WITHOUT ORDERS
THE three Yanks who accosted Morgan, the messenger, on his way from
the surrounded platoon were out doing scout duty for the bunch of
seventeen mentioned at the beginning of the last chapter. When they
heard Morgan’s story they chose one of their number to conduct the
messenger to their own camp at the southern foot of the hill on which
the unexpected meeting had occurred.
Sergeant Grout eagerly listened to what Morgan said; although the
message was not intended for him, he determined to act upon it without
delay. The young fellow’s information concerning the lay of the land
decided him to take this course: a bunch of plucky boys, at night and
led unerringly, could get through to the surrounded men, taking them
ammunition, food and water and then the lot of them could come back
against big odds.
But Grout still hesitated. He was in command and yet a non-commissioned
officer. Would even a lieutenant or a captain dare assume such
responsibility without orders from higher up?
At this precise moment who should wander in upon them but Major
Anderson, of their own battalion, and Grout instantly put the matter up
to him. Anderson was the sort of man that goes in for action; he was
also utterly devoid of useless self-importance; entirely without that
arrogance too often found, without reason, in the highly trained men of
the Army.
“You’re in command here, Sergeant,” he said, “and your past deeds are
sufficient guarantee for your wisdom and scrapping qualities. I’ll
leave the matter to you. If you go in, good luck to you, and you’ll do
some good, I know.”
It seems strange, perhaps, to one not accustomed to the conditions that
naturally influence the fighting man in the midst of battle scenes that
a lot of fellows who had been almost continually in action and had
lost half their number in dead and wounded should actually want more
action, seek further adventure and deadly risks. But such was the case
with the majority of the Americans and such was the case now with these
seventeen Yanks.
Grout put it up to them, which may have been not according to military
customs, but they were buddies, one and all; therefore, they should
act only upon their combined decision. This proved to be a unanimous
verdict; there was not a dissenting voice among the lot and forthwith
they prepared for the foray, starting after extra water and food had
been obtained, though in what manner is not recorded.
Morgan led the way back, just as he had come out: over the hill to the
ravine, then up the gully. The advance was single file, the men five or
six feet apart, following each other exactly and as silently as a lot
of Indians.
Rapid progress was made and the platoon had, without incident, reached
the spot where Morgan had shot the sentry, the man’s body still lying
where it had fallen.
Just at this spot the leaders, Morgan and Grout, sensed danger ahead.
There were unmistakable evidences of the presence of a camp: the slight
and almost indefinable sounds that must come from a large number of
men, even though many are sleeping, for a combined loud breathing
pulsates on the night air not unlike the ticking of a clock.
The Yanks halted; stood waiting, listening, hardly expecting anything
to occur and when it did two of them never knew it. The dense forest
was lighted up for yards around and the detonation was heard for miles.
Probably some shrewd officer of the enemy surmised that a relief
expedition would come along in the way of the death-dealing messenger
had gone out and a mine had been laid, with an automatic set-off, no
doubt. The odd thing, however, was that more than half the Yanks had
gone past before the mine was set off and that the two men, who were
literally blown to bits, had debouched from the path that Morgan had
taken. It appeared afterward that the messenger had turned aside to
pass around the body of the sentry, merely pointing it out to Grout,
and the act had saved the lives of many of the men, not one other of
whom was hurt.
The explosion, however, was a signal to the foe. In half a minute there
was a curtain of fire being spread out down the ravine from above and
probably every one in the enemy camp ahead was up and busy with rifles
and machine guns. But the trees were thick, the rocks on the hillsides
made good shelter, there could be no marksmanship in the darkness. As a
matter of fact, not until long afterward did the aroused Germans know
whether they had been shooting at one man or one thousand; indeed, it
might have been a hare that had set off the mine.
Grout was a quick-witted fellow; Morgan, as we have seen, equally so.
The advantage for the Americans lay in the darkness and the density of
the woods. The orders, given more by motions than by words, and the
latter in whispers, were to keep down and get back a little. This done,
they climbed the steep side of the ravine and followed its slope just
below the fringe of bushes on its crest, keeping forward and parallel
to the gully. In this way they were out of the zone of fire and they
came out on the level ground above to within fifty yards of the
disturbed Huns, who were still shooting down the ravine.
This was a remarkable piece of work; both as a matter of leadership,
and as a streak of pure good luck it was almost unique. That fifteen
men should so elude a watchful foe and get entirely through its lines
untouched, especially after the mine incident had doubly alarmed the
Huns, is almost beyond belief.
A little farther on Morgan advanced a hundred yards alone to the
entrenched squad, the men of which had begun to think they were doomed
to have a sorry time of it on the morrow. Then Grout’s platoon came
forward, were received with silent plaudits and very soon the entire
bunch of twenty-two was on the way back to its own lines. And they made
it, but not as easily as had Morgan and the platoon of fourteen who had
sneaked through the German positions.
When they were in the ravine again, which seemed to be a place of
death, they suddenly encountered a small number of Huns, evidently out
to ascertain the cause of the mine explosion, and as the Yanks were
upon them before they were aware of it, they offered no resistance,
but began to fade away. At the moment good fortune was again with the
Americans. A flare had been sent up by the Germans on the hill and
Grout saw an opportunity that was not to be lost.
At a sharp order the Yanks leaped forward, spread out, heading off the
Huns from retreat back to their own lines and so, without more ado,
they surrendered and the daring rescuers and rescued, driving nine
prisoners before them, made rapidly for the hill to the south of the
ravine.
To reach it, they again had to pass through the open space and as they
came into this, beneath the luminous sky, a machine gun hard to the
right, possibly set there to intercept them, opened fire.
Pausing not an instant and now without orders, the larger number of the
Yanks swung about and went for that machine gun, but at the first fire
and before they got the Huns who manned the weapon, several of our boys
went down.
With both wounded and prisoners the little platoon returned and Grout
immediately sent in a report, which brought Major Anderson again to
visit the boys back in their old camp, which they had left hardly ten
hours before. The officer went with Grout into the shed tent to see the
wounded; when they came out the two stood talking of many things.
“You’ll get a commission for this bit of work and you’ll deserve it!
Every one of your boys ought to have a D. S. M.!” exclaimed the Major.
“I wish that messenger--Morgan his name is--could have had one,” said
the sergeant sadly.
“Yes, isn’t it a pity? And after such heroic work. That fellow is the
real stuff. But enemy lead is no respecter of persons. He can’t live.”
“No, but heaven be praised, he doesn’t suffer any,” Grout asserted.
“Poor chap; only a kid, too. A pluckier, cooler one never drew breath.
I found this paper on him; his name and his home. Wm. T. Morgan;
sounds like a fighting name.”
“Yes, I suspect the T stands for Tecumseh. Named after old General
Sherman, I judge.”
“Likely. And I found this on him, too; pinned on his shirt. You’ll take
charge of them, Major, and send them to headquarters.”
The Major held his bull’s-eye to shine on the thing that dropped into
his hand; it was a bronze bar without much ornament; across it ran some
letters and figures.
ALMA MATER
BRIGHTON ACADEMY
CLASS OF 1919
Truly the chances of battle are not governed by what we deem as
befitting in a world of needful justification, else this bright and
brave lad would have been spared. Amidst those scenes of carnage many
such an one went down; others less worthy were spared. Many brave deeds
had their only reward in death. Often it was quite the reverse.
The adventures that were encountered by a squad of Yanks under the
command of Herbert Whitcomb, accompanied by Don Richards, illustrate
these facts and portray many of the conditions that the invading
Americans faced with remarkable intrepidity in the Argonne Forest.