INDIAN FASHION
NO braver deed was ever done than that undertaken by seventeen men--all
that remained of a platoon--and one other, a messenger from a squad in
trouble. The platoon was left without a commissioned officer and was
under the command of a sergeant; he and his men dared the very jaws
of death to effect a rescue, performing that which seemed well-nigh
miraculous.
The squad of Yanks, like many others exceeding their orders, had
advanced too far and found their return cut off. Perhaps the corporal
in a measure lost his nerve, or perhaps he showed wisdom, for he was
unwilling that they should all make an effort to get back. He chose
but one of their number, who seemed best fitted for the task, as a
messenger. An account of this fellow’s adventures in making his way
through the German lines resembles chapters of the pioneer history of
the western United States. For sheer daring there could hardly be a
parallel.
Billy Morgan was the name of this fearless chap. He was a mere youth,
in his teens; very tall and large for his age, as agile as a cat, as
strong as a young mule, as soft-spoken as a girl. When urged to make
haste and report the condition of the squad he had smilingly assented;
then had departed at once on the errand. It was after nightfall, but it
did not take the boy long to ascertain that his way was barred.
The Germans occupied the base of a low hill in front; another bunch
of them had fortified themselves in a bit of dense woodland to the
right, and to his left were even a greater number, a relatively large
encampment that included some sort of headquarters, probably that of
the field commander of that section. All this the young fellow had to
find out by the most painstaking and silent scout work, during which
he crawled half a mile or so, emulating a snake much of the time. Low
voices, almost invisible camp fires, seldom seen moving figures and the
stertorous breathing of sleeping men gave Morgan his clues.
There was no way to get through the enemy’s lines, except between the
positions in front and to the right of the unfortunate messenger, and
the Germans were practically in touch with each other at this place.
Time was flying, the night was wearing on; the order, rather a plea, to
hasten and the immediate need of his comrades, their ammunition largely
spent and no water to drink, inspired the youth.
A small ravine, with exceedingly precipitous sides and a dry waterway
or gully along its bottom formed the ground over which he must make his
way. Probably the Germans believed this terrain would be impassable to
an assaulting or scouting force and hence did not occupy it, except to
station a sentry there.
An unfortunate sentry he proved to be, for Morgan, after ascertaining
that the enemy occupied only the ground at the top of the hills on
either side, crept down the gully, spied the light of the Hun’s pipe
or cigarette, approached near enough, without being heard, to hit the
fellow with a stone and when the sentry showed signs of regaining his
wind and yelling Morgan banged him another that finished him for good.
Wearing the sentry’s cap, his own stuffed in his blouse, the messenger
advanced then a little less carefully and presently he came to another
sentry, who took him for a comrade and sleepily let him pass without
question.
On the messenger went, even a little faster. The Huns seemed to be
farther away on both sides of him; was he getting through and past
them? He actually straightened up and was stepping along the water-worn
gully in almost a trot. The woods were silent; there was hardly a sound
except the everlasting boom of guns miles away to the east. A large
hare, in no great haste, crossed the ravine directly in front of him,
leaping up the hill and startling the boy not a little. Small birds
also, from time to time, were frightened from their roosting places in
thickets. With a ripping sound following a sharp blow a bit of bark on
a tree not two feet ahead flew off, sending pieces that stung his face
and upon the instant came the report of the gun that sent the bullet.
This was intended for him, no doubt; a forward sentry had caught sight
of a moving figure where he must have known a Hun soldier had no right
to be.
Morgan stopped and crouched. At the brink of the gully not three feet
above was a clump of grasses; up the back of this the boy dived, lying
flat, at the same time pulling his automatic.
A voice, some little distance away, spoke in German; another, much
nearer, made reply. Then almost beside him a third man growled out a
lot of guttural stuff. He it was who had fired the shot, but with what
result he could not have ascertained. The fellow was on the steep slope
opposite and across the gully from where Billy Morgan lay and the least
move of the latter might be seen.
Morgan could plainly discern the outline of the German against a patch
of sky above and between the trees. The young fellow’s home was in the
Ozark Mountains of Arkansas; he had three brothers and all had enlisted
together. Since quite small he had been almost as familiar with
shooting irons as he was with a knife and fork, and hunting turkeys
on their roosts at night had been a much followed pastime with the
brothers. To get one’s sights against the sky before shooting did the
trick. An automatic pistol was not the accurate weapon that a finely
sighted rifle is, but the man was much nearer than one could ever get
to a roosting turkey.
Morgan, quite noiselessly, turned partly over on his side and brought
his right arm around with the elbow resting on the ground. He glanced
along the barrel of the little weapon, holding it toward the open sky
above the German’s head. Then without altering the relative line of
eye and weapon he lowered his arm until the pistol barrel was blended
into the dark form of the Hun and pulled the trigger.
No doubt the sentry’s ears had been troubled with at least the
suggestion of some sound, perhaps the faintest rustle, and this had
caused him to remain motionless, listening intently. But it is doubtful
if he heard even the crack of the automatic. A man shot through the
brain cannot know what hit him. Morgan’s bullet, though a line shot,
went high, naturally. The sentry’s tumbling body had hardly reached the
bottom of the ravine before the Yank was on his feet and going at the
best rate he could down the gully, hearing a short call in German from
beyond and hurrying feet in his direction. They must not see him now,
he knew, and he would leave them behind, for he was making no noise on
the hard earth.
But not a hundred yards from where the last tragedy occurred the gully
ended, spreading out into a sort of little sand bar over level and more
open ground. Ahead of the American was another hill. He could look up
and get his direction by keeping a little to the left of the milky way
and in line with the bright star Altair, which he knew, having studied
a bit of astronomy.
Up the steep slope he went, encountering much dense undergrowth and
brambly thickets, though these held him back but little. On the top a
clearer space lay before him; he could again see the sky and get his
bearings. And then right in his path arose three figures, men, but he
could not distinguish whether they were friend or foe. The group stood
there, silently confronting him. Morgan, pistol in hand, was ready for
the slightest hostile move, if he could detect it. Suddenly it occurred
to him that the three were similarly in doubt concerning him. There
must be a show-down. If these fellows were Germans, the Yank meant to
get all three of them as fast as he could pull the trigger, though at
least one of them would probably get him before his triple task could
be completed.
Which side would first make itself known? It seemed to be up to the
strongest party to take the initiative, the risk.
A rifle was raised a little, pointing toward Morgan and aimed from the
hip. There was a sort of movement in his direction. Were they satisfied
that he was an enemy? The messenger was on the point of being sure
that his first shot would count and was about to press the trigger of
his automatic when his finger went straight instead and he dropped the
muzzle toward the ground, fearing it would go off.
“Come on, Heinie; hands up!” were the words that turned a possible
tragedy of some kind into a very welcome reception.
“I’m right glad you spoke,” remarked Morgan in his soft voice.
“Ho, a Yank! Where’d you come from, fellow?”
“From back yonder half a mile or so; the other side the German lines.”
“Huh? No you didn’t; ’taint possible! We been prowlin’ and the Heinies
is in there thicker’n cooties. You couldn’t shoot in the air without
gettin’ a few when she comes down. Nobody could come through ’em.”
“But I happened to get through and I’m going back,” Morgan protested.
“Mean it? Spy work, I reckon.”
“No; some of my comrades, my squad, are cut off in there.”
“Saint’s love! Do the Heinies know it?”
“Not when I left.”
“Did they hunt a hole and pull it in after em? Come daylight, they’ll
be found. Say, pards, let’s take this fellow to the sarge and see what
he has to say about it.”