STARTING A BIG JOB
LIEUTENANT Herbert Whitcomb stood for a long half minute watching the
slowly disappearing Red Cross ambulance. The car merely crept on down
the long, straight road, as though the driver were loath to leave his
companion of the last twenty-four hours, as indeed he was, for these
old Brighton boys, meeting thus on a foreign shore and bent on much the
same business, had become closer friends than when at school.
“I wish,” Herbert was thinking, “that Don would get into the army
service and could get assigned with me. He’d make a crackerjack of
a scrapper; the real thing. But I suppose they’ve got him tied to
hospital work.”
Then, after saluting the guard and saying a word or two to an orderly
who was waiting to receive or to reject visitors, mostly the latter,
the young lieutenant passed inside. Ten minutes later he emerged again
with a happy smile on his face and, accompanied by several other
men who had also returned to duty after the healing of minor wounds,
Herbert Whitcomb led the way to a waiting motor car and presently was
speeding away to the fighting front, all of his present companions
being assigned, with him, to the Twenty-eighth Division and to a
company that had suffered serious depletion because of many violent
attacks against the stubborn Hun resistance in the drive beyond Rheims
and on the Vesle River.
Herbert was far from being disappointed over the fact that he was not
to rejoin his old battalion. Both his major and his captain had been
invalided home and could never lead the boys again; several of his
comrades-in-arms, among them three old Brighton boys, had been killed
or pitiably wounded; there had been such a thinning out of their ranks
that nothing but a skeleton of them remained, which must indeed be
only depressing, saddening as a reminder. Moreover, this division had
now been put in reserve where the American sector joined that of the
British and was doing no fighting.
Much rather would the boy take up new duties with new comrades, feeling
again the complete novelty of the situation, the test of relative
merit, the _esprit de corps_ of personal equation anew. But however
glad he was to get back again into the maelstrom of do and dare, a
satisfaction inspired both by sense of duty and the love of adventure,
he did not welcome the opportunity more than the boys of the --th
welcomed him. Before Captain Lowden and First Lieutenant Pondexter
received Herbert they had been made acquainted, from Headquarters, with
Whitcomb’s record and it meant good example and higher morale for an
officer, however young, to be thoroughly respected by the rank and file.
And then, within a few hours back again into the full swing of military
precision and custom, the young lieutenant was ready for anything that
might or could come.
“The orders are to advance and take up a position on the up slope of
that brown field on the other side of this little valley and thus try
out the enemy; after which we may go on and attack him. So much from
Headquarters. In my opinion the Colonel will say to just go ahead
without bothering to try them out.” Thus spoke Captain Lowden at a
brief conference of his officers, immediately prior to the line-up
after early morning mess. And then he added, by way of sounding the
human nature of his under officers:
“What would you say about that, gentlemen?”
Herbert waited until the first lieutenant should express himself.
Pondexter was a grave and serious-minded fellow, oldish beyond his
years, rather slow of speech, studious, thoughtful, austere.
“We don’t know how strong the Germans may be there,” he said, “and
it would not be very wise, it seems to me, if an offensive were
made against greatly superior numbers intrenched, or within strong,
defensive positions. But if we first try them out then we can----”
The captain did not wait for the lieutenant to finish, but suddenly
turned to Herbert:
“I’d take a gamble on it and go over the hill,” the young officer
suggested. “We can be pretty sure, judging from the enemy’s general
distribution all along the line, that just at this point they do not
greatly outnumber us; there can hardly be double our number. We are
good for that many any day.”
Captain Lowden laughed joyfully and slapped his knee. He was a young
fellow from Plattsburg and Camp Meade, an ex-football star, athletic
in build, quick in his motions and decisions, stern, yet kindly toward
his men and greatly loved by them. He had already proved his heroism
near Vigneulles, during the St. Mihiel battle, when the German salient
was being flattened. He gazed at his new second lieutenant in a manner
that quite embarrassed that youthful officer; then the captain said:
“You’ll do! Your predecessor is in a hospital in Paris; I hope you
don’t have to go there, but can stay with us. And I am blamed glad they
pushed you right on through the replacement divisions and landed you
here.”
“Oh, thank you! I--I--don’t----” But the captain paid no attention to
Herbert’s stammering reply, and continued:
“And I hope the general tells the colonel to send us right on over the
hill.”
Perhaps that is what the brigade commander did, or perhaps the colonel
decided the matter on his own initiative; it would require a good deal
of cross-questioning and then much guessing, probably, to determine
these matters. Anyway, the battalion of four companies, each originally
of two hundred and fifty men, but now considerably reduced, some
of them to only half their number in spite of replacements from the
reserve divisions in the rear, now advanced almost as though on parade,
except that they were strung out, wide apart, making no attempt to keep
in step.
And no sooner were they under way than the watchful enemy made the
Yanks aware that their intentions were understood, for almost instantly
the desultory firing of heavy shells and shrapnel aimed at our boys
was increased tenfold. Added to this was the continuous roar of the
latter’s own barrage, the combined American and French artillery
sending over far more than shell for shell in the effort to cripple and
stop the German field pieces and to chase the enemy to cover.
Of the four companies that composed the battalion advancing across this
short open space with their objective the top of the slope between
two wooded points, Captain Lowden’s company, composed mainly of very
young men, proved to be the most rapid walkers. It appeared also that
Whitcomb’s platoon, taking example from Herbert, speeded up until it
was considerably in advance of those on either of its flanks. The
advantage of this haste seemed evident: the abruptly rising ground and
the fringe of trees at the top offered a natural shelter against the
enemy fire. Thus only one larger shell landed and burst near enough to
the platoon to do any harm, but that was a plenty. It tore a hole in
the ground about a hundred feet behind Herbert and the flying pieces
killed two privates, wounded two others, the concussion throwing
several violently to the ground, the lieutenant among them.
Herbert regained his feet instantly, looking to see the damage and
calling for a runner to hurry back for an ambulance. The lad dashed
away and a man, heavy-set, with the sleeve marks of a sergeant,
marching some distance in the rear, offered the remark, with what
seemed a half sneer:
“Red Cross car just down the hill, coming up.”
“Don’t see it. Sure of that?” There was something in the fellow’s
manner that nettled the young lieutenant and he spoke sharply, quickly;
he must get back to his men. Then he added:
“Who are you?”
“Liaison officer. With the Thirty-fifth Division and this one.”
“Where are your men?” Herbert turned to go.
“Scattered around, of course, and on duty.” The man spoke with an
attempt to appear civil, but it was clearly camouflage; his habitual
contemptuous expression and lowering glance indicated all too plainly
that he possessed some animosity toward the lieutenant. Herbert, noting
this, wondered. He had never seen the fellow before; evidently the
dislike was sudden, mutual. Whitcomb ran on up the hill and rejoined
his men, never once looking back, and the incident was at once almost
forgotten.