BOURESCHES
Staplely and Duncan with their weapons ready, waited, crouching.
In their agitation they had not observed other ambulances coming
along the road at the foot of the hill and they did not doubt that
the spies, seeing no light and not suspecting the return of the
_ambulancier_ whose car they had broken and whose passenger they
had killed, might be returning perhaps to lie in wait for him. They
seemed to be having things all their own way of late so why should
they not try to accomplish more?
The glaring lights came nearer. The throbbing motor had easily the
better of hills such as this. The seekers of a just revenge tried to
see who was on the driver’s seat behind the lights--a difficult thing
to do. A voice caused their weapons to lower.
“Reckon dis de place t’ stop. One amberlance done quit gittin’ all
het up, heah. Yu kin turn her roun’ easy by backin’ into de fiel’ a
ways, lessen yu hits a groun’hawg hole er sumpin’.”
“No groundhogs in this country, Wash. We might hit a rock, though.
Hello, you fellows! Are you stuck?” This last addressed to Duncan and
Stapley who had risen and come forward.
If Clem felt any bitterness toward Don he did not think of it now;
there was too much else to occupy his mind. But Don, leaping to the
ground instantly, seemed not to know him. Duncan knew Don and at once
began to relate their experiences.
“And you mean to say you fellows couldn’t stop them? Let them get
away up yonder and murder this poor helpless soldier on the way! And
only yesterday this fellow,” with a bend of his head he referred to
Clem, “rubbed it into me because--”
“Well, that--that was dif--” began Clem.
“Not a bit of it! But why parley? Duncan, you and I can get busy.
Those fellows are down there yet, in the road just west of the lane.
They’re doing something to their car. That’s twice I’ve run into them
fixing it, but I didn’t know them this time. Wash, confound you, were
you asleep? Why didn’t you tell me--?”
“Sleep yuse’f! How’s I know--?”
“Cut the comedy! Come on, if you’re sure that was the spies,” Clem
said.
“Hold on! You’re not in this and they’ll be there awhile, you can
bet,” said Don. “You fellows slipped up in your attempt and this is
my job. There’s one way to get those chaps and that only, Duncan.
Listen to me--Wash, you get in back and lie low. We two will get in
on the front seat. We’ll dim the lights and then go along singing and
let on we’re half tipsy until we get right up to them. I’ll stop and
ask them for a drink and you turn the bull’s-eye on them and if it’s
the spies we’ll act quick; see?”
“I’m going with you,” said Clem.
“Not in my car,” Don retorted. But Clem walked to Don’s ambulance and
jumped in.
“We can scrap afterwards, Richards; not now. Come on--three are
better than two.”
“That’s so,” asserted Duncan.
The plan was carried out as laid down. With all their science and
suspicions those Hun spies had no idea of any such thing being
pulled off. Though three half-drunk Yankees were an unusual sight,
especially in an ambulance, it was nothing to bother about. To humor
them and let them go on was a simple matter.
“Oh, we won’t go home till evenin’!” sang Clem.
“Till mornin’, you blamed fool! D-don’t ye know the words?” Don
shouted, tickled to give Clem a dig. “Aw, dry up an’ let me sing
it! Thish-a-way it goes: Oh, we won’t get home till mornin’, till
broad-s-say--.”
With a grinding of brakes the ambulance came to a sudden stop, almost
even with the long, low car by the roadside. “S-say,” continued Don,
“any--you blokes got a drink? One good service man to another; eh,
friend? Just a little nip--you fellers are Red Cross, ain’t you? Eh?
Les’ see--. Hands up! Both of you, quick! One move and you’re dead
men! Out, fellows, and put a rope on them!”
One of the spies, the weazen fellow, began to protest in excellent
English:
“What do you mean by this? We haven’t done anything to--.” But Duncan
snatched up a clump of grass roots and shoved it into the fellow’s
mouth. The other man cowered back and tried at first to keep his
face away from the electric bull’s-eye Clem threw on them. Through
Duncan’s dexterity with strong twine taken from Don’s toolbox, both
men had their arms tied behind them in a jiffy so that they winced
with the pain.
“Do you fellows think this is funny? Let us loose, at once! We have
no time for jokes!” demanded the taller one, gazing at Don’s revolver
in a manner that showed he knew it was no joke.
“But you had time to play one of your kind of jokes on that poor
wounded soldier up on the hill,” Clem returned and the thin face of
the spy grew ghastly white. “We haven’t been up on the hill,” he
asserted--but another wad of grass-roots stopped his talk also. Don
took the bull’s-eye from Clem and threw it into the tall man’s face.
“Well, Stapley, I guess you know him; don’t you?”
“The fellow on the train, sure enough,” Clem said.
“Wonderful!” said Don. “You do have a lucid flash now and then.” But
before Clem could reply Don began to enlighten the spy:
“I guess you remember us back there in America. We got off at Lofton,
too. We got your cronies, Shultz and the whiskered chap, and I got
your pard up near Montdidier.”
Of course the man could make no reply. Don continued:
“Duncan, you can run my car, I guess. You take these nice chaps into
camp. In about half an hour they’ll face a firing squad.”
But Duncan shook his head. “What’s in me has got to come out. I’m
an ambulance driver and working to save people--ours and theirs,
too--but that don’t say I don’t just love gettin’ square more’n
anything else on this green earth! I told the corporal here I have
a little Indian in me. I have a heap and it’s reached high mark
right now. It might get the corporal in trouble and it may get me in
trouble, but I reckon you’re out of it, Richards. No matter; what
I want is to be the firing squad that fixes these blood-smeared
polecats. But I don’t want to do it with a gun. You just leave it to
me. I’m goin’ to take ’em over here in this field an’ stick a knife
into--”
“No, Duncan, you are not going to do anything of the kind!” Don
said in horror. “I won’t consent to this being anything irregular.
You may go along and see them shot, if you want to, but you can’t
knife them. Hold on there! Put that knife up, or I’m going to shoot
it out of your fingers. It would just about break my heart to hurt
you, old man, because I know you’re good stuff, but don’t try that
thing. Come, you’ve got more white blood in you than Indian and don’t
imitate these Huns.”
Duncan stood looking earnestly at Don while he spoke. Then, without a
word, he put his long-bladed claspknife into his pocket.
“You take my car, because it’s surer than this one, and get these
chaps where they’ll do no more harm. I’ll run their car and I’ll have
them send out for yours and fix it. I hope they’ll let you get into
the squad that does the shooting.”
“I don’t like to deprive you of your own car,” Duncan said. It was
easy to see that the fellow was true-blue, even if an act of savagery
made his blood boil with desire for personal revenge.
“Your errand is more important than mine,” Don continued. “Besides,
I’m glad, for Stapley and I would be sure to scrap on the way. I’d
have to rub it in about his letting these men get away on the hill.
And Stapley can’t take anything from me good-naturedly. He can
explain to you later what he thinks of me. I know already and I don’t
care a hoot. Come, Wash, climb out of there! We’ve got to see if we
can make this ramshackle ambulance travel. So long, Duncan.”
The military court gave the spies short shrift. Duncan was one of the
firing squad that did quick executions. The army _ambulancier_ then
went his way. Before morning he was again driving his own ambulance
and Don Richards’ car had been turned over to him and the grinning
Wash. Work on Hill 165 had been finished.
“The marines are going to try to take Bouresches and Belleau Wood
to-day, I hear,” Don said to Duncan, as they met on the road.
“I wish I was in that bunch of real men,” Duncan replied and passed
on. That was the last Don ever saw of the brave fellow, for Duncan
was shifted north of the Oise River where another Hun drive seemed
imminent, as they were short of ambulances in that sector.
Don’s orders were to run in close to the American fighting forces
without too grave risk, and if there was an advance, to keep pretty
near to it, as there would necessarily be many casualties. As the
Germans had learned already to recognize the Yanks as their most
formidable foes, they were sending some of their best troops to stop
them.
The Red Cross was showing splendid efficiency now. From stretcher
bearers to dressing stations, from its own evacuation hospitals to
ideally equipped bases and convalescent camps, it was the model for
all things humane in warfare. Eager were its men and women in doing
their share of the arduous and dangerous work, and proud, indeed,
those who were identified in any way with its glorious efforts.
“Drive the enemy from Bouresches and Belleau Wood!” was the order
from headquarters. Again, as one man, the marines went forward. The
Huns must be taught that their advance at the Château-Thierry front
was at an end.
“Pound the enemy’s lines in Bouresches!” came the order to the
artillery as a forerunner of the charge of the marines, and the
artillery pounded. Across the grain and flowering fields marched the
soldiers, advancing in thin lines, one after the other, the marines
in the center and on either flank a battalion of doughboys, regulars
of the United States army. This was the good old training in American
fighting methods: Advance on a run and lie down, advance and lie
down, the front rank shooting all the while, and when these fellows,
who must bear the brunt of the strong defense that the enemy was
making, were thinned out reinforcements were rushed from the rear to
fill up the broken ranks.
[Illustration: THEY WENT RIGHT TO WORK DISLODGING THE HUNS FROM THE
HOUSES.]
In every conceivable point of shelter, from every thicket, bit
of woodland, hollow or knoll around the village there were enemy
machine-gun units, with here and there larger calibre quick-firing
fieldpieces, sending a perfect hail of lead and iron across the
fields at those ever-advancing boys in khaki.
But it mattered little to the boys in khaki how fast and furious came
this death-dealing rain of bullets, for they kept right on into the
village, and they went right to work dislodging the Huns from the
houses, using rifle, hand-grenades, bayonets and pistols. The enemy
sought every means of protection; they fortified themselves behind
walls which the American artillery had left standing, or behind
piles of débris the shelling had made. They poked their rifles and
machine-guns out of windows, and cellar-entrances, and down from roof
tops. They made street barriers of parts of ruined buildings, and
thus contested every inch of ground until the Americans were upon
them and when they could no longer fight, they surrendered. Some ran
away while some went down fighting, for they had been told it was
better to die than to be taken prisoner by the cruel Americans.
When the village of Bouresches was clean of Huns, their artillery
made it hot for the conquerors. So marines and the doughboys found it
their turn to seek shelter. They did this so well that after hours of
shelling they had hardly lost another man.
Meanwhile, the troops not needed to defend the village from
counter-attacks of the enemy, rapidly re-formed and turned to make
the first assault on Belleau Wood, a hill crowned with a jungle of
trees and thickets. This stronghold of the enemy had for three days
proved impregnable. After the artillery had hammered it a while,
tearing to pieces half the trees on its southern edge, a reorganized
regiment of marines made a final charge, yelling like Indians, and
gained the crest. Then they swept through the forest, broke up the
enemy machine-gun nests and drove nearly double their number of Huns
out of the place. This was the bloodiest hand-to-hand fighting, for
they had to use the bayonet almost exclusively. Even at this game the
Americans proved themselves superior to the enemy, not only man to
man, but when fighting in formation. Necessarily it was a scattering
fight, but it illustrated the personal valor and intelligence of the
Yanks.
Thus, on June 11, 1918, the German strongholds at and near
Château-Thierry sector were captured, and their line pushed back
over three miles. Never again were the Huns to advance, but always
to retreat until the war ended. They had, as it were, run against a
stone wall from the top of which now floated the Stars and Stripes.
Corporal Stapley had been among those to charge into and capture
Bouresches. He had, of course, been in the ranks with his platoon,
dashing forward, dropping on the ground, hearing the bullets sing
above and around him; then going on again, blinded to everything
but the mad desire to come up with those machine-gun nests and to
destroy the men and guns which were trying so hard to destroy him
and his comrades. And reach the positions of the gun nests they did.
But as some of Stapley’s squad charged a group of six Huns pivoting
a gun around and working frantically with the mechanism, Clem was
aware that only three other men were with him. He dimly remembered
seeing one or two of them fall, and fail to get up again. But there
was no time to think of this now. With bayonets leveled, his comrades
followed their fleet-footed corporal and were upon the boches before
they could shoot. “Kamerad!” called out one fellow, lifting high his
hands, and the others, throwing down their weapons, followed suit.
Another marine squad followed without an officer. Clem took command
of this also.
“Two of you hold this bunch here! Kill them if they get gay! Come
on--the rest of you!”
They ran on. The houses of the village were close at hand and in
among these they went. Two of the men had originally qualified as
grenade-throwers. Clem told them to blow up anything that looked like
a gun nest. The others were to use rifle, bayonet and pistol only.
It was necessary to shout these orders above the rattle of guns and
yells of the charging marines on every side. The words were hardly
out of Clem’s mouth before the long, jacketed barrel of a machine-gun
was poked out of a cellar entrance on the street not fifty feet ahead
of them and the fire began to streak from its muzzle toward a group
of marines coming down a cross street. One of Clem’s new men lighted
his grenade, dashed forward, bowled it over-hand with a skill that
would have done credit to an expert cricketer. A mass of dust, dirt
and mangled objects blew out of the cellar and that gun nest was no
more. The little squad rushed on. Opposite a square stone building
from a window of which came a burst of flame and a ripping sound.
Clem saw some steps to the right which might lead to this nest. He
shouted to his men and leaped forward. At the top step he glanced
about. Three of his squad lay on the ground. Two were following him.
The heavy door was fastened. Clem drew back the butt of his gun to
break the lock, but one of the others fired into it, and as they
threw their bodies against the door it burst open.
Within a large room, like an inn parlor, two Huns were working the
machine-gun and a third met them with leveled rifle. Before Clem
could fire one of his men threw his weapon like a Zulu his spear
and the bayonet transfixed the Hun, who sank with a gasp. The other
marines were upon the two gunners before they had time even to shout
“Kamerad!” Freeing their bayonet points all three turned to leave the
building when a lone marine jumped in, shouting:
“Gun nest on the roof!”
“Get ’em!” shouted Clem, who was dimly aware that the man was Martin,
of his own squad.
They found a stairway. Dashing up this and along a hall, they climbed
another flight where they saw a ladder leading to an open trap door.
“I can fix ’em!” cried the remaining grenade man who had a rifle
also. He handed the weapon to Clem, ran up the ladder, lighted his
fuse and tossed it out on the roof. The explosion brought down
plaster within and filled the place with dust; Clem saw the body of a
man fall past the window. The grenade man was knocked off the ladder
by his own bomb, but he landed on his feet. The four men dashed down
to the street, and as they ran along, a Hun from behind a broken wall
hurled a grenade at them. Clem leaped to dodge it and two of his men
ducked and fell flat, but poor Martin, looking away, caught the full
force of the explosion at his feet. They saw him lifted up, twisted
about and fall in a broken heap, his clothing half torn from his
body. They knew their friend’s death had been instantaneous. Clem
was pushed back as by a great wind. The two other men were rolled
over and over. One of them looked up from where he lay and saw the
Hun grinning at them. He jumped up and leveled his gun, but the Hun
dodged back and they only had a glimpse of him lighting another
grenade. With all the speed at his command Clem made for the wall,
and with a leap cleared it. He came down on the fellow with both
feet, at the same time stabbing downward with his bayonet. He felt
the mass beneath his feet quiver and sink inert. Then Stapley started
to climb back over the wall and found himself pushed back by his
other two men who followed him over. Seven Germans coming along the
street, had seen the three marines and started toward them, firing.
The three Americans gave them such a warm reception that two of the
Huns dropped in their tracks and the other five turned and fled.
“After ’em, boys!” shouted Clem, and the three chased along a narrow
street to the eastern edge of the town where the Germans turned a
corner and came face to face with a full platoon of Americans who
took them prisoner.
The lieutenant in charge of this unit took great pleasure in the
sight of five Germans being pursued by three Americans. As the little
squad came up, he asked Clem to report action and casualties.
“Orders now are to report southwest of the village. Battalion will
reform. Fall in with us.”
Clem was glad of this. Though such fighting was intoxicating while it
lasted, it was sickening business after all. He had had enough of it.
He was glad he had done his duty--glad the town had been won and if
there were enough men left to hold the place, but a rest wouldn’t go
badly. Still, if there was to be more of such work, he was ready.