CHAPTER XIX Retaliation

“LIEUTENANT, I ain’t complainin’, I ain’t kickin’ an’ I don’t want to disobey no orders, but please let me go out an’ round up them polecats on the hill, that killed my buddy. I knows just where they’re at an’ I can do it. Please, sir, I want t’ go.”

So begged the hunter and scout Gill, the big tears rolling down his cheeks, though his features were grim with determination. Beyond the unutterable love for his dead friend and comrade, only revenge stirred him; the desire to get the very ones who had caused Jennings’ death was now his one purpose in life.

But Herbert shook his head. “No, Gill, old chap, if only for your own good; they’d get you, too. And we can’t spare you now. They are making ready to hit us hard and we’ve got to fight, man; hold ’em off. There are no more of them than before, but they’ve got a field piece out there on the hill and shells probably. They’ll hammer us a bit and then rush us.”

It proved to be as Herbert foresaw; these tactics would be most effective and the Huns could not tolerate a nested enemy able to do much damage upon their immediate flank. Directed now by a gray-haired veteran just arrived on the scene, there was a precision of action that augured badly for the Yank squad. The first shell came over a few minutes after the raking machine-gun-fire that had killed the big mountaineer and the shot struck well up among the spruces, splintering a tree, throwing bits of wood and limbs down upon the men, the concussion throwing several of them to the ground. Then Herbert ordered all within the two stone shelters, except one who must risk going on watch, and he elected himself for this task, though some of the others strongly objected. The lieutenant crouched down close to the rocks and two of the boys reared some large stones about him as a shield; then the tired and hungry squad awaited results. And these results were a little beyond their most pessimistic estimates, if even one of the remaining ten could have taken anything but an optimistic view of the situation.

The second shell also landed among the spruces, but far back; the third, fourth and fifth struck outside of the stone breastwork and one was a “dud.” Then came the sixth, which squarely hit the side of one stone shelter, making the rock splinters fly and the explosion seemed as though it would tear down the heavy walls. Though the watcher was several yards away and protected in part, he was terribly affected by the concussion and his first thought was the fear of shell shock if this sort of thing was to continue. But what could the squad do, other than remain here, even though it meant annihilation or insanity?

Don Richards also, from nearest the doorway of the smallest shelter, saw clearly, as all of the squad must have seen, the inevitable; with him to determine was to act.

“That gun has got to be stopped! Two of us can do it. Who?”

“Me, me! Take me!” Gill held out his arms like a child begging a favor. “I wanted him to let me go, but he said we’d all be needed here.”

“So we will, later. They don’t know how many of us there are here and they won’t rush us yet a bit; we ought to get back before that, if at all. There’s no need of Lieutenant Whitcomb’s knowing; he’s too busy watching to take note of us. Now then, Gill, we’ll slide as soon as the next shell lands, if it doesn’t get us.”

The next shell didn’t get them; it struck, as most of the others had done, against the rock wall. With about one-half minute between each shot there was time and to spare for a get-away. Out under the shadows the two leaped, Don leading, and however agile the slim young mountaineer was, he was no quicker on his feet than the school athlete.

But long training in the woods and then the special course in fighting methods in the camps had made of the mountaineer an expert that no tyro, nor even few so drilled could hope to equal. Conscious of this, Don motioned that Gill now take the lead.

“Soft, still; go easy like,” Gill cautioned. “Big game ahead! They killed my buddy and we’ve got to git ’em. Don’t break no sticks nor jar no high bushes.”

On through the dense undergrowth the two went, doing that which Donald had deemed impossible: making haste and going cautiously at the same time. The boy, an apt pupil, following almost in the footsteps of his comrade, doing whatever Gill did, avoiding whatever he dodged. Then it occurred to Don that he was not sure of the ground; rather uncertain of the direction they must take. Could he trust the woodsman? Did Gill know?

Suddenly the scout stopped, crouched, gestured for Don also to get down. Thus they remained, silent, motionless for a full half minute, hearing plainly someone beyond pushing through the thicket, the sound coming nearer. Gill was moving his head about in the effort to see through and beyond the bushes; then he held up one finger and finally pointed to himself, motioning Don to come on slowly, which Don did; fearing to spoil his comrade’s plan, then only to witness in part the subsequent tragedy. But as little as he saw of it, for one fleeting second the question assailed him: was he to go on with this task alone? He felt that he could go on with it, for his automatic was in his hand and he knew well how to use that weapon. Then he saw Gill’s bayoneted rifle lifted high; he saw it strike forward and down; he heard a gasping exclamation and the scout, turning once to glance back among the bushes and wiping his bayonet on a tuft of grass, rejoined the wondering boy.

“He near got me, acrosst the peepers; his blade was longer than mine,” Gill remarked, in a whisper. “Scout, too, lookin’ for a way to get to us from this side. Come on!”

Again Don followed. They made even more rapid headway than at first, veering continually to the right until the boy was almost convinced that they had completed a circle. Finally, straight ahead, they described a more open woodland on ground sloping away. This they closely scanned from a screened position within the underbrush.

“See ’em, eh?” Gill made remark, grinning fiendishly. And Don, craning his neck above the friendly branches, had a full view of half a dozen Huns, rapidly operating a long-barreled field piece under the expert direction of an under officer. The Germans were not a hundred paces distant and chance favored the two Americans for there were but few trees between them and the cannoneers.

“Now, then, buddy, lay low and watch your uncle! If they come a huntin’ up here, an’ they won’t, you can wish ’em well with your gun and automatic.” Gill openly took command in this sort of thing, as it was right that he should. It was surely his game, even if partly Don’s idea, and the young officer was not arrogant. He knew he was no match for the other with a rifle and that they might need every cartridge they had in close work before their task was completed, if completed it could be.

The Huns were about to fire their long weapon; the officer stooped to sight it. As his hands loosened upon the adjusting mechanism and he slumped to the earth, the others glanced quickly around to see where the bullet came from that had killed him. One big, fat Hun raised his arm to point in almost the exact direction where Don and Gill knelt; another also had his eyes turned upon the spot where the Americans crouched. Then the fat fellow pitched headlong and the man with him leaped back to a machine gun; he had seen a movement, the flash of flame from Gill’s weapon, or detected the gaseous drift from smokeless powder. But before the death-dealing weapon could be brought into action, the gunner also tumbled over, grasping at his side, struggling a little, then lying inert, as were the other two. Two of the remaining gunners flung themselves flat on the ground; the other leaped toward the machine gun, but fell between the legs of the tripod, upsetting the weapon in his struggles before he, too, lay still.

“Reckoned I’d make ’em sorry they killed old Jen,” Gill said. “Now then, buddy, let’s go down an’ fix them other two.”

But seeing that this would be a foolish attempt, Don now took command.

“No. You stay here, Gill, and pick off any others that come up and try to use that gun, which they will and soon. I’ll go back to the rocks. In about ten or twenty minutes you come back, too. If you get some more of them they’ll likely let the gun alone for a bit and then try to grenade us. If they get to working the gun again, then——Listen, Gill; listen! The shooting all along the line is getting awfully near. It can’t be half a mile away. They’re coming fast. I’ll get back now.”

There was little trouble in retracing his steps and creeping under the spruces. Don found the squad just as he had left it, except that another man was missing. Gerhardt had gone a little out of his head; had become quarrelsome and abusive, mumbling that he was hungry, that there were apples and pears down in the woods and that, Germans or no Germans, he was going after them. Before the others of the squad could lay hold to stop him he had leaped over the stone barrier and actually untouched by a veritable hail of bullets had gone off on a wabbling run. And that was the last any of them had ever seen of Gerhardt; his fate was never known. Probably he got into the German lines, was killed because dangerously insane and his unmarked grave would tell no tales.

Herbert, still on watch and looking terribly pale and haggard, had not known of the expedition of Don and Gill. When young Judson crawled out and insisted on taking the lieutenant’s place on watch and Herbert had almost reluctantly crept back to the shelter, he remarked that the Hun shells had ceased being fired. Then Don informed him of what Gill had done.

“That has saved our lives, Don! They were getting our exact range to a T. We never could have survived that shell fire. And Gill is still out there?”

“If he gets back, Herb, that fellow will deserve all the honors that may be put upon him. He’s coming back in twenty minutes.”

“Listen! Was that a bugle, men?”

“It might have been; off a long way.”

“If it was, it was Yank.”

“The shooting is nearer all the time.”

“Slow, but mebbe sure, Lieutenant.”

“I am sure it is sure. They’ll get here, Farnham.”

“And find us sitting up and waiting for a square meal.”