PUTTING IT OVER
There was a wild scrambling and confusion in the machine gun nest, as
the log came down, followed by Frank.
The latter lost his balance and went down on all fours, but was on his
feet again in a second.
The log had struck one of the crew in falling and knocked him
unconscious. But his companion in serving the gun had risen to his feet
at the same moment with Frank and had drawn his revolver to fire. Frank
had no time to raise his rifle, but quick as lightning he swung it from
the level of his waist against the upraised arm of his opponent. There
was a sharp crack that told that the bone was broken, and the man sank
to the ground with a groan.
Frank heard a shout just behind him and wheeled about. A helmeted head
was emerging from a trench that had been dug in the rear of the machine
gun, and in this a squad of Germans had been stationed to support the
crew.
Frank’s rifle spoke, and the German sank back with a bullet through
his shoulder. Two jumps carried Frank to the head of the trench, where
he saw seven Huns, who had evidently been rattled by the fall of their
leader and were hesitating, not knowing how many enemies might be
waiting for them on the ground above.
Frank covered them with his rifle, whose muzzle darted from one to the
other in the line.
“Hands up!” he commanded.
The words were American, but the Germans understood what it meant. If
they had any doubt, the rifle would have enlightened them.
Their guns dropped from their hands and they raised the latter above
their heads.
“_Kamerad!_” they shouted in chorus.
Still keeping them covered, Frank motioned them to come out one at a
time. They did so and formed in line, their hands still upraised. The
look of amazement on their faces, when they looked around for Frank’s
comrades and failed to see them, was comical beyond expression. But
Frank was too keyed up at that moment to pay any attention to the
humorous side of it.
He shot a glance at the machine gun. It had been knocked down by the
falling log and the machinery by which it was fed with cartridges was
unusable.
“March!” Frank commanded, taking his station in the rear of the line of
prisoners.
They obeyed sheepishly enough, and one or two of them in the rear of
the line were inclined to be sullen, but a sharp jab of Frank’s bayonet
decided them, and they went off at a jog trot toward the American lines.
They had covered perhaps two-thirds of the way, when Frank met a squad
of his own regiment who were advancing after clearing out a ravine.
They raised a shout as they saw Frank coming along herding his flock,
and in a moment he was surrounded and overwhelmed with eager questions.
“Where are the rest of the fellows that helped you take this bunch?”
asked Corporal Wilson, who was in command of the squad.
“There weren’t any others,” answered Frank. “I just happened to get the
draw on this crowd and gathered them in.”
“‘Happened’ is good,” said Wilson dryly. “There’s more to it than that.
You’ll have to tell us about it later. In the meantime, I’ll have these
fellows sent to the rear.”
The prisoners were sent back, and Frank went forward with his comrades
for further fighting. Under other circumstances, he would have liked to
rest for a while, for he had been under a terrific strain and now he
was feeling the reaction. But there was stern work yet to be done, and
the resting time could come later.
Tom and Billy had worked their way in his direction and now rejoined
him. They moved forward and soon reached the scene of Frank’s exploit.
The German who had been knocked unconscious had evidently come to his
senses and had disappeared, but the two men whom Frank had wounded were
still there. A stretcher party working in that part of the field was
signaled, and the men were taken away to the hospital.
“Some classy work!” exclaimed Billy, when at his eager urging Frank
had told to him and Tom the incidents of the fight. “If you don’t get
the Distinguished Service Cross for this, there’s no gratitude in the
United States army.”
“Billy’s right,” declared Tom, as he clapped Frank on the shoulder.
“There isn’t one man in a thousand who would have thought of it or done
it if he had thought of it. Frank, old man, you’re a wonder.”
“Oh, forget it,” said Frank. “I had a chance and took it. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” mimicked Tom. “You had a chance and took it. We’ll let it
go at that.”
All that morning the fighting continued, and the Germans were steadily
driven back. By noon the edge of the forest had been cleared, and the
Americans began to consolidate their lines in preparation for the next
advance.
“Well, we’ve won the first round anyway,” remarked Billy jubilantly,
as the Army Boys gathered in a trench that had been hastily constructed
and sat down to eat.
“Yes,” admitted Tom, “but there may be a good many rounds to this
fight. Heinie’s got lots of fight in him yet and don’t you forget it.
He knows he’s in the last ditch and that if he doesn’t stand here, it’s
all up with him.”
“Quit your croaking,” admonished Billy. “We’ve got the Indian sign on
him and he knows it. This last ditch business doesn’t go with the Huns.
They’re all right when they’re winning, but they can’t stand losing.
They don’t want their cities devastated in the same way that they’ve
ruined the cities of France and Belgium. When the time comes they’ll
cave in. You just wait and see what kind of a prophet little Billy is.”
“I think you’re both right,” said Frank. “I agree with Tom that we’re
due for one big fight before Heinie will admit defeat. But I also
think with Billy that when that defeat comes they’ll curl up and quit
so quickly it will make your head swim. But what’s the use of our
chinning about it and letting our chow get cold? All we’ve got to do
is to fight. We’ll leave it to Pershing and Foch and the other men at
the head of things to settle things with the Germans after we’ve licked
them to a frazzle.”
They attacked their meal with an appetite sharpened by the strenuous
work of the morning, and then at the call of the bugle they again took
their place in the line to finish the work they had so well begun.
From that time on, the work was more like guerrilla fighting than any
battle in which they had engaged so far. The woods were so thick and
the obstructions so many that it was impossible to advance in anything
like regular formation. Instead of tens of thousands of men being
hurled against other ten thousands in a mass attack, both armies were
broken up into countless groups of ten, twenty and a hundred men, each
following a general plan of advance but depending upon circumstances
and natural conditions as to the way they carried out that plan.
The Germans had the advantage of a greater familiarity with the
ground, which they had held for years, and also in their tremendously
strong system of defenses. But the Americans had against these the
consciousness that they had beaten this enemy in every fight where
they had met them, and the feeling that they could always beat them.
Then, too, the Americans were more accustomed to act on their own
responsibility. If their officers were killed or wounded, they figured
out for themselves what was the best thing to do and went ahead and
did it. In a certain sense, every private was a general when he
had to be. The Germans, on the other hand, were excellent fighters
in the mass. But they needed to have their shoulders touching those
of their comrades, and they had been taught to rely so utterly upon
the directions of their officers that they felt lost and bewildered
when they had to make decisions for themselves. Of course there were
exceptions, but this fairly expressed the difference between the two
armies.
Not only that day but for many days thereafter the fighting kept on.
The Americans had given themselves two weeks to clear the forest. Day
by day the lines advanced, sometimes slowly, again more quickly, but
they always advanced, and every nightfall found them nearer their goal
than they had been the day before.
The Army Boys were in their element. Here at last was enough fighting
to suit even their hot blood. The only thing lacking to their
satisfaction was the absence of Bart.
They had not yet even been able to hear from him, as they were kept so
busy and the lines shifted so constantly that all communication between
them and the hospital was cut off.
“It’s hard luck for the old scout,” remarked Tom one night after the
regiment had cleared out an intricate system of dugouts and was resting
after the day’s work.
“He’ll be sore as the mischief if this war ends without his getting
another crack at the Huns,” said Billy.
“He needn’t worry,” put in Frank, “he’s done his full share if he never
fires another shot. All I want is to see him on his feet again, sound
and well, whether the war ends before that time or not. In the meantime
we three must try to do the work of four.”
“Yes,” agreed Tom, “every fourth shot we fire, we’ll say to ourselves:
‘There goes one for Bart!’”