The Brighton Boys in the Argonne Forest

by James R. Driscoll

  CHAPTER XVIII

  PLAYING THE GAME

  “HERE they come, men; some of them! Drifting back,” announcedLieutenant Whitcomb, with his eye at a peep-hole in the rocks. Atalmost the same instant Farnham called out the same news and Jennings,rising to glance over the stone breastwork of the basin, remarked:

  “By glory, they be! Let’em went, Lieutenant; we don’t want to stop’emfrom goin’ right on home. Ain’t that where they’re headin’?”

  “Yes, but with a good long way to go yet. Get down, man, unless youwant to stop a mauser!”

  The little valley below rapidly became filled with gray-green figures,most of them hurrying along. There was very little artillery; only nowand then some light field pieces on wheels, that were pulled along bymen. The weapons used in this forest defense were mostly machine gunsand rifles. Officers were all along urging the retreating Huns togreater speed and the watchers on the hillside witnessed many cases ofwanton brutality shown toward the wearied privates who, underfed andoverworked, were often lacking in patriotic effort. There was instantobedience on the part of these thoroughly drilled and long-practicedtroops, but they had begun to feel when they were overmatched in dashand energy; to know when they were being beaten at their own game. Hadit not been for the officers, who were personally more responsibleto the high command, the defense of the Argonne would have cost theAmericans far fewer casualties.

  Either there had been orders to ignore the little bunch of Americanson the hillside, or else in the endeavor to get back unscathed fromthe furious attack being made upon them, the existence of the squadin their midst had been forgotten. The Huns were making every attemptto hold the ground and, where that was impossible, to save themselvesand their army impediments from capture. Back, back, ever back theywere being forced, contesting every inch along the fighting line; whenbeaten and not forced to surrender rushing back in order to form newlines and points of defense. Every moment, up among the spruces, thelads, grown bolder as the first few hours of the morning went by andthey were not attacked, gazed over the rocks and saw the narrow woodedvalley filled and emptied and filled again with retreating men, everpassing on to the north, marching in loose formation, straggling,often with wounded among them, with heads and arms bandaged, but stillin the ranks, and others borne on stretchers carried either by theircomrades-in-arms or by men of a hospital corps. But there was never anystopping, never a turning back of those retreating until near the end,when the numbers very perceptibly began to thin.

  Then quite suddenly there was a change. Down from the north, fromthe direction the retreat was taking, came a full platoon of men,exhibiting far more haste than had been shown by those withdrawing.Most of this platoon were on the run, lashed to greater effort bythe sharp commands of their officers. They were a fresh contingentrushed into line in place of those units exhausted and depleted andreaching the head of the vale that sloped away to the north, as theYank squad had done, they stopped at another command. With a precisionof drill that resembled an exhibition contest, they almost leapedapart to given distances and stood with rifles and machine guns readyfor action. Then, at still another command the under officers of eachsquad began to lead them to selected spots most suitable for defense,thus beginning to spread the force out widely. It was evident that theintention was to hold this part of the forest, as many other spots werebeing defended, against a further advance of the American divisionswhose task it was to drive the Huns from the Argonne.

  Again the word had been given to the khaki-clad squad to lie low.Herbert, at his hole in the rocks, saw exactly what was about tohappen. The spreading out of the German platoon would surely tend tothe occupancy of the ground held by the Yanks among the spruces and aclash was therefore certain, though with no greater numbers than theAmerican squad had faced, before, unless others came on the scene.

  It was Herbert’s intention to lie low, as before, until againdiscovered. Not one of these Germans now in the valley could have knownof the existence of the Americans in their midst; in the shifting aboutthose who had previously attacked the position on the hillside musthave been moved elsewhere prior to the retreat, or else had all beencaptured in the new drive.

  But Herbert’s well-laid plan to surprise the enemy went wrong, as plansoften do, though this was due to no lack of foresight on his part.There was always the chance of information of the position of the Yanksbeing given. And now this very thing happened.

  Don had an eye at one of the peep-holes. He was observing with swiftcomprehension all that was transpiring down the hill. Suddenly thelad saw that which no one else in the squad could have as fullyunderstood. Hastening forward through the woods and up the hill camea man dressed in the uniform of an American officer and accompaniedby two German lieutenants, the commanders of this platoon. At firstit seemed as though this khaki-clad individual was but a prisoner,tamely submitting. Then, as he drew nearer, it could be observed thatthere was a white ribbon tied on either arm and one on his service cap,one mark of the spy by which his friends the Huns would know him. ButDon saw more than this; he saw that this apparent American was short,heavy-set, swarthy; then he knew the fellow.

  Don, it must be remembered, was not a soldier; he had not been enlistedas a fighting man. His first experience on the front was as a saver oflife, instead of one who was expected to kill, though in the lattercapacity he had visited upon one spy and the murderer of his dearfriend Billy Mearns a just revenge. Now with the Intelligence Divisionit had not been expected of him to enter battle, nor to use firearms,except in extreme cases. But for the last two days he had been alliedwith several extreme cases involving a most warlike undertaking and toplay the soldier had been as much his part as that of any member of thesquad with Herbert Whitcomb. The taking part in war, of shooting, underexcitement, at the enemy line, or picking out figures in that line asspecial marks to hit seemed truly enough the office of a fighting man,but the act of deliberately shooting down an individual, especiallywhen the victim was unaware of his peril, must appear to him whoreasons more of an assassination than warfare. Justifiable homicide,it might indeed be, for there may be such a thing, even outside of thebounds of war, but in the deliberate act itself there cannot be utterdisregard of its cold-blooded character.

  To what extent these considerations entered Don Richards’ head arenow uncertain; he has never given expression to the incident in full,but it may easily be inferred, judging from the boy’s humanity andright-mindedness, that for a little disinclination held him, perhapsonly for the turn of a few seconds; then bold circumstance demandedaction.

  The three men came on up the hill, walking now more and more slowly andfinally advancing with some caution. They were easily a hundred andfifty yards away when they halted, facing the spruces. And then thekhaki-clad figure deliberately raised its arm and pointed out, withevident care, the precise position of the fortified squad of Americans.

  It is possible that even then the spy would have got away with hisruse, so earnest had been Lieutenant Whitcomb’s orders to his men.Perhaps Don did not feel exactly bound by these orders; Herbert hadfrankly admitted that he was independent of the command, though boundby courtesy and necessity to generally act with the squad. Perhaps,under the stress of the moment, Don forgot orders, purposes, strategy.The spy, clad in the uniform of those against whom he was striving,condemned to death by his occupation, the most contemptible and oftenthe most dangerous of enemies, stood there, openly giving informationto his friends of that which he had in some way become possessed. Itwas a sight to make the justice-loving blood of any patriotic lad boil.

  It is an axiom with the marksman, in warfare as well as in huntingdangerous game, to keep cool and bend all effort on the correct aimingof his weapon. Once before, in the flight of a spy, Don had lost sightof this important rule and his man had escaped. Another, at shorterrange, though in the fury of a duel battle, had paid the penalty. Andnow bitter anger clouded the sighting of the rifle. Indeed, the boyhardly contemplated that he raised his gun, that he glance
d along thebarrel, or that he pulled the trigger at the supposed moment of seeinghis front sights low. He knew, however, that at the crack of the weaponthe white-ribboned cap of the spy flew into the air and that at thenext instant the fellow was behind a tree, dodging thence to another,his companions with him.

  The shot was a signal. Herbert had been disturbed by the act of thespy, as had others of the squad; then when Don fired, the jig was upand the Yanks, in their little natural fortress, became this time theaggressors.

  “Get ’em, men! Get all three of them!” the lieutenant shouted andthree guns spoke with flaming malice. Don fired again. Unable to seeenough of the spy and conscious of his first error, he took quick, low,accurate aim at a fleeing officer and knew intuitively, as any expertmarksman may call his shot on a target, that the bullet had hit thefellow between the shoulders. With something of a shudder at seeing theGerman go down the boy tried again to draw sight, but unsuccessfully;the fellow was quick, elusive and fortunate with his protecting trees.Herbert, master of the rifle, fired but once. The other Hun officerfell. Five or six shots went after the spy, but without avail, makinghim all the more wary. And at that the big mountaineer grew furious.

  Jennings towered above his fellows, climbing upon the rocks andleaning far out from the spruce shadows. His marksmanship was superb;the spy was so far among the trees that the others, even Herbert andGill stopped firing. But Jennings’ bullets cut a twig right over thekhaki-clad fugitive’s head; then splintered the bark beside him as hedodged around a tree; then tore the cloth from his hip and seared theflesh. Again one shot ripped open his sleeve. But the fellow ran onuntil hidden behind several large trees growing close together.

  Naturally the American squad had not been the only observers of thisbrief and exciting episode; a Hun squad of machine gunners, locatingon the hillside a little to the north of the spruces and almost levelwith them, saw clearly whence the firing came, spied the mountaineer’sfigure and immediately got busy.

  Jennings turned about, defeated in his effort, but elated, nevertheless.

  “I ain’t never shot no closter, even to a ol’ groundhog huntin’ hishole; hev I, buddy?” he said to Gill.

  “No, nor anybody. That was drawin’ a bead some fine. An’ him movin’ an’dodgin’ that way worse’n a cottontail through corn. Fine work, boy;fine work! I couldn’t done any better me own self.”

  The big mountaineer glowed with pride; nothing pleased him more thangenuine praise from his life-long pal. Jennings stood straight on therock and swelled his chest.

  “Jest you wait, Lieutenant, till I git a chanct t’ draw on the ol’Kaiser at about three hundred yards! I’ll clip that ol’ fish tail o’his’n on his lip fust on one side, then on t’other an’ then plant oneright here.” Jennings raised his hand and tapped his forehead; with abroad grin he gazed down at the others, then suddenly toppled forwardand pitched headlong among them. At the same instant a dozen leadenslugs pounded, flattened, glanced from the rocks where Jennings hadstood and half of those fired from the machine gun had hit him.