CHAPTER III The Silent Call to Battle

AT nine o’clock that night the order came. Or rather, it better be said, that it was nine o’clock, the appointed hour, when the top sergeants silently formed their men, reported to lieutenants, who in turn relayed the statements to captains, who passed them to majors, and thus to the colonels and the brigadier generals.

Not a word as to their destination; as few spoken orders as possible; very few lights.

The very air seemed to tingle with the mystery of it as Tom and George and Ollie fell into their places in the first platoon of Company C.

Company after company strode away until entire regiments were on the move. It was ten-thirty when Company C entered the march.

So far as the boys could determine, their direction was northeast, which was calculated to bring them in direct contact with the entrenched Germans holding the southern leg of the St. Mihiel salient.

They had gone perhaps two miles, their own platoon somewhat separated now from the rest of the company as each unit took its own particular divergent route, when the lieutenant, Gaston by name, halted them for a moment while he consulted his wrist watch, and then, more guardedly, a map and the landscape thereabouts.

Those men would have gone anywhere for Gaston. He was one of those born leaders of men, but what was more, he was always willing to go where he would ask another man to take a risk. The men knew that, and as a result there was no finer morale in any platoon in the whole American army, which was saying a great deal.

“We’re a trifle behind schedule,” he announced in a quiet voice. “We’ll hustle up a bit as we go down this incline.”

And setting the pace himself, they dogtrotted for the next half mile. Then a second stop was made, and as the men under him watched his countenance by the brief glare of his pocket searchlight they knew that they had made up their lost time, and were now at the point where the program scheduled them to be at that particular moment.

Hardly a word was spoken. If one man wanted to speak to his “bunkie,” he first gave him a slight nudge on the arm or in the ribs, and then leaned over close to whisper whatever it was he had to say.

Heavy clouds obscured the stars. It was a pitch black night. But despite that, there were few accidents, although a few of the lads stumbled and went to the ground, only to rise and adjust themselves without a word.

They passed through a thick wood, but the engineers had been before them, and there was at least the semblance of a broad path, now well beaten down by the hundreds of their fellow men who had passed through before them during the last two hours.

Once a felled tree which had not entirely flattened to the ground, broke off at the stump with a sharp crack and crunching sound. On the instant every man was flat on the soggy earth, listening, intent, ready for a surprise attack or any emergency.

But Tom recognized the voice of his own captain, fifty feet on the other side of it, instructing the men as to the route of their passage, and in a moment more they were again on their way.

They were coming now into the area of the furthest obstacles and entanglements that had been thrown out by the Germans, and as they swung into a broad and fairly level road, the piles of barbed wire along its sides testified to the rapid, but efficient work of the wire-cutters who had been there for two preceding nights unobserved, and were even now but a short distance ahead, paving the way with the pioneers for the great hosts of infantry and tanks that soon were to attack the enemy.

“Lively now, men,” Lieutenant Gaston instructed as they came upon this highway; and again they swung into a trot, after ten minutes of which, as though it had all been done by clock work, they closed in with the balance of Company C.

“If an enemy flare goes up, each man into the gutter along the roadside without a second’s hesitation,” Captain McCallum ordered. “And no noise from now on.”

It was as though he had said to them: “A few hundred yards ahead are the enemy outposts, with sentries listening for the slightest warning.” And indeed that was true.

They entered a rocky, shell-torn, treacherous field, where even the art and energy of the Engineers had failed entirely to fill all the pits or level all the mounds thrown up by the powerful projectiles which the Boches had directed there.

The pace slackened, to avert accident or discovery, and the men literally crawled along, their unit only kept intact by each man keeping in touch with those on either side of him.

Their baptism of fire came while crossing this vast stretch of open ground. They were on their final lap of the march to the communication trenches when there was a roar from behind the German lines and a big shell broke almost directly in front of Company D.

By the spasm of light that accompanied the explosion the boys from Brighton saw at least half a dozen of D company men go down. Whether they were killed, wounded or merely thrown to the ground by the force of the shock they did not learn until later. But it proved that three men had been killed outright, two others fatally and a third slightly injured.

Tom and Ollie shuddered as Harper whispered the names, as they had been passed along from man to man. One of the killed was Henry Turner, as fine a fellow as ever breathed, as Tom himself learned when they had played guard positions opposite each other on opposing boarding school football teams.

“Too bad,” Ollie muttered. “Lots worse that could be better spared.”

They were halted here for nearly ten minutes, the officers waiting for any further evidence that the enemy was aware of their movement, but apparently it was but a chance shot, for no other followed it. They resumed the advance, but even more cautiously than before.

They could sense rather than see now that before and about them on either side were thousands upon thousands of their own men, coming up in separate companies, becoming battalions and these in turn regiments, until whole brigades and entire divisions lay stretched along the line, waiting for the opening of the tremendous artillery bombardment and barrage that was to screen their final advance into the enemy’s lines.

It was as Company C was entering the second line trenches from a tramway that an incident occurred that caused both mirth and many a heart pang.

The leading men in the first platoon came to a sudden halt and for no apparent reason did not immediately take up progress. There was grumbling and growling, punctuated by sounds of suppressed mirth. When the delay had lengthened into minutes, and couriers had arrived from the commanders of both D and E companies, bearing their respects and asking if the line would not move on, Captain McCallum himself pressed impatiently forward to determine the cause of the hold-up.

He found the men in the lead maintaining a respectful distance from the rear end of an army mule that stood, with head down, ready to kick out at any moment, and effectively blocking the passageway.

“Buck” Granger, who was in the lead, informed the captain that the animal was adamant to all coaxing.

“See if you can slide by,” Captain McCallum ordered.

“Buck” tried it. He was about midships of the mule when it suddenly leaned over against him. He was caught as though in a trap.

“Oh, gosh,” he panted in misery.

“What’s the matter now?” the captain demanded.

“Nothing,” Granger answered with what breath he had left, “only it’s Maud, and she’s got me fast, paying up back debts.”

“Three or four of you huskies try to lift her out of the trench,” the officer then ordered, and as the designated number applied their strength to trying to budge the mule upward, half a dozen others clambered out of the trench to lend a helping hand from above.

But it was a useless effort. Not only were the men risking their life in futile efforts to raise the heavy beast, but the men above leaned over and whispered to the captain, “No use, there’s a high wire fence on either side.”

By this time the Germans—apparently without any knowledge of the movement beyond their lines, however—were letting go occasional shells.

“With the next blast from Fritz, shoot the beast,” Captain McCallum ordered; for not only were his own men being delayed, but all of those who followed. The entire program might fall with the failure of the required regiments to be at their appointed place when the opening of the artillery signalled the forward movement behind a curtain of shells.

How Maud got there no one in the entire regiment could have told. It was like Maud—German spy, Tom had called her—to be forever upsetting law and order and the best-laid plans. She was interfering now with the movement of a large part of an American army, and yet the lads who had known and loved the beast despite its unruly disposition felt much as though a personal friend thus was to be put forever out of the way.

A corporal who had mounted the trench side to try and help lift Maud out, jumped down in front of her and placed his pistol at her head.

“And be careful not to hit Granger,” was the captain’s final warning, as he again noticed “Buck,” still in the vice-like grip and rapidly being crushed breathless.

The corporal pointed his pistol in such a way that the bullet could not endanger “Buck;” a German gun went off and simultaneously with it there was a flash at Maud’s head, her whole body quivered for an instant, and then she went down in a heap.

The hundreds upon hundreds of men who followed those of Company C through that trench, stepped upon something big and bulky and soft, but none knew until later that it was the dead body of what had been one of the most cantankerous mules in the American army.

How the word came none knew, but nevertheless the various regiments hardly had taken up their appointed places before it became whispered from man to man that simultaneously with the American attack upon the southern wing of the St. Mihiel salient, the French were to launch an equally vigorous attack from the north.

It was satisfying information, or prediction, although the Americans, needless to say, required nothing to sharpen their enthusiasm, nothing to bolster up a courage which was prone at times even to sweep away discretion and better judgment and carry them into unnecessary hazards.

Nevertheless, it was good news to know that the poilus were “going in,” too—that it was to be a strike-together battle for quick and indisputable supremacy.

It was not known until later how true the information was, but the German high command would have paid a fat price to have been apprised of it; for not only was it exactly what did happen, but had the Boches known of the plan undoubtedly they would have been able to put up a stouter defense, even though it was bound to crumble in the end under such terrific attacks as Foch and Pershing launched against the armies which for four years had lain impregnable in that bulging line, a menace to the Allies in any forward movement that the Huns might be able to put under way.

The marvel of it all, though, to the men who entered the trenches that night, was the completeness and the readiness of the preparations for the opening of the battle they were to make.

When you, who read this, stop to think how long a distance 5,000 miles is, and then consider that just that amount of telephone wire, 5,000 miles, had been laid and connected for keeping every unit and the various commanding quarters in complete touch with every advance, every development, every emergency or contingency, you may realize, too, that these Americans were being sent in only after the most careful planning, and after every precaution of whatever nature had been taken to insure success. It was no haphazard undertaking, there was no reliance upon luck or chance. It was a scientific operation, computed and arranged to the last detail.

Not only that, but more than 100,000 detail maps and 40,000 photographs were prepared, largely from aerial observations, and distributed to the officers in charge of carrying the operation forward. These maps and photographs showed practically every foot of ground to be traversed, every natural and artificial defense which they would be called upon to conquer, and put upon paper even more clearly than words could have expressed it the exact route and objective of every single company and platoon that was engaged in the fight.

And in addition to that, as the men of the regiment to which our friends were attached lay down upon their arms that night, awaiting the outbreak of the artillery onslaught which would indicate that the first phase of the battle was on, 10,000 men sat at the various instruments connected up to the improvised telephone system, and 3,000 carrier pigeons were being distributed among different units, to be released when their objectives had been obtained, or insurmountable difficulties were encountered—provided word could not be gotten back to headquarters by any other means.

Captain McCallum looked at his wrist watch, and then at a paper he held in his hand. He went down the trench repeating the information which was the first thing definite that the men had learned since they started for the front.

“Our army is attacking along a twelve-mile front,” he said. “Our own immediate objective for tomorrow will be Thiaucourt. I need not tell you more. That is our objective. It means that we must take that town. Pershing has placed his trust in you for that; so, also, has Marshal Foch. We are at about the centre of the line driving upon that point.”

And without further word he passed along to another group, to which he issued the same information and instruction.

“Thiaucourt,” repeated Tom, as the captain left. “Never heard of it before, but I guess it’s got to be ours by tomorrow night.”

“Righto!” assented Harper and Ollie together.

Share on Twitter Share on Facebook