KILL OR BE KILLED
TREES and rocks. Lieutenant Whitcomb had always loved the woods and
the wild places, but now, with quite a different reason, a sentiment
based on a more concrete purpose, he could almost have worshiped these
dim aisles of the forest, these noble maples, oaks and spruces and the
rocky defiles that appeared on every side. Here was a place where an
aggressor might be on nearly even terms with his enemy; at least there
was less danger of being hit if one might shield a larger portion of
his body behind some natural object the while he located his foe, or
exposed himself only for a few seconds in his rush to overcome him.
Anticipating what the fighting would be like and anxious to do all
the execution he could where mere directing could be of little avail,
Herbert had possessed himself of the rifle and ammunition no longer
needed by a grievously wounded comrade and behind the stout trunk of a
low tree had begun to pepper away at the greenish helmets of a number
of men who were sending their fire from a deep fissure in the rocks
against the line to the right. Skilled as the boy was with the rifle,
and we remember how he had been chosen in the training camp at home as
the instructor in marksmanship and afterward given duty as a sniper or
sharpshooter in the trenches, there was every chance of that machine
gun nest of the enemy suffering somewhat.
This was war and there could be no holding off in the manner of
winning; there could be no sentiment against any means of destroying an
enemy who was eager to destroy, no matter if it were against one man or
an army that the fire was directed. The boy felt few or no scruples at
the time, though he always hated to think of the occasion and he rarely
spoke of it subsequently. Warfare is not a pleasant matter; there are
few really happy moments even in victory. There may be certain joys,
but they can be only relative to the mind endowed with human ideas
and schooled to right thinking. Old Brighton labored to teach its
lads altruism, charity, gentleness and kindness and these qualities
cannot be lightly cast aside, even under stress of battle, which must
be regarded mostly as a matter of self-defense, even in offensive
action. If you don’t kill or wound the enemy, so called, he will kill
or wound you, and as long as the governmental powers have found it
necessary to declare that another people must be considered as an
enemy, there is nothing else to do. As against aggression, injustice,
injury made possible by constitutional declaration, wars are, beyond
argument, often most justifiable, even necessary. This idea must impel
every patriotic soldier to do his best in the duties assigned him, even
though he must rid the earth of his fellow men.
Herbert had a clear aim at about sixty yards distance through an open
space in the foliage; he could see no more than the shoulders of any of
the Germans. He emptied his rifle with three shots, slipped in another
clip, fired five of these cartridges, replaced the clip and turned to
see what else menaced. That gun nest was no longer in action; when a
corporal and the two men remaining in his squad reached the spot there
was one wounded man and one fellow untouched and eager to surrender
out of the seven; the others were dead. But there must have been other
Americans shooting at them; Herbert always liked to think that, anyway.
And now he frowned when one of the men who had remained with him
remarked:
“By the Kaiser’s whiskers, Lieutenant, that was great work! Nobody in
the army, not even General Pershing, could beat it! Say, if we had all
like you in this reg’lar fellers’ army, it would take only this platoon
to open the way to Berlin.”
Herbert ducked; so did his companion. Not fifty feet in front of them
three Huns came quickly though clumsily in their big shoes, over the
mossy rocks, dragging a machine gun. They meant to set it up behind a
fallen tree trunk and in the shelter of a spruce; from their position
they had not discerned the Americans near by.
The young lieutenant, slowly and without stirring a twig, raised his
rifle. This indeed seemed like murder, but----. There was the crack of
several guns just to the left and the three Huns sank to the earth as
one man. It was this sort of work that made the German respect and fear
his American foe.
“Come on; more work ahead!” Herbert shouted and as he and his men made
their way through thickets, over rocks, roots and fallen trees they
found plenty to do. A little hillock, almost perpendicular, rose in
front of them; there was the rapid firing of a gun just over the top
of it, though the approach of the boys in khaki beneath wide-spreading
branches and behind dense bushes could not have been observed.
“Some risk, but if we go up and over quickly, then----” Herbert began,
starting to clamber up the rocks. It was slippery going, a difficult
task at best, and he found it necessary, to avoid being seen, to go
down on hands and knees. One foot slipped back and the other, too, was
slipping when he felt a hand beneath his shoe holding him. He had but
to stretch out and upward to bring his head over the rocks above, when
a Hun saw him. The fellow could not have possessed a loaded pistol, or
in his hurry he forgot it. With a guttural roar of discovery he seized
a big stone in both hands and raised it. But Herbert had climbed up
with an automatic only in his hand, leaving his rifle below. Now the
weapon barked its protest and the rock was not sent crushingly down
upon him. The young officer covered the other four men standing in a
bunch by a machine gun, their eyes, wide with surprise, glancing from
Herbert to their fallen comrade. Then their arms went up.
[Illustration: NOW THE WEAPON BARKED ITS PROTEST]
“Kamerad! Kamerad!” they shouted and there followed a string of words
in their unmusical tongue. In a moment three Americans were at the top
of the rocks and Herbert said:
“Gaylord, you’ve had your hand hit, eh? Hurt much? Too bad, old man,
but that won’t put you out of the fight, will it? Thought not; knew
you’re the right stuff. Merritt, you hold these fellows until I tie up
Gaylord’s hand.”
A rapid job of first aid was made to a by no means serious wound; then
there were further orders.
“Lucky it’s your left hand. Now then, leave your gun here; your
automatic will be sufficient to induce these chaps to go ahead of you
to the rear. Turn them over to the guard and get fixed up, old man.
I’ll bring your gun along if you don’t come back for it.”
“I’ll be back, Lieutenant and find it. Come along, you Dutchies! Start
’em, Merritt. Now then, march!”
“Come on, Merritt, we’ll catch up with the rest of our bunch,” Herbert
said, well satisfied with what had just taken place, but glancing
woefully at the inert German lying among the rocks. The lieutenant
climbed down to the bottom of the little hill, his soldier after him;
they reached the more level ground, parting the branches ahead before
proceeding. A flash and the crack of a gun almost in Herbert’s ear,
the poking of the muzzle of another weapon through a thick clump of
bushes all but in the young officer’s face. Quickly he stooped low
with bending knees and at the very same instant a mauser blazed forth
its fire, tearing away his hat. The boy fired his pistol directly in
line with and beneath the enemy’s weapon and the rifle fell among the
bushes. Herbert was about to rise when down on top of him came the
weight of a falling man. He caught Merritt in his arms, straightened
up, then saw that his khaki-clad comrade’s face was ghastly and that
he was unconscious. Something warm, sticky, dark spread over the
lieutenant’s hands and with a gasp the soldier lay still. Herbert had
liked Merritt, a boy only, no older than himself; thoughtful, studious,
delightfully versatile, a writer of beautiful verses, many of which
had been published, as had also some of his songs. Here was a youth of
great promise, but war, red war, was surely no respecter of persons.
“They’ve got to find him and get him out of here, and save him,”
Herbert said aloud, at the same time looking sharply about to see if
any more Hun muzzles were being poked through the leafy screen. The
boy tenderly placed his comrade on the ground, gazed apprehensively
for a moment at the white face, then turned to find someone to go seek
stretcher bearers, if such were yet near.
Herbert ran back toward the edge of the woods; a minute or two would
thus be consumed. A man in khaki was coming toward him; with the
parting of branches and the rounding of a young spruce the two came
face to face. The other, Herbert knew at once as the grouchy liaison
sergeant whom he had met half an hour ago out on the hill.
“What, not running away, are you?” There was something more than a
sneer accompanying this speech. Instantly Herbert lost his temper.
“Keep a civil tongue! I’ll make you eat those words in a minute! You
chase yourself back and bring the _brancardiers_ here for one of my
men!”
“You can’t give me orders, Lieutenant. I get mine from men higher
up. I’m on my way now to you from the field staff. Stop your men and
withdraw; they’re the orders. Pretty much everyone has them but you,
and they are all halting the charge.”
“You can’t be correct. The orders were to go on till the bugle recall;
then to----”
“Changed then. What can you expect, anyway? You heard what I said and
if you know what’s what you’d better obey.”
“Something wrong about this. Give the orders to my captain, Captain
Lowden.”
“Lowden’s killed, out there near the woods.”
“Is that true?” Herbert was shocked, saddened more and more.
“Don’t take me for a liar, do you?” queried the sergeant belligerently.
Suddenly, hearing someone coming, he swung around and stared for a
moment, then added quickly:
“Well, if you won’t believe me, you needn’t; it’s your own funeral.
I did my duty so far and I’ve got to go on.” With that he turned and
hastened away through the forest. Herbert had also turned, wondering
what it could all mean. Then he heard a familiar voice, cheery and glad.
“Oh you Herb!” and Don Richards, pistol in hand, was coming rapidly
toward him.