the marines were doing.
Clem, with a hot gun, turned a moment to speak to the officer. “Are
our machine-gun crews at work?” he asked.
“Yes, over there by that clump of trees. I never saw those lads do
better work. I think those Huns have about enough. We win!”
“Any of our boys hurt?” asked the sergeant.
“A machine-gun crew of the enemy concentrated on one part of our
right and did some damage,” said the officer. “Two of their shrapnel
burst among the doughboys to the south, I hear. Otherwise, I
believe--”
“Nobody got hit here,” asserted the sergeant.
“They didn’t think it worth while to lay down a second barrage and
their infantry hardly fired a shot,” laughed the officer.
“Got badly fooled,” said the sergeant. “Why don’t we go after them
now?”
“I suppose our commander thinks they’re whipped enough and there are
Hun batteries to the east of the hill that must be dislodged first.
Hello, another air scrap is going to be pulled off!”
Five German planes were coming along, pretty low and in line, their
evident intention being to seek revenge by bombing the line of
“Leathernecks.” But four French battle-planes swept over to meet
them, one fellow swooping low to cheer the marines for their splendid
work. Two German fighting machines were high overhead in support of
the big bombing planes.
The French and American light fieldpieces got busy and made it so hot
for the foremost plane that it turned and retreated, trying to come
back higher up. But by that time the French planes had driven the
others back, sending one down in flames behind the German lines. The
guns turned their attention to smashing a German battery going into
position beyond the wheat field and performed this duty admirably,
dismounting all of the three German guns and killing every man with
them. The Hun battle-planes, refusing to fight and retreating, had
given two of the French planes a chance to signal the range to Allied
batteries.
The day was fast coming to a close. When the marines and their
supporters had broken ranks and bivouacked for the night Corporal
Stapley went to the commanding officer of his company and asked if he
might go over to the hill and visit the captain’s grave.
“He was an old Brighton boy and that is my school,” Clem said, “and
he asked me if I would tell his wife, if anything happened to him. I
thought I should like to write her--all that she would care to know.”
“Go ahead, Stapley; that’s a noble purpose. I’ll give you a note to
enclose, saying how much we appreciated him and how bravely he met
his fate. Take one of the men with you--some fellow that specially
liked the captain. Get back at dark.”