ON THE MARCH
Jimmy's prediction that they were likely to move on soon was speedily
verified. The very next morning at Assembly the men were ordered
to report on the parade ground at noon under full pack. An hour's
drill and they were dismissed in order to allow them to make final
preparations before starting on their march to the front.
Though they had had hardly time to explore the little village or make
the acquaintance of its inhabitants, the entire population turned out
to see them off. French matrons and pretty young girls fluttered their
handkerchiefs at the marching columns of Sammies, just as the American
mothers, wives and sisters did when the trains pulled out of the home
towns bearing Uncle Sam's Boys away to the training camps.
With the backbone of winter broken, the day was clear and fair. The
sun shone brightly down in inspiriting fashion. There was but one
drawback--the ever-present mud. A recent spell of wet weather had
made of the roads an unending succession of small pools of water,
interspersed with little stretches of sticky, clinging mire, into which
the soldiers' feet sank, ankle deep.
Long before the afternoon merged into sunset, the Khaki Boys had begun
to feel the effects of that strenuous march. Their heavy, hob-nailed
trench shoes, made heavier by constant contact with the mud, blistered
their feet and caused them acute suffering. Yet they sang home songs,
and joked with one another as they plodded along, unmindful of their
discomfort. Not a man hung back or gave up. Neither did the fact
trouble them that every step they took was bringing them nearer to the
big guns, the booming of which was ever in their ears.
For each hour on the road they were allowed a ten-minutes' halt, in
which to nurse their swollen feet, and rest their weary backs, aching
from the heavy packs. Though the majority did not know of how long
duration the hike would be, a few knew that their difficult march would
end in a partially ruined village, just out of range of the German
guns. There they would be billeted until the order came to take their
first turn in the trenches.
It was after eight o'clock in the evening when a foot-sore,
mud-spattered company of young defenders tramped wearily along the
principal thoroughfare of the French hamlet. That thoroughfare was
nothing more than a very muddy road. On each side of it stood the
shattered remnants of what had once been the homes of the unfortunate
inhabitants whose quaint little cottages had been demolished by the
enemy's guns. Less than half the houses in the village still remained
intact. So near to the firing lines, they had not been able to avert
the dire misfortunes of war.
Continuing on through the village, they were finally halted in a large
meadow on its outskirts. Here the work of erecting shelter or "pup"
tents began, in which they would sleep that night. The cook wagons,
too, immediately went into action, and the way-worn travelers were
presently given the comfort of a hot supper before turning in for a
night's sleep.
Rolled up in their ponchos, the Khaki Boys slept as soundly that night
as though back in the home barracks they had so long ago left behind
them. A hot breakfast the next morning and they were again in good trim
for the eventful hike that would bring them to the firing line.
Save for an hour's limbering-up drill, the day was theirs to roam at
will about their new environment. Not until the dusk of evening had
settled down upon the landscape would they start again on the last lap
of their journey.
Immediately after drill, the five Brothers got together and went on a
roving tour about the partially wrecked village. By daylight they found
it teeming with life. It seemed principally peopled, however, with old
women and children, although they encountered a goodly number of French
soldiers resting in billets from trench duty.
Here and there they saw small inns, largely patronized by the French
_poilus_. Entering one of them out of curiosity, they were rather
disappointed to discover that they could obtain little there in the way
of refreshment other than brown bread, cheese and French wines, the
latter in which none of them ever indulged.
"For a place that's been all shot to pieces by Boche Kultur, I must say
it's a mighty prosy old burg," was Bob's opinion.
The quintet had repaired to their impromptu camp for dinner, and
afterward started out again in the hope of finding something really
exciting. They had been roaming about for over an hour since dinner,
and had, thus far, met with no startling adventures.
Bob's remark arose from the fact that they had just passed a
schoolhouse, through the opened windows of which came the high, shrill
voices of children, placidly reciting their lessons.
"Funny, isn't it, that those kids can settle down to school with the
noise of the guns going on all the time?" mused Roger. "You'd think
they'd be scared out of their baby wits."
"They're just like all the rest of these good sports of Frenchies.
They've grown so used to it they don't blink an eyelash now," declared
Schnitzel. "Wish I'd been born a Frenchman instead of a G. A. The A's
all right, but not the G."
"Well, you got the G. out of your system when you enlisted," consoled
Bob. "You've no kick coming."
"Thank goodness I did," was Schnitzel's fervent response. "I'd hate to
feel that I had a single tie that bound me to these cursed, butchering
Boches. If some of the Germans in the U. S. could really be made to
believe what we've seen with our own eyes, it would give 'em a jolt."
"They don't want to believe," Bob cried out scornfully. "But wait
awhile. If some German-American father whose son got in the draft
and was sent over here gets word that his boy has been crucified or
tortured by a delegation of Fatherland friends, he'll wake up in a
hurry."
"Yes," nodded Schnitzel, "when the chickens begin to come home to
roost, it's going to make some difference in the way these German
fanatics at home feel about this war."
Greeted on every side by evidence of havoc and devastation wrought by
the enemy, the talk of the strollers remained centered on the war.
In the home camps and on shipboard they had discussed it but little,
preferring to keep it in the background. Now they were so near to the
great conflict it could no longer be ignored. It had become the one
vital topic of conversation.
"Let's go into that wreck and see what it looks like inside," proposed
Roger at last.
Proceeding in an opposite direction from their camp, they had walked
the breadth of the village, and were well toward the open country.
Standing by itself in a field, the broken stone walls of a shelled
cottage had attracted Roger's attention.
"I'll go you," was Bob's ready response.
"I'm game," agreed Jimmy.
"So would I it to see," assented Ignace. "Yet think I there is no mooch
by it, only the many stone and mooch roobish."
Circling the wrecked cottage for a place by which to enter it with
the least effort, the explorers climbed over a heap of debris, which
partially blocked a doorless aperture at the rear, and gained the
interior.
Once inside they saw nothing more remarkable than ragged heaps
of stone, splintered beams, and the broken remnants of household
furniture. The only part of the floor still intact was the narrow strip
on which they stood.
"Let's go. It's fierce." Jimmy spoke in hoarse, husky tones.
Sight of that ruthless wrecking of a home made him think of his own
beautiful, far-away home, where his beloved "folks" dwelt in safety,
immune from shot and shell.
"I guess we know why we're here, when we look at this," he continued
tensely. "If I had a thousand lives I'd give 'em all to save the home
folks from such a thing ever happening to 'em."
"Right-o!" emphasized Bob.
Silence hung over the group for an instant, then, by mutual consent,
they turned and left behind them the frightful demonstration of
"Kultur."
"Look who's here! He's mine. I saw him first!"
Emerging from the ruin a step in advance of his comrades, Bob suddenly
raised his voice in a shout, and set off on the run across the field
behind the cottage.
Echoing his yell, his bunkies tore after, laughing as they went. Bob's
prize was nothing more than a solemn white goat, meandering aimlessly
about the brown field in search of a green bit on which to graze.
"You old fake! I thought you'd lamped something wonderful! Nothing but
an old Billy goat. Hello, Bill! How's tricks?"
Jimmy now jocularly addressed his goatship.
"M-a-a-a!" bleated Bill politely.
"Don't call him Bill," objected Bob. "Have some respect for his
delicate feelings. You can see for yourself it won't go down with him.
He's a werry fine animule, and I'm going to adopt him and call him
Gaston. He's a French goat, hence the _Français_ handle."
"You'd better let him alone," warned Roger. "He must belong to somebody
around here. You know what'll happen to you if you pinch him."
"Pinch him nothing. I'm no goat-robber," was Bob's indignant retort.
"I'm going to do the square thing by Gaston. See that house down the
road? Well, I'm going to tie him up and lead him to it. Bobby has a
nice piece of string in his pocket. I'll bet the folks down there know
his history. If he's a orfin, then Bobby will be his foster-papa and
train Gaston to charge on you fellows if you ever get too fresh. Won't
you, Gaston?"
Gaston, it appeared, was already about to get busy. His first surprise
at the invasion having vanished, he lowered his head and dashed at his
admirers with an energy that sent them scattering.
"He's got the true war spirit," yelled Bob. "Now watch me tame him!"
Bob agilely circled the belligerent Gaston. The goat had stopped after
making the charge to reflect upon his next course of action. Pouncing
upon the surprised animal, Bob grasped it by the horns. To his delight,
it meekly stood still, whereupon he relaxed one hand from a horn and
promptly fished a piece of tough string from his trousers' pocket. An
instant later, Gaston was being led, an acquiescent captive, from the
field by his beaming master. Prudence, however, warned Bob's bunkies to
walk in Gaston's rear.
Duly arriving at the house Bob had pointed out, he consigned his
new pet to Roger's care, and went boldly up to the door in quest of
information.
Watching him, his comrades saw him ushered inside the house by a pretty
young French girl.
Ten minutes later he emerged, grinning like a Cheshire cat. At his
heels trooped two or three children, the girl and an old man, all of
whom made bobbing little bows to _Les Americains_.
"He's mine!" called out Bob jubilantly. "I bought him for two plunks.
He's an old-timer, and not very popular with the family. He's going to
billet here, though, while I'm in the trenches. I'm going to pay for
his keep and be a father to him when I'm not on duty. If I get plugged
the first whack, then somebody else can have my goat. But as long as
Bobby's in good health, Gaston's going to have a friend. Believe me!"