CHAPTER XVII Victory

Clem Stapley stood leaning on his rifle gazing far away over the green fields and woodlands of that beautiful, rolling country, not unlike his own homeland. The boy’s thoughts were filled with memories, the reaction from the strenuous experiences of the minutes just past caused him to sway a little on his feet. His company’s second-lieutenant, passing near, turned and look into the boy’s pale face.

“Hurt eh? Can you walk? Better get back—”

“No, sir. No! Only a trifle. A scratch on the arm; spent bullet went up my sleeve like one of those black ants. I shook it out.”

“Let me see,” ordered the officer. Clem bared his arm and showed a long white and blue welt from wrist to elbow. On the fleshy part the skin had broken, and blood was trickling down.

“Go get it bandaged.”

“I can do it, if someone—”

“Help him, Terry. Get his jacket and shirt off. Use a little iodine. You’ll be all right.”

“Are we going on, sir, soon?” Clem asked.

“Very soon. To the village over the next rise, about three miles from here. Bouresches they call it.”

“I want to find my squad and tell them about poor Giddings. Have you seen my Captain?”

“Dead. At the bottom of the hill. Lieutenant Wells, too. I am in command now. Was Giddings—?”

“Yes. Went down while he was getting off a joke about a Hun who was yelling for mercy. When we turned to let some others of a gun crew have it—they had their gun trained on us—a brute fired at Giddings at about five steps. But I got the skunk with the bayonet and then Davidson and I went on and got two of the other gun-crew. The others of both crews surrendered; Jones’ squad, coming up, took them in. Then I got hit.”

A bugle call echoed sweetly along the slope. A sergeant came running up the hill, calling right and left to officers. He passed the lieutenant and Clem.

“Orders from the General. Form quick in place in the road due south of the hill. Headquarters down there now. Enemy attack from the east. We are to hold support positions.”

Again and again the bugle call sounded from the road. There was some lively running about and falling in. Then once more, in broken formations, the marines descended and under rapid orders lined up, partly along this old road, behind a low bank, and somewhat sheltered by a row of trees. Some of the regulars came up and formed beyond, in the same line. The rest were held in reserve farther back. At the left some regiments of French infantry stretched the line, making a front of about two miles. Fully half a mile to the east a French division occupied the first line facing the enemy positions.

Corporal Clem’s arm hurt considerably. A member of his squad had treated and bandaged it with materials out of a first aid kit. But the wound was becoming more and more painful, and his arm began to stiffen. He could not understand why he should feel sick at the stomach and hungry at the same time. The “Leathernecks” had not eaten since breakfast, and it was now well on in the afternoon.

Clem looked about him, for misery loves company. There were wide gaps in the line, though that was anything but comforting. It was horribly depressing to think that some of these cronies, jolly good fellows all, would now be dumped under the sod, and that others were never more to walk, nor to know the joy of health. Perhaps some would never see nor hear again. Many less seriously injured would bear scars all their lives.

Martin there, formerly next in line to Giddings, and now next to Clem, had his head elaborately done up in two-inch bandages. Replying to a question he said, jovially:

“When I get back to God’s country, I am going to take this old pan of a hat, hang it up in the prettiest place in the best room in the house and keep it covered with fresh flowers. Why? The darned old thing saved my life. I wouldn’t ’a’ had any bean left if this inverted wash basin thing hadn’t been covering it.”

“Poor Giddings always had a pick at his helmet,” remarked Clem. “He used to say that just a hat wasn’t much good and that what a man wants in this war is a suit of armor made out of stove plates. In his case he was about right.”

“But wrong in mine,” said Martin.

“Say, what’s doing, Sarge?” asked a private of the non-com in the next squad, who now stood next to Clem in the line-up.

“The Heinies are going to make a push here, I believe,” was the answer.

“When?”

“Pretty soon. Guess we’ll hear the barrage laid down first. But maybe they think they’re strong enough to rush us without that.”

“Hope they do. It’s more lively. I don’t like them barrages. Make me think o’ my old uncle across the pond. He’s one o’ those bear hunters. Sez he’d a heap rather fight a bear than a hive o’ bees; you can see the bear.”

“Right-o! Here, too! You can stick a bayonet into a Hun, but you can’t even dodge these here mowin’-machine bullets.”

“Listen, fellows!” Clem held up his hand.

A distant shot, another, several, a dozen, a thousand, crack, bang, boom, as though all the Fourth of July celebrations that ever had been and ever would be had been turned loose at once.

“She’s on, boys! And there’ll be a lot of ricocheting bullets coming this far—so look out for them!” So spoke the lieutenant, now commander of Clem’s company, as he walked up and down the line.

The sergeant next to Clem turned to the officer.

“Do you think the Frogeaters can hold them, lieutenant?”

“Doubt it. They say the Huns outnumber them three to one. And they mean to drive right through to the Compiègne road. So it’s up to us to stop them, I guess.”

“We’ll try hard, lieutenant,” Clem offered.

Within twenty minutes the roar of the barrage ceased as suddenly as it began. Then came a lull, followed by the rattle of small arms which, at the distance, sounded much like a lot of youngsters cracking hickory nuts. Within half an hour after this the expected happened. For the tired and greatly outnumbered French, fighting savagely, had failed to stem the Hun tide and began to give way before it. Some retreated a little too late and these were quickly surrounded and taken prisoner, to suffer tortures in German detention camps for many a long day. The wounded were hurried to the rear. As the dressing stations to the extreme right of the support line became congested those set up in sheltered positions directly behind the hill were called on for duty. Then the many ambulances of the United States army, French army and American Red Cross dashed through the line of marines, and around the base of the hill.

It was at once a solemn and a cheering sight. However horrible this war of science and ingenuity had become, it reacted in greater humanity than has ever been known.

The sound of an automobile horn in front caused Clem to look up and he was almost face to face with Don Richards. The younger lad was about to look away, but he quickly chose to salute his townsman. The corporal nodded stiffly as Don passed on.

The sound of rifle fire interspersed with the cloth-ripping noise of machine-guns and the detonation of heavier artillery, began to come nearer. A company of French infantry, marching in perfect order, but in quick time, appeared in the distance. It wheeled sharply and passed to the south, around the extreme right of the Americans. In a few minutes it was followed by other and larger contingents, a regiment in part, with great gaps in its ranks, a battalion of machine gunners, each squad with its wicked mitrailleuse, ammunition handcarts, more infantry and still more until very soon they had thinned out to scattered and broken units, often without officers. Many of these came up and passed through the American lines.

The expressions on the faces of these French soldiers told of varied emotions. Some were morose, angry, or despairing. Others laughed and jested. Some smiled and wore an air of undying confidence. Clem had learned too little French so far to understand their rapid utterances, but the lieutenant stood near him, talking with a French subaltern who spoke excellent English and who began to question the retreating soldiers. There was a nasal babble and then the translation, with some remarks, to the lieutenant. Clem easily caught much of it.

“He says the enemy was too strong for them; that there must be half a million men. But I think that an exaggeration.”

“This fellow says that the enemy came at them, swarming like ants. It is no use, he says, to try to check them now; they are irresistible.”

“This man declares that they are many, but they are not overwhelming, and that if the retreat had not been ordered we could have held the enemy awhile.”

“He says that it is no use to try to stop them—they come like a tidal wave.”

“This fellow hopes you Americans may stop them.”

“He says if there had only been a few more of us we could have stopped them.”

“Here is one who insists that Paris is doomed, and all is lost. But, you see, his companion was killed by his side.”

The officers moved rapidly away and then, almost suddenly, there was an end of the retreating French. The ambulances also had ceased in their errands of mercy over the ground ahead. A strange hush fell upon everything but the forces of nature. The breeze toyed with the wheat. Birds sang blithely; across the fields a cow was lowing, a poor creature, perhaps that a farmer who had suddenly vacated his home before the oncoming Huns, had failed to drive along toward the west.

The lieutenant passed along the line again, speaking to his men. He was a young man, tall, with fine square shoulders, a firm jaw and a pleasant voice—every inch a soldier. He paused a moment and said to Clem:

“Your arm is better now? Well, try to think it is. You’ll need it. I hope it won’t interfere with your sleep tonight.” Then to the sergeant, in answer to a question: “Yes, they’re coming; re-forming first. There are enough of them to make us sit up and take notice. Three divisions to our one and a half. I don’t think any of us will take a nap during the next hour or so. But, remember, we’ve got to give them all there is in us! Keep cautioning your men to shoot low, to keep their heads, see their hind-sights, and try to hit what they aim at. It will be just like target practice, boys; only more so. Every time you score means that’s one less chance of your being scored on.”

Anticipation often goes reality “one better,” to use a betting phrase. The waiting for the expected battle was most irksome—nerve-racking to some. It cannot be a joyful thing to contemplate the killing of human beings, even though they are bent on killing. Upon such occasions minutes drag by like hours. It is an actual relief when the end of the suspense is at hand.

Clem glanced at his wrist watch—it was 4:45. The enemy could be seen now in the distance, advancing steadily. They were coming on in mass formation straight across the waving wheat that the retreating French had avoided trampling down. The Huns gloried in this destruction. They were going to make this place a shambles with dying and dead when they should occupy this region. They would turn it into a desert of burned homes, felled trees, girdled orchards, ruined villages and looted factories—as all the territory they had thus far occupied had been desolated.

“Cut loose, boys! The range is nearly flat. Don’t fire too high. Now, then, every man for himself!” Thus ran the orders along the line and the crack of the rifles this time meant more to the advancing Germans than ever before. The French subaltern, sent to observe the behavior of the Americans went into ecstasies after the manner of his race. With eyes sticking out so far that there was danger of his butting into something and knocking them off, he watched the “Leathernecks” in long-range rifle action awhile; then he hurried back to his staff. Shortly he was back again with some higher officers of the French supporting line, and their enthusiasm was unbounded. The subaltern translated liberally:

“Voila! Your men shoot! Sacre! They are deliberate! They see their sights! They hit the mark! The Huns stop—they waver! Ah, they come on again! True they are brave men! And they obey their officers—also brave men! But behold again! The front rank is down, gone! What say you? Yes, wiped out! And still they come again? Ah now, it is too much. They lose all if they remain. Behold, they break! They retreat! They hide in the wheat! They creep away!”

“Cut that wheat all to pieces, boys! Don’t let any of them get away!” ordered the lieutenant, repeating a common order and it was just what the marines were doing.

Clem, with a hot gun, turned a moment to speak to the officer. “Are our machine-gun crews at work?” he asked.

“Yes, over there by that clump of trees. I never saw those lads do better work. I think those Huns have about enough. We win!”

“Any of our boys hurt?” asked the sergeant.

“A machine-gun crew of the enemy concentrated on one part of our right and did some damage,” said the officer. “Two of their shrapnel burst among the doughboys to the south, I hear. Otherwise, I believe—”

“Nobody got hit here,” asserted the sergeant.

“They didn’t think it worth while to lay down a second barrage and their infantry hardly fired a shot,” laughed the officer.

“Got badly fooled,” said the sergeant. “Why don’t we go after them now?”

“I suppose our commander thinks they’re whipped enough and there are Hun batteries to the east of the hill that must be dislodged first. Hello, another air scrap is going to be pulled off!”

Five German planes were coming along, pretty low and in line, their evident intention being to seek revenge by bombing the line of “Leathernecks.” But four French battle-planes swept over to meet them, one fellow swooping low to cheer the marines for their splendid work. Two German fighting machines were high overhead in support of the big bombing planes.

The French and American light fieldpieces got busy and made it so hot for the foremost plane that it turned and retreated, trying to come back higher up. But by that time the French planes had driven the others back, sending one down in flames behind the German lines. The guns turned their attention to smashing a German battery going into position beyond the wheat field and performed this duty admirably, dismounting all of the three German guns and killing every man with them. The Hun battle-planes, refusing to fight and retreating, had given two of the French planes a chance to signal the range to Allied batteries.

The day was fast coming to a close. When the marines and their supporters had broken ranks and bivouacked for the night Corporal Stapley went to the commanding officer of his company and asked if he might go over to the hill and visit the captain’s grave.

“He was an old Brighton boy and that is my school,” Clem said, “and he asked me if I would tell his wife, if anything happened to him. I thought I should like to write her—all that she would care to know.”

“Go ahead, Stapley; that’s a noble purpose. I’ll give you a note to enclose, saying how much we appreciated him and how bravely he met his fate. Take one of the men with you—some fellow that specially liked the captain. Get back at dark.”