CHAPTER IX
FACING THE ENEMY
"Go to it, old scout! That's what we're here for."
Such was Corporal Whitcomb's grave remark to Private Flynn when out ofthe squad of eight expert marksmen stationed in a rocky pit to helpprotect a certain new havoc-wreaking, shrapnel-shooting field-piece,three were chosen to first go out and stop any attempt of the enemy topot-shot the artillerymen who were working the gun very much to the hurtof the German trenches three hundred yards away.
A little rocky hill held by the American troops new in action gave aprotection to the position of the wonderful gun that shelled the enemytrenches disastrously beyond and successfully prevented the setting upof German heavy ordnance in the vast plain in the rear.
It was, therefore, impossible to try to smash the new gun by shells; itwas well-nigh suicidal to attempt to charge the position, and,therefore, it became a matter of sharpshooting, of night raids and ofdropping bombs from German planes very high overhead.
But the enemy were soon to learn that in the matter of marksmanshiptheir best was greatly outclassed, and also that to escape injury fromhigh-powered, .30-caliber bullets sent into the air their warplanes hadto seek a very considerable elevation from which the dropping of bombswas an uncertain thing. Moreover, there were powerful French-Americanairplanes not far behind the American trenches, and they had come outand up to meet these German planes, downing two of them.
Meanwhile, from its pit, successfully bomb-proofed and camouflaged, thenew gun barked every few minutes, throwing out no smoke to disclose itsposition. From the hilltop there was an occasional rattle of machineguns and the crack of rifles, another squad of snipers, under CorporalLang, being there on duty, backed also by a platoon of United StatesRegulars. And on the other side of the hill, Herbert learned, there wasanother pit that contained another one of the terrible new guns,similarly guarded by Billy Phillips' squad and more Regulars.
That first twenty-four hours had been "a corker," as Roy Flynn put it.There had been something doing every minute from the time the platoonhad left the French training camp where Uncle Sam's infantry was gettingthe fine points from French officers relative to modern trench warfare.
At nightfall the platoon had entered six auto trucks, called by theBritish "lorries," and had proceeded with a French guide toward thefront, though going where few knew, and in fact the exact destinationhad been disclosed only to lieutenant Loring and Sergeants Barry andSmall.
It had been very dark and rainy. The road, at first smooth, hadglistened like a mirror; the occasional lights from road lamps andwindows, closer together in the villages, had thrown a luster quiteuncanny over everything. Then the lights had become less frequent, theroad suddenly rougher, even rutty, the speed had grown less and theywere always floundering along, or sometimes stuck in the mud.
There had seemed to be little else in that part of the world but mud,mud, mud! Yet the boys had been compelled to get out of the cars butlittle, even to ease the weight when stalled, for the motors werepowerful and the trucks generally put up to give the best of service.
Herbert and some of his squad had ridden with Lieutenant Loring and theguide in the first lorry and they had forged somewhat in advance of theother cars, being stuck in the mud but seldom, and had plowed throughpuddles, holes and miry hollows with a certainty that was admirable.Considering the number in the car and Roy's presence and the fact thatthe men had all slept well before starting, there had been little said;often they had covered miles without a word being uttered.
Once two long, boxed-in autos, going very slowly, had been met. Theofficer guide had ordered a stop to exchange a few words with thechauffeur of the cars, but dimly seen by the occupants of the lorry.When the guide had commanded the advance again he had said something, ina low voice in French, to the lieutenant. Loring had leaned over towardBarry and Whitcomb and whispered the one word: "Wounded."
On and on and on they had traveled. Down into a valley, creeping acrossa narrow, low bridge of stone; then slowly up and up for a time; on thelevel once more, evidently following the side of a ridge, as thehorizon on one side between a blank space of black earth and the graysky seemed higher than the car. And then, from over to the left,startlingly sudden to every one of those hardy young Americans, had comethe sound of firing, the crack and crackle of firearms, followedpresently by the tearing, resonant fusillading of a machine-gun that, ata distance, reminds one of the rapid rolling of a barrel down hill overstony ground.
Again the guide had made a remark which Loring once more translated. "Hesays that's what he likes to hear. Do you? Well, I fancy we shall hearquite enough of it."
And then, half a mile farther on, during which time all had distinctlydiscerned the not very distant boom of cannon and once again the nearerfiring of many guns, the French officer halted the car, waited until theothers had come up and then informed Loring that from this on, fornearly a mile, they must proceed silently on foot.
The command had been issued; a rough formation had been made there inthe rain and the muddy road; the men had been given extra loads ofprovisions to carry besides their army kits, and they had gone forward,not a sound being uttered. After a time rear sentries had received them,others had been passed, one facetious Irishman saying aloud to thelieutenant:
"This is worse than the East Side in a raid in the gamblin' houses,bedad! An' the weather ain't so bad in the dear ould U. S., even inMarch, but nivver ye moind! Jest go git thim Huns, me lad. Jest go git'em! I wisht they'd be comin' my way now an' thin."
Poor fellow! They learned afterward that he had been transferred to thetrenches later and that the "Huns" had come his way. No doubt many ofthe enemy had been sorry for it and others had not gone back, butneither had he. The first little American burying ground at the bottomof the ridge was as far as he and some of his fellows got. The platoonto which they had belonged still held the trench, though against odds.
At night, the darker the better, is the time when there is an exchangeof troops in the trenches, when fresh contingents take the places ofthose too long tried by the terrible strain of standing guard againstthe enemy's surprises, drives, raids, gas attacks, barrages, bombing andshell fire.
So the coming of the snipers' platoon had been altogether favorable, notthe hardiest of the enemy daring to risk chances of going against thelittle hill at a time when all the advantage would be on the side of itsdefenders, even though the Germans on this sector outnumbered theAmericans two to one.
The gun pits and their accompanying dugouts, with pole and earth-coveredshelters begun by the French and greatly improved by Uncle Sam's boys,were both crude and comfortable, the drainage on the hillside being farbetter than that of most trenches, especially those in low ground. Therewas mud, of course, though not so deep as if the rain water had beenallowed merely to seep away. Then, too, the U. S. Regulars, under coverof night, had cut numerous poles from the young forest and on these hadlaid boards sent over the route of frequent supplies.
Handing copies of maps to each of the sergeants and corporals, Loringhad detailed the squads to the positions they now occupied. Withdispatches introducing him he went with the first squad, Whitcomb's men,to the first gun pit, sending the others on, with their dispatches,where he was soon to join them.
Into the north side gun pit, then, had marched Herbert's squad; theywere put under the immediate command of Lieutenant Jackson, U. S. A.,middle-aged, firm and as nearly silent as possible, and they at once hadbeen assigned to quarters, told to rest and to eat. Loring had said afew words to Herbert, shaken his hand and gone away.
After some hours Lieutenant Jackson came to Herbert; the latter noticedthat he had not been sent for and that the officer seemed to be, whileenforcing discipline, a thoroughly democratic fellow, aware of theconditions of war, yet displaying that comradeship which must spring upbetween men of sense in times of danger and of stress.
"Your boys, I am told, are all fine shots. Have they practised shootingat night?"
"Y
es; much," Herb answered. "They have been taught to see their sightsagainst the sky and quickly, without altering position of eye andbarrel, keeping the cheek against the stock all the while, to put themuzzle end on the object to be hit and press the trigger. We hold botheyes open, as always, when shooting, but especially at night, thusseeing the object the more clearly. Nine times out of ten we can hit ablack mark as big as a man a hundred yards, or over. It depends, ofcourse, upon how dark it is."
"See here, my boy, I'm going to leave the placing of your men, theselection of them for duty and the care of them, to you, the generalrules of our camp here to be followed. You will fall into these quicklyand you had better keep your young men as much to themselves aspossible, fraternizing, of course, when off duty. My men, beingregulars, are apt to regard you young chaps with small respect for theirsoldierly qualities. I will, however, issue orders for a contraryattitude; I myself feel very different; young chaps are the comingwinners of this war, there's no mistake."
"Now you can see what we're up against," he went on. "The Germans outthere, or as the French call them, the 'Boches,' can get at us in noother way than by raids and sniping. We have driven off two raids and wehave lost three men by sniping--three good men, too. Now, it's up to youto see to it that these snipers get sniped; to lay for 'em and get 'emas they come. It'll be hunting men who are hunting you, and the besthunter and shot wins. Dangerous business, my boy. Somehow I think thatyou personally are equal to it, even though you've never yet been underfire and you may get nervous. But are your men equal to it? It's notlike a charge or phalanx firing, nor company action. I've been there; inthe Philippines and at Santiago. Private then. Your boys have all got tohave their nerve with them, as well as their skill. I hope they have notmade a mistake in sending you here before you were tried under fire. Weshall see. But I suppose one place to get used to it is as good asanother.
"There is this about the situation also: You not only have to beat theHun snipers' shooting, but you've got to see them first. It's prettycertain you can't always do that.
"And here's another feature: You've got to be good runners, for ifyou're hunting for snipers, night or day, you may suddenly run into abunch of raiders. In some cases, too, you may be placed so as to holdthese fellows off a bit until you can get word to us. You see there aremany situations possible and there will be still more that you can'tthink of; circumstances totally unforeseen and sometimes mighty hard tocomprehend in a hurry. Just the other day we had one.
"The gun boys were giving her a cleaning up--they keep her pretty nice,you see, just like a fire company does its engine; take a real pride init. Well, they were working away, or five of them were--four weresleeping. My men were mostly loafing and sleeping, too, and some were onguard and lookout, one fellow at the listening point. I was making outreports and accounts--there's too much of that. There wasn't a gun to beheard for miles; all quiet, except for the big guns over on the Frenchsector, ten miles away, that you heard a while ago.
"Then, all of a sudden the men at post called out: 'Airplane high up!French machine coming back from the Boche line! They're shooting ather!'
"We heard several guns go off over in their trenches, but as she kept onwe didn't think any more about her. It's a common enough sight and I hadgone back to my papers and the boys to their duties.
"And then, it didn't seem to me to be five minutes before the awfullestkick-up of dust and rocks I ever saw, or hope to see, upset the wholebunch of us--it was right on the outside of the pit, though we've got itpretty well smoothed over now. It blinded one of my men permanently,poor chap; sent him back yesterday. And it laid another up for a bit;struck in the back with a big flying stone. Blew all my papers so farI've never been able to find half of them. You see this is war!
"That was no French plane; it was a Hun. He had painted his blamedmachine so it looked like a Frenchman; mebbe it was a captured one inthe first place, and then, when he got well over our lines, he turnedand shut off his engine and dived right down over our pit. Did it soquick nobody got on to him to shoot at him until he had dropped his bomband if that had hit our shelter top it would have got every one of usand upset the gun.
"But they got him beyond just as he was going over their trenches; ourgun men had luckily just slipped a shell in and the corporal jumped andsighted and let Mr. Birdman have it just once, and, by jingo, it gothim! Busted twenty feet to one side of him, turned him clear over anddumped him on the ground; smashed the machine all up, of course. What itdid to the man you can guess.
"Oh, this is war, my boy! Real war! As I said, I haven't been able tofind half of those reports yet."
The Brighton Boys in the Trenches Page 9
