At 5 a.m. on a certain day orders were received for an attempt to drive
the enemy from certain strong entrenchments.
To baffle observation, we went forward through the woods. Connection
between units was very awkward to maintain, and, many a time, the
direction would have been lost were we not guided by the sound of
the guns. Nothing but the distant booming of Fritz's cannon and the
occasional explosion of a shell broke the forest hush. In Indian file,
with scouts some distance ahead, we scrambled through the undergrowth,
our feet frequently caught by roots and all kinds of clinging
impedimenta, our faces lashed by brambles. We were eager and silent.
When exasperated by obstacles, the men swore in dumb show. The orders
were to keep mum; so mum we kept.
One's imagination was at work, though, and this warpath-treading
business was to me a sort of reminiscence. Had I not lived it before?
When a boy, reading Fenimore Cooper and similar authors, I sometimes
played at "Pathfinder"; now as a man I felt as if I really was a
"paleface" leading a surprise party through virgin backwoods after
redskins. Of a truth, the savages that had come upon us from the
northern prairies were far worse than Sioux, Cheyennes, Hurons, or
Kickapoos. They had sung the She-go-dem, they had sent out the tomahawk
and yearned for our scalps. Well, we'll have theirs instead.
At last, the two leading companions, Captain B----'s and my own,
reached the edge of the woods and espied the village, four hundred
yards away, all bright in the morning sun. The bulk of the battalion
had not come up yet. Captain B---- turned and asked, "What next?"
"_Allons-y!_" we replied; "the others will follow suit." Accordingly
we massed up quickly in two columns, just outside the cover, and then,
"Forward!"
A rush, a pounce--we were intent on catching them. Whew! Caught a crab!
The hornets had flown--the nest is empty. Where are the brutes? We
meant to surprise them, but, by Jove, they gave us an eye-opener.
The solitary thoroughfare descending to the bridge was enfiladed by
four machine-guns ambuscaded on the other side of the water. The
moment we got into this beastly funnel the hose was turned on and
torrents of bullets splashed by. I leapt to the right, my comrade to
the left side of the street, and we fell flat into whatever recesses
the walls offered. So long as those deadly jets continued the road was
impassable. We could only communicate by shouts, but fortunately our
vocal chords are sound. The guns made an infernal din. The bullets
ricocheted with vicious hisses--pish, whizz, zizz--striking sparks from
flints, zigzagging about, grazing the roadway, raising clouds of dust
that hung like a fog overhead.
I squatted my Chasseurs behind the church buttresses, and from these
shelters they made faces at their comrades over the way and exchanged
banter.
"Put your hand out to see whether there is a draught!" yelled one.
"Can't hear. Come and tell dad, ducky," came the retort.
Irrepressible boys! Danger seems to sharpen their wits.
Presently an order reached me--Heaven knows how--to look out and select
whatever "combat position" I could for my men.
But what position was I to select? I couldn't see much of a panorama
from my hole. I must go out and reconnoitre.
I called for a volunteer, and every man in the platoon answered, "I,
sir! I, sir!" Nearest, best heard. A glance at the fellow next to me.
It was Pierrat, a brick. He would do. So, my steps dogged by this hardy
terrier, I began to play hide and seek from enclosure to enclosure,
dodging down towards the river. Now a back yard, now an orchard, had
to be negotiated. They were tricky places; you never knew whether you
wouldn't come to a dead stop before you were half-way through. From
time to time, whenever a fresh bit of shelter is reached, without
looking back, I called out to Pierrat: "Keeping on?"
"_Oui, oui_," he answered, and it was a comfort to be sure that my
faithful shadow was still at my heels.