STORMING THE RIDGE
"What is it, Sheldon?"
"I think I can silence those guns, sir," Frank said.
A light came into the captain's eyes.
"How?" he asked.
In a few brief words Frank described his plan.
"But it's suicide," protested the captain. "There isn't one chance in a
thousand that you'll come out alive."
"I know," said Frank. "But Raymond and I are willing to risk it if you
give the word."
The captain pondered for a moment. It was a forlorn hope, but forlorn
hopes sometimes won out.
"Go ahead," he said.
Frank nodded to Bart, and in a twinkling they had turned the big barrels
over on their sides.
Then each lay on the ground behind his barrel and began to push it
toward the enemy.
The men of their company had watched them wonderingly while they made
their preparations, and when they realized what the boys had in mind
they raised a thundering cheer that rose above the din of battle.
The crews of the two enemy machine guns looked with stupefaction at the
big barrels coming toward them. Then they woke from their trance and a
storm of bullets beat upon the barrels.
If they had been empty the bullets would have gone through and killed
the boys behind them. But they were filled with woolen clothing, which
while light enough to enable the boys to push the barrels with
comparative ease was just the thing to stop the bullets. The whizzing
missiles thudded into the clothing and there they stopped. It was on the
same basis as the sandbag which stops a cannon ball that would go
through an iron plate.
Steadily the boys kept on, pushing the barrels before them. They did not
go on hands and knees, for then they would be exposed to the enemy
bullets. It was a caterpillar motion, drawing their bodies along the
ground, and was a tremendous tax on their muscles, for they could get no
purchase.
One thing in their favor was that the ground sloped a trifle toward the
enemy position and this made the barrels roll more easily.
By this time the enemy was growing frantic at this novel method of
attack. They could not see their enemy, and they could not kill him. And
the sight of those barrels coming toward them, as inexorably as fate,
got on their nerves, already tense with the fury of the combat.
Nearer and nearer came the barrels to the guns until they were not more
than twenty feet away. Then they stopped.
The German gunners drew fresh hope from this. Had their bullets found
their mark in the bodies of their daring enemies?
But there were two very live boys behind those motionless barrels.
Frank and Bart had drawn a handful of grenades from their sacks. At a
given signal they drew back their arms and hurled them over the barrels
in quick succession.
They fell right in the midst of the machine guns. There was a tremendous
explosion that killed some of the gunners and threw the rest into wild
confusion.
"Now!" shouted Frank, and he and Bart leaped to their feet and rushed
toward the guns.
There was a wild mêlée for a moment, and then the surviving Germans
turned and ran in panic down the slope.
The boys slued the captured guns around and sent a stream of bullets
after their wildly fleeing enemies.
The rout was complete, and the next minute the whole company, that had
charged the instant the grenades were thrown, came tearing up, and there
was a scene of hilarity and enthusiasm that passed description.
"The finest thing I ever saw!" declared the captain. "You boys are the
stuff of which heroes are made."
But there was no time then to dwell on the exploit. The enemy was on the
run and they must keep him going.
And they did, so well and so thoroughly, that when the day was over they
had swept the whole ridge that had been their objective in the fight and
planted Old Glory on its highest crest. And their victory was shared by
the rest of the Allied line, who not only regained all the losses of the
day before, but swept the Germans out of their first and second lines on
a five-mile front, inflicting on them a defeat which they were long to
remember.
And how the lesson that the Germans learned that day was repeated later
on will be told in the next book of this series, entitled: "Army Boys on
the Firing Line; Or, Holding Back the German Drive."
Not but what the victory had cost the Americans dearly. Every regiment
engaged had its own long list of killed and wounded.
"Poor old Fred," said Frank, referring to Anderson. "His right arm was
badly shattered and I'm afraid he may lose it."
"Fred is playing in hard luck," returned Bart. "That's twice he's been
wounded. Remember the night down at the old mill when the bomb got his
leg?"
"He's having more than his share," agreed Billy.
"There's Wilson, too," said Bart. "He's been in the thick of it all day,
but he went down with a bullet in his shoulder just as we got to the top
of the ridge."
"The corp certainly fought like a tiger," said Tom. "But he's worth a
dozen dead men yet. A month in the hospital will fix him up all right, I
hope."
"There's one good thing anyway," pat in Billy. "The Huns haven't taken
many of our boys prisoners."
"And we've got more of their men than we know what to do with," exulted
Frank.
"I know what I'd do with them," said Tom. "I'd send them to America to
be imprisoned there and I'd put a bunch of them on every transport that
sailed to the other side."
"That wouldn't be a bad stunt," agreed Bart. "Then if a submarine sank
the ship it would carry a lot of their own people down to Davy Jones."
Among the missing was one whose loss did not greatly grieve the boys of
the old Thirty-seventh. Nick Rabig did not answer to his name when the
roll was called. They did not find his body on the field, nor was he
among the wounded that were brought in and tenderly cared for in the
hospitals.
"I see Nick is missing," remarked Frank to Bart later in the evening, as
they were resting and rejoicing over the victory.
"Missing but not missed," put in the implacable Tom.
"If the Huns have got him, he'll feel more at home than he ever felt
with us," remarked Bart.
"Maybe he was captured against his will," said Tom, "and then again
_maybe_--"
"What do you suppose they'll say in Camport when they hear of this day's
work, fellows?" asked Billy.
"Oh," answered Frank with a laugh, "they'll only say: 'It's nothing more
than we expected.'"
"They know us, don't they?"
"Of course they do," broke in Tom. "We came to France to do our duty as
American citizens, as well as soldiers."
"I wonder how long it will be before this war is over and we start for
home?" came from Frank.
"Not tired of the game yet, are you?" quizzed Billy, quickly.
"Do I look as if I was tired of it?" was the counter-question.
"We are all going to stay over here until the Huns are licked good and
proper!" burst cut Bart. "There is no use in stopping while the job is
only half finished."
"Just you wait until Uncle Sam has a lot of men over here," put in
Billy. "Then we'll show those Huns what's what and don't you forget it!
We'll wallop them so thoroughly they'll be getting down on their knees
yelling for mercy."
"Now you've said something!" came in a chorus from the others.
And here let us say good-bye to the Army Boys.
End of Project Gutenberg's Army Boys in the French Trenches, by Homer Randall