Through the Wheat

by Thomas Boyd

  “Let’s sit here a while. That damned flare didn’t seem to be more than a hundred yards from here.”

  “Yeah, le’s. I don’t want to git my head shot off this late in the game.”

  They talked on in undertones, while Hicks, silent, smiled serenely in the darkness. Suddenly he realized that they were not the only persons in the trench. A few feet before him two other bodies, huddled together, were discernible. He had no thought of the fact that he was between both lines, and that any other persons who were also there must be enemies. He only knew that he wanted to talk to these strangers in front of him.

  “It’s a quiet night, what?”

  “Don’t talk so loud,” the men beside him counselled.

  He shook his head, annoyed at their interruption, and began again:

  “What outfit do you fellows belong to?”

  “Who are you talkin’ to, Hicks? What’s the matter with you?” his loader impatiently asked.

  Hicks ignored him. “What outfit did you say you belonged to? What?”—as if they had answered indistinctly.

  He rose and stood in front of them.

  “I asked you a civil question. Why can’t you answer me?”

  Their silence infuriated him.

  “Answer me, damn it.” He grasped the shoulders of one of the bodies, shaking them. Beneath the clothing the flesh loosened from the body.

  “Hell, you’re dead,” Hicks told the body disgustedly. He turned to his gun crew. “They’re dead. That’s why they didn’t answer me. No damned good.”

  The loader turned to the other man.

  “Le’s git outa here. Hicks is nuts.”

  “Yeah. He gives me the creeps.”

  They climbed out of the trench and scurried back to their places among the platoon.

  Hicks sat down across from the two bodies. His elbows on his knees, his arms folded, he lowered his head and was soon asleep. He was awakened by voices crying:

  “Hicks! What’s wrong?”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Tryin’ to git a cru de geer by stayin’ out alone all night?”

  He looked up and through the early dawn saw the faces of his own platoon. Without answering he picked up his automatic rifle which lay beside him, and joined them.

  The ground over which they were advancing was flat for a long distance, then it rose in a steep hill that stood majestically in the dawn. Upon the ground many people had left their marks: a group of bones, a piece of equipment, a helmet, a rifle barrel from which the stock had rotted.

  There was no hindrance to the advance of the platoon. From that point in the line which for miles was being attacked that morning, even the rear-guard had withdrawn. But the withdrawal had been made to the top of the hill, whose crest was a large plateau. Perhaps a thousand yards from the brink, where a ridge cut the flatness of the ground, the German lines had intrenched and lay waiting to be attacked.

  As the platoon climbed up the hill they could hear the friendly explosion of their own barrage. It gave them strength to thread their way among the bushes on the hill, ever nearing the summit, and not knowing the sort of reception that was waiting for them.

  A portly captain, puffing like a porpoise, clambered up with them. From time to time he would stop and take from his hip pocket a brightly colored paper sack of scrap tobacco. Then, with a generous amount in the side of his mouth, he would begin again the ascent. He offered the paper bag to some of the men nearer to him, and they accepted it gratefully, but not cramming their mouths so full as he. The portly captain also invented the fiction that he was a former brewery-wagon driver in St. Louis and that, “By God, he wished he was back on a brewery wagon again.”

  The men laughed obligingly but hollowly.

  The platoon reached the summit. Little curls of gray smoke, looking like shadowy question-marks, rose over the plateau in the distance. Beyond was the ridge, perhaps a mile from the brink over which the men were climbing. To the right of the ridge a long, white-sided, red-topped farmhouse rested. To the left the plateau ended in another hill.

  It was not long after the platoon had arrived on the level ground that machine-guns began pouring a steady stream of lead over the field. Hesitatingly the platoon advanced. The machine-guns were pointing too high. Occasionally a bullet, probably a faulty one, struck the ground beside the slowly advancing line, but without force.

  The portly captain shifted his wad of tobacco, spat a thin stream, and ordered the platoon to halt.

  “How many of you men have got shovels?”

  There were half a dozen shovels and two picks.

  “All right, you men with shovels. Halt right here and dig a trench as long and as deep as you can. The rest of us—Forward!”

  Slowly, warily, they set forth again. Now no one spoke, not even the garrulous and confidence-breeding captain.

  The machine-guns aimed lower, but too low. Only the ricochetting bullets reached the platoon.

  They advanced until they were half-way to the ridge. Then they discovered that there were Germans much nearer to them than they had supposed. From little humps on the ground rifle bullets pinged past, shaving near the ears of the men. From the hill on the left came a whining serenade of lead. Shots were being fired from every direction but from the rear. The men threw themselves upon the ground, not knowing what to do.

  After a long wait the firing abated and the platoon started to creep forward. Instantly their movement was met with a hail of bullets. They lay quite still, their uniforms blending with the russet of the grass, on which the sun shone with intense vigor.

  Hicks, lying at the extreme left of the platoon, was engaged in corralling those words which entered his mind and placing them into two classes—words with an even number of letters, words with an uneven number of letters. He had long held the view that the evenly lettered words were preponderant.

  “P-l-a-t-o-o-n. Seven—that’s uneven. S-e-v-e-n—that’s uneven, too. U-n-e-v-e-n—six—even. Ha-a s-t-r-a-n-g-e—seven—again the mystic number. M-y-s-t-i-c—six—that’s even. And n-u-m-b-e-r—six, too. Let’s see, that’s five even and four—no, five”—he lost track of the number of unevenly lettered words he had thought of—his activity was interrupted by the ridiculous words—“oh, when I die—d-i-e—uneven—just bury me deep—d-e-e-p—even. Deeper, deeper, deeper where the croakers sleep. S-l-e-e-p—uneven, too, damn it. And tell all the boys that I died brave

  “He broke off. Behind a bush, a few hundred yards distant, an enormous olive that was supported by legs was hiding. Bellied to the ground, he started to crawl, his path describing a small arc. His automatic rifle, grasped in the middle by his right hand, interfered with his movements. His abstraction was so great that he bruised his knuckles between the rifle and the ground. The musette bag, filled with ammunition and suspended from his neck, was another annoyance. When he tried more quickly to move forward it got in his way.

  The olive moved ever so slightly. It now seemed to be a combination of olive and turtle, with its queer hand rising above its body.

  A jagged stone cut through Hicks’s trousers, bringing the blood. He crawled on, railing at the hot sun.

  A shell hole yawned in front of him. Like an alligator slipping into the water, his body slid down to the bottom. He was almost directly across from the olive, and now he saw that it was neither olive nor turtle, but a German with a rifle pointing through the limbs of the bushes toward his platoon. He stuck the tripod in the bank a foot from the top of the hole. He adjusted the stock to his shoulder and fired.

  The German scurried from his hiding-place out into the open. Hicks fired again. The German stopped, and, with a queer, hopeless gesture, his arms flung over his head, sprawled on the ground.

  Hicks crawled out of the hole, moving forward. Nearly every one of the bushes concealed a German. Hicks anticipated a day’s occupation.


  Now, other members of the platoon had worked their way along the ground and near to where Hicks lay. Bullets spattered furiously all around. Hicks minded them less than the perspiration which ran down his face in little, itching rivulets. He was near enough to the bullets for them to sound like breaking violin strings, as they whizzed past.

  Wasn’t that another atrocious-looking helmet behind the bush to the left? He pressed the trigger, and a volley of shots heated the barrel of his automatic rifle. A bullet struck a few feet from him, kicking up a puff of dust.

  He crawled on over the undulating ground. From another shell hole he poured out the last of his ammunition at the olive uniforms. Then he threw his rifle from him.

  And now the platoon was scattered over the field, hiding behind bushes, behind little mounds of dirt, giving away their position by the slight curls of smoke from their rifle barrels. Not far ahead were the German snipers, waiting calmly and patiently and firing with rare judgment. The men on both sides might have been less human than Tin Woodmen, to judge from their silence.

  Smoke from the artillery shells hung in gray volutes over the ridge. Puffs from the rifles curled thinly skyward, lost in the blue. The men were, to all appearances, motionless, soundless, only their rifles speaking for them.

  Then, like an express-train rattling over loose ties, machine-guns broke loose from all sides. Their bullets struck the ground beside the men, covering the space where they were lying with a thick haze of dust.

  The portly captain rose and blew his whistle, commanding the men to retreat. They needed no command. Already they were dashing off like frightened rabbits, scampering away to their burrows.

  Hicks watched them for a while, felt the angry hail of bullets, then rose and followed after them.

  In their desperation the men with the shovels and picks had dug a trench deep enough to protect prone bodies from fire, and into it the retreating platoon fell, released from the fear which, like an angry eagle, beat its wings behind them, against their heads, in their ears, urging them on. The men turned, narrowed out grooves in the thrown-up dirt for their rifles to rest on.

  The portly captain walked back and forth behind them, admonishing them to quickness of action.

  “Come on now. I’m a liar, or else the Dutchmen’ll be over here before we know it. They’ve got the dope on us now.”

  He paced in front of them, offering advice, telling one man to dig a deeper barricade and another not to expose himself. He turned to Hicks, who was lying still, engaged in nothing.

  “Are you an automatic rifleman?” he asked.

  Hicks answered that he was.

  “Then take your squad out a couple of hundred yards and establish an outpost. You can’t tell when them devils’ll come sneakin’ up on us.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Hicks turned away.

  His loader of the night before approached the portly captain.

  “Sir, you hadn’t better send Hicks out on that outpost.”

  The captain spat. “Why the devil not?”

  “Because, sir, he’s crazy. Last night he got to talkin’ to dead men, and when they didn’t answer he shook them as if he thought they was alive.”

  “Be off with you,” the captain replied, giving the loader no more attention.

  Hicks in the lead, the three men started off toward the German lines, to halt half-way, thus to be enabled to inform the platoon if the enemy were attacking. Perhaps four hundreds of yards from the German lines Hicks stopped beside a mound of earth wide enough to conceal the bodies of the three men.

  “You fellows lie down here. I’ve got to get my gun.”

  They looked at him agape as he strode toward the enemy’s line near which lay his discarded rifle.

  An ochre cannon-ball lay suspended in the soft blue sky. Efflorescent clouds, like fresh chrysanthemums, were piled high atop one another, their tips transuded with golden beams. The sky was divided into slices of faint pink, purple, and orange.

  On the drab earth, beaten lifeless by carnage and corruption, drab bodies lay, oozing thin streams of pink blood, which formed dark, mysterious little pools by their sides. Jaws were slack—dark, objectionable caverns in pallid faces. Some men still moaned, or, in a tone into which discouragement had crept, called for help.

  Each body was alone, drawn apart from its companions by its separate and incommunicable misery. The bodies would remain alone until to-morrow or the day after to-morrow, when they would be furnishing a festival for the bugs which now only inquisitively inspected them.

  In the still air the scrubby bushes rose stiff and unyielding, antipathetic to the prostrate bodies which were linked to them by the magic of color. The farmhouse on the gray ridge was a gay-capped sepulchre.

  Hicks tramped on through the field, dimly sensing the dead, the odors, the scene. He found his rifle where he had thrown it. As he picked it up, the ridge swarmed with small gray figures, ever growing nearer. He turned and walked toward his platoon. The breath from his nostrils felt cool. He raised his chin a little. The action seemed to draw his feet from the earth. No longer did anything matter, neither the bayonets, the bullets, the barbed wire, the dead, nor the living. The soul of Hicks was numb.

  Thomas Boyd

  Thomas Boyd (July 3, 1898–January 27, 1935) was born in Defiance, Ohio, the son of Alice Dunbar Boyd and the late Thomas Boyd. His mother went to Chicago without him and resumed her career as a nurse, but became addicted to morphine after it was prescribed to her for headache pain. Boyd was raised by his maternal grandparents Samuel and Mary Dunbar on the family farm in Defiance until age eleven. After attending military schools in Ohio and South Carolina from 1909 to 1912, he lived briefly in Cincinnati and Chicago before moving at age fifteen into the home of his paternal aunt Eleanor Wilde in Elgin, Illinois. Boyd enlisted in the Marine Corps in May 1917 and was assigned to the Sixth Marine Regiment. He arrived in France in October 1917 and first served at the front near Verdun in March 1918. Boyd then fought at Belleau Wood, Soissons, St. Mihiel, and in the battle for Blanc Mont Ridge, where he was severely gassed on October 6, 1918. After returning to the United States in 1919, he settled in Minneapolis-St. Paul the following year and married Margaret (Peggy) Smith, an aspiring novelist; their daughter, Elizabeth Grace Boyd, was born in 1921. As the literary columnist for the St. Paul Daily News and manager of Kilmarnock Books, Boyd became a central figure in the Minnesota literary community and formed friendships with F. Scott Fitzgerald and Sinclair Lewis. With encouragement and support from Fitzgerald and Scribner’s editor Maxwell Perkins, he wrote his first novel, Through the Wheat. Published in April 1923, it was a critical and commercial success. Boyd subsequently published three historical novels set in the Midwest, The Dark Cloud (1924), Samuel Drummond (1925), and Shadow of the Long Knives (1928); a collection of stories about World War I, Points of Honor (1925); and three biographies, Simon Girty, The White Savage (1928), Mad Anthony Wayne (1929), and Light Horse Harry Lee (1931). In 1925 he left Minnesota, and in 1929 divorced Peggy and married Ruth Fitch Bartlett. After an unsuccessful attempt to write a World War I film for Hollywood, Boyd moved to Vermont, where he ran for governor in 1934 as the Communist candidate, receiving 177 votes. A few months later he died in Ridgefield, Connecticut, from a cerebral hemorrhage caused in part by his gassing in the war. His novel In Time of Peace (1935), a sequel to Through the Wheat, and a biography, Poor John Fitch, Inventor of the Steamboat (1935), were published posthumously.

  Contents

  Cover

  About The Book

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

/>   Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  About The Author

  Landmarks

  Cover

  Table of Contents