children in his sight when it comes to experience of actual fighting.
Our own commander has gone home sick, and Colonel Graham reigns in his
stead. He is a regular of the old school. Soldiering is the breath of
his nostrils, and the Army is his father and mother. He has been over
here more than twelve months, and has seen much service with our Allies
farther north.
Behold him in his headquarters, lately the property of some German
gentlemen compelled for business reasons to move farther east—thick-set,
hard as nails, and twinkling humorously through his spectacles upon his
battle-stained disciples. Most of our friends are present—but not all.
Jim Nichols is there; so is Major Floyd, who has no particular call to be
there at all, for we are within a few hundred yards of the German front
line, and we are to attack at dawn. It is now nearly four o’clock in the
morning.
Another transient visitor is present—a young officer of the Air Service,
by name Harvey Blane. His present duty is to maintain connection between
the forces on the ground and the forces of the air. He has come into
the line to-night in order to inform the Colonel of the arrangements
concluded between the Artillery and the aeroplanes for the protection of
the Infantry in the coming attack. Aviators do not vary much as a class.
They are all incredibly young; they are all endowed with the undefinable
but clear-cut individuality which comes to earth-dwellers who have
learned to maintain themselves in some other element—sailors possess it
in similar degree—and they are all intensely reticent in the presence of
laymen about their experiences in the air. Such an one was young Harvey
Blane.
There was a full muster of officers in the crowded dugout, for the
Colonel was outlining the morrow’s operations, and pencils were busy. But
Major Powers, that wise and kindly Ulysses, was not there. He was lying
in one of a cluster of newly made American graves at the back of the wood
which he had helped to capture.
Neither was Boone Cruttenden.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE ELEVENTH HOUR
The Colonel was speaking.
“Now listen to what the Intelligence Report has to say about the enemy’s
defensive arrangements.
“_The road leading into the Wood on the west side is said to be furnished
with tank traps._ Well, we don’t have any tanks to-day, so we should
worry about that. (By the way, boys, remind me to tell you a story
afterwards about a tank.) _All indications point to the fact that the
enemy battalion occupying the north side of Lapin Wood_—that’s where we
are now—_has received orders to hold the position to the last._ Well,
the last will come, we hope, about five-fifteen this morning. _When
dislodged, it is probable that the enemy will fall back nearly two
kilometres, in order to occupy prepared positions on a newly constructed
line south of the village of Ventreuil._ That need not worry us, because
we shall be relieved as soon as we fire him out of here.… Now for machine
guns! _Nine machine guns have been located between points A and B on
the northern edge of Lapin Wood-_-that is delightful—_distributed as
follows_—Company Officers, get these down on your maps.… _Wire._ H’m-m-m!
_Three lines interwoven in the trees on north side of wood, at distance
of three metres._ Well, wire is the business of the Trench Mortar folks.
_Trenches. Enemy’s fire-trenches are situated along northern edge of
wood._ We have noticed them! _Elements of trenches are visible on open
ground behind, at points.…_ Take this down, please.… _Miscellaneous.
Bois des Loups. Flashes have been observed in this wood._ They certainly
have! _Careful observation of the angle of fall and sound-ranging reports
lead to the conclusion that there are at least three batteries of
Seventy-sevens there, together with two or three heavy mortars._ Well, I
guess our Artillery will take care of _that_.”
The Colonel looked up from the Report and wiped his spectacles, which had
grown dim in the humid atmosphere of the dugout.
“Machine guns will be our chief snag, I guess,” he observed. “Talking of
machine guns, just how badly was Boone Cruttenden hit last week?”
“Shrapnel in the right shoulder, sir,” replied Jim Nichols. “Not very
serious, I believe.”
“He was gotten away all right, I hope?”
“Yes. His own men brought him back.”
“He did a fine piece of work,” said the Colonel. “But I want the names of
_all_ concerned, for citation. How did Boone and his bunch manage to get
into that machine-gun nest at all? I have had no time to go through the
official report yet. Did he creep around behind and catch them napping,
or what?”
“Partly that, sir. But what helped most was the action of a single
enlisted man. We were lying in a belt of trees. A clearing lay between
us and the German line, which was less than two hundred yards away. The
machine-gun nest was on our left front, and commanded the clearing.”
“Yes, yes, I get that. Go on!”
“Boone and his party,” continued Jim, “had been gone about twenty minutes
on their detour through the undergrowth which was to cut out this nest.
We were lying along the edge of the clearing, ready to make a supporting
bayonet rush if Boone got in among them. At what I thought was the right
moment I passed the word down the line for the men to be ready. And
then—and then—”
“Well?”
“And then, sir, the _darndest_ thing you ever saw!” proclaimed Jim,
breaking away from strict technicalities in his emotion. “One of my
men jumped suddenly to his feet and charged out into the middle of the
clearing. He had a little flag—our flag—on the end of his bayonet, and he
acted like he was stark insane.”
“Who was the man?”
“His name was Smithers. Miss Sissy Smithers, the boys called him. He was
a sissy, in his ways, usually.”
“And what did he do?”
“He stood there shouting to the enemy to come out and fight. He
yelled,—‘I see you, you Dutchmen! You Squareheads! You Slobs! Look at me!
Look at this li’l old Flag! Fire on that if you dare!’ Then he held his
rifle up high, with the Stars and Stripes on the end of it.”
There ran a sudden thrill around the crowded table. The American
venerates his Flag in a fashion hardly comprehended by the Englishman.
Every nation must worship some totem. In the Englishman this impulse
finds vent in loyalty to the Crown. We love the Union Jack, and we
salute it upon state occasions. But we take off our hats to the King, and
pray God to save him, because he stands for a tradition that goes right
back a thousand years and more. The American pins everything—national
honor, national tradition, personal loyalty, everything—to Old Glory.
“Well?” enquired the Colonel—presently.
“For a moment,” pursued Nichols, “the enemy did nothing. He was kind of
paralyzed, I guess. Then the machine guns in that nest spoke up, and poor
Smithers went down. Even then he was only hit in the legs. He sat up, and
waved his flag again. Then they got him in the body, and he fell on his
back. But he managed to keep his rifle erect for another fifteen seconds
or so. He shouted, too, as he lay—calling them cowards, and daring them
to come and take the Flag. By that time the guns were trained right on
him, and—he passed out. But”—Nichols’s voice rose again exultantly—“they
had been so busy trying to fix poor Sissy that they never thought to look
around behind them; and right then Boone and his bunch jumped in on their
necks, and the nest was out of business for keeps! We went across with
the supporting party and helped them clean up. Turned their own machine
guns on them too, until a German field battery got to work on us.”
“I suppose that was when you got most of your casualties?” said the
Colonel.
“Yes, sir. Two men killed, besides Smithers, and Boone and seven others
wounded. The men were all fine. After the shelling died down at dusk,
and we were settling into our new positions, two or three Huns who knew
a little English started to josh us; explained how they were coming over
presently to turn us out, and beat us up, and show themselves a time
generally. Finally one of our men, called McCarthy, pushed his head over
the sandbags, and yelled: ‘Aw, what’s the use of pulling that stuff?
Is this a War, or a Chautauqua?’ That fixed them. I guess McCarthy had
stepped right outside their vocabulary!”
“Great boys, great boys!” chuckled the Colonel. “They were just the same
on the Hindenburg Line.” He turned to Floyd. “Our idioms there puzzled
some of our British friends, Major. But between us we got the goods on
old man Hindenburg, I fancy.”
“I have heard rumours to that effect, Colonel,” replied Floyd. “The
coöperation was pretty good, eh?”
“It was great,” said the Colonel. “French, British, or American, it did
not seem to matter who was in command. We all kept touch, and we all
made our objectives. And team-work! Here is a letter I received from an
Australian commander under whom we worked for quite a while. He was a
busy man, but he found time to write me this.”
The Colonel produced a frayed field-despatch from the breast pocket of
his tunic, and read:
_I desire to take the opportunity of tendering to you, as their
immediate commander, my earnest thanks for the assistance and
service of the four companies of Infantry who participated
in yesterday’s brilliant operations. The dash, gallantry, and
efficiency of these American troops left nothing to be desired,
and my Australian soldiers speak in the very highest terms in
praise of them._
“There is some more,” added the Colonel, “but that will be sufficient to
show you what that General thought of my boys. The Australians have a
pretty high standard of their own, and they don’t pin orchids on other
people unnecessarily. So we appreciated _this_.” He tapped the despatch.
“The fact is, we were a band of brothers. The only occasion upon which
we indulged in anything like ceremony or company manners was on the
Fourteenth of July. (Corresponds to our Fourth.) I went along with a
few others to represent the Americans at a swell lunch which was to be
given in the Town Hall of Amiens in honor of the occasion. Amiens was
under shell-fire at the time—right in view of the enemy, who were up on
the high ground back of Villers Brettoneux, not ten miles away. But no
one worried. We had our lunch in a cellar—French, British, Australian,
and American officers. Some lunch! There were flowers on the table, too.
_Flowers!_ God knows where they came from. But that’s France—just France!
They had to have them! Speeches, too, by Senators from Paris. _Speeches_,
with German shells bursting in the street outside! They’re a great
nation!”
“How did the British Tommy and the Doughboy get along?” inquired Floyd.
Colonel Graham’s frosty eyes twinkled.
“Each took a little while,” he said, “to get the combination of the
other. You see, Major, we Americans consider ourselves the greatest
nation on earth; and being Americans, we have to say so. Perhaps you have
noticed that?”
“I have,” assented Floyd, “and I have lived in America long enough to
learn to like hearing you say so. I like the young American’s passionate
affection for his country and all her institutions, and his fixed
determination to boost everything connected with her. The other day I was
waiting in a village for an American Staff car which was being sent for
me from Chaumont. I found one standing at the corner of the street, so I
asked the chauffeur, thinking he might be from headquarters,—‘Where are
you from?’ And he sat up, and replied, all in one breath, as if I had
pressed a button,—‘Sir, I am from Marion, Ohio, the Greatest Steam-Shovel
Producing Centre in the World!’—Just like that. That is what I call the
right spirit. But I am interrupting you, Colonel.”
“You British, on the other hand,” resumed the Colonel, “also consider
yourselves the greatest nation upon earth, but you do not say so to
people, because you take it for granted that they know already!”
“A palpable hit, sir!” conceded Floyd, amid laughter.
“Well,” continued the Colonel, “those two points of view required quite
a little adjustment, in the first place. Then again, there was a certain
amount of ‘We-have-come-to-win-this-War-for you’ stuff from our boys,
and a certain amount of ‘You-have-been-a-darned-long-while-making-up
your-minds-about-it’ stuff from yours; and all these little corners had
to be rounded off. On top of that there was a lot of very insidious,
very clever work by German agencies, to make trouble between them. But
you know about that. Then, they suffered from the handicap of a common
language. Believe me, it’s a darned sight easier to keep on clubby terms
with an ally whose language you don’t know than an ally whose language
you do! But they are wise to one another now. Each has learned to respect
and tolerate the other’s point of view. Of course they don’t _understand_
one another; and never will. In that respect they are three thousand
miles and several centuries apart. So they tacitly agreed to regard one
another as crazy, but likeable—and leave it at that. In my view that
is about as far as Anglo-American sentiment will ever get; and I shall
be glad and satisfied if we here, who _know_, can maintain it at that
standard—and it’s a higher standard than would appear at first sight. But
I am talking too much. Where was I?”
“You were going to tell us a story about a tank, sir,” announced a
respectful voice.
“Was I? Well, I might as well, for we can do nothing at this moment but
wait. Up north, in September, my outfit were attacking day after day,
with an escort of British tanks. The Germans were scared to death of
those tanks. They did everything to stop them—brought up field guns to
point-blank range; dug deep ditches, sprung land mines, and everything.
The tanks suffered; but they never weakened, and most of them arrived
at their objective. Their crews were marvels, and as for the children
who commanded them, they were the cunningest little things you ever
saw. One day we were detailed to carry a village, lying just back of
a wood. We got there in the course of time, rather more easily than I
had expected. When our men reached the little market-square, the reason
revealed itself, in the form of a British tank, squatting plumb in the
centre, having beaten us to it by four minutes. The usual infant was in
charge, sitting on the top and twirling the place where he hoped one
day to raise a mustache. When he saw our senior Major doubling down the
street at the head of our men, he scrambled down and saluted very smart
and proper, and said: ‘Major, I hereby hand over this village to you,
as my superior officer, with cordial compliments, world without end,
Amen!’—or words to that effect. The Major saluted back, very polite, and
thanked him. Then the child said, kind of thoughtfully, jerking his head
towards the grinning Tommies who were peeking out of the inside of the
machine: ‘Still, we wish somehow, don’t you know, that we had something
to show—just to show, sir, that we were here first.’ The Major thought a
minute. Then he said, ‘I can fix that for you. I’ll give you a receipt
for the village.’ And he did!” concluded the Colonel, amid a rising tide
of laughter: “_Received from officer commanding British Tank, ‘Bing Boy,’
one village—in poor condition._”
A salvo of German five-point-nine shells detonated amid the tree-roots
far above their heads.
“Enemy getting nervous,” commented the Colonel. “Let him wait! Our
artillery preparation isn’t due for an hour or more. Now, do you boys
understand your orders? Any questions to ask? If so, shoot! That’s what
I’m here for.”
He answered one or two eleventh-hour inquiries, and added: “Make the most
of this attack. You may not have another opportunity.”
“You mean,” suggested Floyd, “that this battle is going to peter out?”
“I mean,” replied Colonel Graham deliberately, “that this war is going
to peter out! And,” he added, with sudden concentrated bitterness, “if
it does—_now_—we Americans are going to regret it for the rest of our
history!”
The figures round the table sat up—quite literally. But one or two of the
older men nodded their heads.
“If only we could be allowed to go on for another three months!” pursued
the Colonel earnestly. “If only this great beautiful machine of an
American Army could be given a chance to climb to its top speed! Then
we should be functioning in proper shape—with our own guns, and our own
tanks, plenty of horse-transport, and sufficient airplanes to direct
our own fire and locate the enemy’s. We should be employing acquired
experience instead of borrowed experience. We should have a trained
Staff. We could send these great-hearted boys of ours into action
adequately protected by a perfectly timed barrage. We could cut down
our casualties seventy-five per cent, and make future victories a real
matter for rejoicing. Of course it won’t matter to the folks at home.
They have no opportunity to discriminate. They would cheer themselves
hoarse over us if we were a Sanitary Section from the Base. But—we should
like to show our friends over here what the American Army really is and
not merely what it is going to be. And—we could extract some sort of
adequate interest from the capital—the capital of our men’s lives—that we
have been sinking in this year’s campaign. But there isn’t time! There
isn’t time!” The old soldier’s gnarled fist dropped despairingly upon the
trestle table. “We are still on our second speed, and however hard we may
step on the gas, we can’t get real results for a little while to come.
There isn’t time!”
There was a pause, while another salvo burst overhead. Then Jim Nichols
asked:—
“Colonel, just why are you so sure? Is Peace really on the way?”
(Certainly, the question was worth asking. Within the past five days the
following rumours have reached us, _seriatim_, supported by every variety
of unreliable testimony:—
(1) Austria is trying to quit.
(2) The German Fleet has come out and surrendered.
(3) Kiel is in the hands of mutineers.
(4) The Kaiser and the Crown Prince have abdicated.
(5) Germany has asked for Peace, and Foch has given her seventy-two hours
to accept his terms.)
“Not peace,” replied the Colonel, “nor anything like it. But an armistice
may come any day. From all accounts the Hun is willing to submit to
almost any terms so long as he can get out now, while the going is any
good at all. That looks as if his military discipline were growing
shaky—or else his civilian morale. Perhaps both. Anyway, he seems
suspiciously anxious to quit. The real question is, What are we going to
do about it?”
“I fancy we are going to accede to his request,” said Floyd. “In all
probability, if we hammered him for another six weeks or so, we should
have him in such a state that only a vacuum-cleaner could clear up the
mess. We should probably take a million prisoners. We could sit down
upon the Boche’s prostrate carcass and dictate any terms we pleased.
But—but—but—well, there _might_ be a miscarriage. We might find ourselves
committed to another year’s campaigning. Labour, so-called, is getting
fed up, and, though we are driving the Huns before us like sheep, an
avoidable casualty-list might produce a crisis in that quarter. As you
say, Colonel, the big American machine is running more smoothly and
powerfully every day; but France and Britain are down to a pretty fine
edge now.”
“But your men and the French are all veterans, Major,” exclaimed Jim
Nichols: “the finest material—”
“That is just the trouble,” said Floyd, shaking his head. “In this crazy
war veterans are no use. To-day experience simply means loss of nerve.
The most effective—the only effective—troops in this kind of warfare
are young, green, ignorant recruits, and the British and French have
precious few of that type left. They all know too much now! Moreover, the
people at home are suffering badly. They have not too much to eat, and
the casualty-list is approaching the three-million mark. They are not
kicking: they are prepared to go on for another twenty years if national
security demands it: but it is the sacrifice of the last few lives in
a war at which national conscience boggles, and I fancy that if our
statesmen see a chance of a victorious peace they will grab it.”
“I am afraid you are right, Major,” sighed the Colonel. “Looks as if we
were going to weaken on the proposition of the knock-out blow. If we do,
two things are going to happen. First, hundreds and thousands of American
boys over at home are going to break their hearts. Think of it! Months
and months of hard training and feverish anticipation in those big dreary
camps. Then—on their top note of anticipation—Peace! Demobilization!
Reaction! Instead of soldiers—and remember the title ‘soldier’ is the
proudest in the world!—with a record of duty done and victory achieved,
we shall have created a few million disgruntled, unemployed, unemployable
might-have-beens—robbed, _robbed_, of their fair share in the greatest
Adventure that life can offer!”
“Still,” rejoined Floyd, “you can honestly tell them this: When the
credit for the victories of this summer comes to be apportioned, a big
share must go to troops which have never set foot in France—which have
never even had the chance to leave America: because it was the promise
of their presence that enabled Foch to take the offensive right away—to
take chances, in fact, which would have been utterly impossible if he had
not known that he had the whole trained manhood of America behind him. So
their labour was not altogether in vain, you see!”
But the old war-horse refused to be comforted.
“We _ought_ to go on, Major,” he said doggedly. “That brings me to the
other thing I said was going to happen. America, as a whole, has not yet
felt this War: and she _must_, if she is to extract from it the benefit
that belongs to her by right. What are a quarter of a million casualties
to a nation the size of ours? We _ought_ to suffer some more, if only to
save us from unreadiness and mismanagement in the future. If we stop now,
all that we shall have won will be the opportunity—and you know how our
orators and patriotism-mongers will use it—to announce that America just
stepped in, and the War was won! It may be true; it may not; but that
line of talk never did any good to any nation. We here round this table
all know that, and there are thousands of folk at home who know it too.
Yes, we ought to get deeper in. God knows, no one wants to make widows
and orphans. But a war, however bloody, which teaches a nation its own
weaknesses, is worth while. Individuals suffer, as individuals must and
do; but the commonwealth gains. It is true we are losing good Americans
by the hundred to-day; but we are making thousands more. Listen. A few
weeks ago I was in a Field Dressing-Station, talking to the wounded.
One man replied to my enquiries in a strong foreign accent. He was a
splendid-looking boy—a Dane, I guess. I asked him: ‘What nationality are
you?’ He looked just the least bit surprised, and replied: ‘American,
sure!’ I said: ‘I can see that, son: but tell me, what _made_ you an
American?’ And he laid his hand on a great whale of a wound in his side,
and he said, quite simply: ‘_That_ made me an American!’ And that is
what this War is doing for our big, beloved, half-grown country—making
Americans! And now we’ve got to quit!”
“Still,” smiled Floyd, “you have made a good many. You have a couple of
million of them over here now, and they will form a very useful leaven
when they get home again. He is a great man, your Doughboy, Colonel. I
have been privileged to make his acquaintance, and I have seen him fight:
and I take off my tin hat to him, because I know what his difficulties
have been. When he gets home he will no doubt be smothered in praise—by
people incapable of discriminating between the easy and the difficult
things that he did. But he will deserve all that he gets, and more, on
account of the difficulties he overcame which people at home know nothing
about—the things that never get into the papers.”
There was a sympathetic murmur from the company. The Colonel nodded.