PLAYING THE GAME
“HERE they come, men; some of them! Drifting back,” announced
Lieutenant Whitcomb, with his eye at a peep-hole in the rocks. At
almost the same instant Farnham called out the same news and Jennings,
rising to glance over the stone breastwork of the basin, remarked:
“By glory, they be! Let’em went, Lieutenant; we don’t want to stop’em
from goin’ right on home. Ain’t that where they’re headin’?”
“Yes, but with a good long way to go yet. Get down, man, unless you
want to stop a mauser!”
The little valley below rapidly became filled with gray-green figures,
most of them hurrying along. There was very little artillery; only now
and then some light field pieces on wheels, that were pulled along by
men. The weapons used in this forest defense were mostly machine guns
and rifles. Officers were all along urging the retreating Huns to
greater speed and the watchers on the hillside witnessed many cases of
wanton brutality shown toward the wearied privates who, underfed and
overworked, were often lacking in patriotic effort. There was instant
obedience on the part of these thoroughly drilled and long-practiced
troops, but they had begun to feel when they were overmatched in dash
and energy; to know when they were being beaten at their own game. Had
it not been for the officers, who were personally more responsible
to the high command, the defense of the Argonne would have cost the
Americans far fewer casualties.
Either there had been orders to ignore the little bunch of Americans
on the hillside, or else in the endeavor to get back unscathed from
the furious attack being made upon them, the existence of the squad
in their midst had been forgotten. The Huns were making every attempt
to hold the ground and, where that was impossible, to save themselves
and their army impediments from capture. Back, back, ever back they
were being forced, contesting every inch along the fighting line; when
beaten and not forced to surrender rushing back in order to form new
lines and points of defense. Every moment, up among the spruces, the
lads, grown bolder as the first few hours of the morning went by and
they were not attacked, gazed over the rocks and saw the narrow wooded
valley filled and emptied and filled again with retreating men, ever
passing on to the north, marching in loose formation, straggling,
often with wounded among them, with heads and arms bandaged, but still
in the ranks, and others borne on stretchers carried either by their
comrades-in-arms or by men of a hospital corps. But there was never any
stopping, never a turning back of those retreating until near the end,
when the numbers very perceptibly began to thin.
Then quite suddenly there was a change. Down from the north, from
the direction the retreat was taking, came a full platoon of men,
exhibiting far more haste than had been shown by those withdrawing.
Most of this platoon were on the run, lashed to greater effort by
the sharp commands of their officers. They were a fresh contingent
rushed into line in place of those units exhausted and depleted and
reaching the head of the vale that sloped away to the north, as the
Yank squad had done, they stopped at another command. With a precision
of drill that resembled an exhibition contest, they almost leaped
apart to given distances and stood with rifles and machine guns ready
for action. Then, at still another command the under officers of each
squad began to lead them to selected spots most suitable for defense,
thus beginning to spread the force out widely. It was evident that the
intention was to hold this part of the forest, as many other spots were
being defended, against a further advance of the American divisions
whose task it was to drive the Huns from the Argonne.
Again the word had been given to the khaki-clad squad to lie low.
Herbert, at his hole in the rocks, saw exactly what was about to
happen. The spreading out of the German platoon would surely tend to
the occupancy of the ground held by the Yanks among the spruces and a
clash was therefore certain, though with no greater numbers than the
American squad had faced, before, unless others came on the scene.
It was Herbert’s intention to lie low, as before, until again
discovered. Not one of these Germans now in the valley could have known
of the existence of the Americans in their midst; in the shifting about
those who had previously attacked the position on the hillside must
have been moved elsewhere prior to the retreat, or else had all been
captured in the new drive.
But Herbert’s well-laid plan to surprise the enemy went wrong, as plans
often do, though this was due to no lack of foresight on his part.
There was always the chance of information of the position of the Yanks
being given. And now this very thing happened.
Don had an eye at one of the peep-holes. He was observing with swift
comprehension all that was transpiring down the hill. Suddenly the
lad saw that which no one else in the squad could have as fully
understood. Hastening forward through the woods and up the hill came
a man dressed in the uniform of an American officer and accompanied
by two German lieutenants, the commanders of this platoon. At first
it seemed as though this khaki-clad individual was but a prisoner,
tamely submitting. Then, as he drew nearer, it could be observed that
there was a white ribbon tied on either arm and one on his service cap,
one mark of the spy by which his friends the Huns would know him. But
Don saw more than this; he saw that this apparent American was short,
heavy-set, swarthy; then he knew the fellow.
Don, it must be remembered, was not a soldier; he had not been enlisted
as a fighting man. His first experience on the front was as a saver of
life, instead of one who was expected to kill, though in the latter
capacity he had visited upon one spy and the murderer of his dear
friend Billy Mearns a just revenge. Now with the Intelligence Division
it had not been expected of him to enter battle, nor to use firearms,
except in extreme cases. But for the last two days he had been allied
with several extreme cases involving a most warlike undertaking and to
play the soldier had been as much his part as that of any member of the
squad with Herbert Whitcomb. The taking part in war, of shooting, under
excitement, at the enemy line, or picking out figures in that line as
special marks to hit seemed truly enough the office of a fighting man,
but the act of deliberately shooting down an individual, especially
when the victim was unaware of his peril, must appear to him who
reasons more of an assassination than warfare. Justifiable homicide,
it might indeed be, for there may be such a thing, even outside of the
bounds of war, but in the deliberate act itself there cannot be utter
disregard of its cold-blooded character.
To what extent these considerations entered Don Richards’ head are
now uncertain; he has never given expression to the incident in full,
but it may easily be inferred, judging from the boy’s humanity and
right-mindedness, that for a little disinclination held him, perhaps
only for the turn of a few seconds; then bold circumstance demanded
action.
The three men came on up the hill, walking now more and more slowly and
finally advancing with some caution. They were easily a hundred and
fifty yards away when they halted, facing the spruces. And then the
khaki-clad figure deliberately raised its arm and pointed out, with
evident care, the precise position of the fortified squad of Americans.
It is possible that even then the spy would have got away with his
ruse, so earnest had been Lieutenant Whitcomb’s orders to his men.
Perhaps Don did not feel exactly bound by these orders; Herbert had
frankly admitted that he was independent of the command, though bound
by courtesy and necessity to generally act with the squad. Perhaps,
under the stress of the moment, Don forgot orders, purposes, strategy.
The spy, clad in the uniform of those against whom he was striving,
condemned to death by his occupation, the most contemptible and often
the most dangerous of enemies, stood there, openly giving information
to his friends of that which he had in some way become possessed. It
was a sight to make the justice-loving blood of any patriotic lad boil.
It is an axiom with the marksman, in warfare as well as in hunting
dangerous game, to keep cool and bend all effort on the correct aiming
of his weapon. Once before, in the flight of a spy, Don had lost sight
of this important rule and his man had escaped. Another, at shorter
range, though in the fury of a duel battle, had paid the penalty. And
now bitter anger clouded the sighting of the rifle. Indeed, the boy
hardly contemplated that he raised his gun, that he glanced along the
barrel, or that he pulled the trigger at the supposed moment of seeing
his front sights low. He knew, however, that at the crack of the weapon
the white-ribboned cap of the spy flew into the air and that at the
next instant the fellow was behind a tree, dodging thence to another,
his companions with him.
The shot was a signal. Herbert had been disturbed by the act of the
spy, as had others of the squad; then when Don fired, the jig was up
and the Yanks, in their little natural fortress, became this time the
aggressors.
“Get ’em, men! Get all three of them!” the lieutenant shouted and
three guns spoke with flaming malice. Don fired again. Unable to see
enough of the spy and conscious of his first error, he took quick, low,
accurate aim at a fleeing officer and knew intuitively, as any expert
marksman may call his shot on a target, that the bullet had hit the
fellow between the shoulders. With something of a shudder at seeing the
German go down the boy tried again to draw sight, but unsuccessfully;
the fellow was quick, elusive and fortunate with his protecting trees.
Herbert, master of the rifle, fired but once. The other Hun officer
fell. Five or six shots went after the spy, but without avail, making
him all the more wary. And at that the big mountaineer grew furious.
Jennings towered above his fellows, climbing upon the rocks and
leaning far out from the spruce shadows. His marksmanship was superb;
the spy was so far among the trees that the others, even Herbert and
Gill stopped firing. But Jennings’ bullets cut a twig right over the
khaki-clad fugitive’s head; then splintered the bark beside him as he
dodged around a tree; then tore the cloth from his hip and seared the
flesh. Again one shot ripped open his sleeve. But the fellow ran on
until hidden behind several large trees growing close together.
Naturally the American squad had not been the only observers of this
brief and exciting episode; a Hun squad of machine gunners, locating
on the hillside a little to the north of the spruces and almost level
with them, saw clearly whence the firing came, spied the mountaineer’s
figure and immediately got busy.
Jennings turned about, defeated in his effort, but elated, nevertheless.
“I ain’t never shot no closter, even to a ol’ groundhog huntin’ his
hole; hev I, buddy?” he said to Gill.
“No, nor anybody. That was drawin’ a bead some fine. An’ him movin’ an’
dodgin’ that way worse’n a cottontail through corn. Fine work, boy;
fine work! I couldn’t done any better me own self.”
The big mountaineer glowed with pride; nothing pleased him more than
genuine praise from his life-long pal. Jennings stood straight on the
rock and swelled his chest.
“Jest you wait, Lieutenant, till I git a chanct t’ draw on the ol’
Kaiser at about three hundred yards! I’ll clip that ol’ fish tail o’
his’n on his lip fust on one side, then on t’other an’ then plant one
right here.” Jennings raised his hand and tapped his forehead; with a
broad grin he gazed down at the others, then suddenly toppled forward
and pitched headlong among them. At the same instant a dozen leaden
slugs pounded, flattened, glanced from the rocks where Jennings had
stood and half of those fired from the machine gun had hit him.