''And they thought we wouldn't fight'', Floyd Phillips Gibbons [hot novels to read .TXT] 📗

"Boston talking," the Adjutant turns to the Colonel and repeats, "Pittsburgh wants to know if there's much coming in here."

"Tell them nothing to amount to anything," replies the Colonel and the Adjutant repeats the message over the wire. As he finished, one German shell did land so close to the dugout that the door blew open. The officer stepped to the opening and called out into the darkness.

"Gas guard. Smell anything?"

"Nothing, sir. Think they are only high explosives."

2:47. "Boston talking—enemy sent up one red, one green rocket and then three green rockets from B-14," the Adjutant repeats.

"Where is that report from?" asks the Colonel.

"The operator at Jamestown, sir," replies the Adjutant.

"Be ready for some gas, gentlemen," says the Colonel. "I think that's Fritzie's order for the stink. Orderly, put down gas covers on the doors and windows."

I watched the man unroll the chemically dampened blankets over the doors and windows.

2:49. "Boston talking—23 calls for barrage."

The Colonel and Major turn immediately to the wall map, placing a finger on 23 position.

"Hum," says the Colonel. "Counter attack, hey? Well, the barrage will take care of them, but get me Watson on the line."

"Connect me with Nantucket," the Adjutant asks the operator. "Hello, Watson, just a minute," turning to Colonel, "here's Watson, sir."

"Hello, Watson," the Colonel says, taking the receiver. "This is Yellow Jacket. Watch out for counter attack against 23. Place your men in readiness and be prepared to support Michel on your right. That's all," returning 'phone to the Adjutant, "Get me Mr. Lake."

While the Adjutant made the connection, the Colonel explained quickly the planned flanking movement on the map. "If they come over there," he said to the French Major, "not a God-damn one of them will ever get back alive."

The French Major made a note in his report book.

"Hello, Lake," the Colonel says, taking the 'phone. "This is Yellow Jacket. Keep your runners in close touch with Michel and Watson. Call me if anything happens. That's all."

3:00. "Boston talking—G-2 reports all O.K. Still waiting for the message from Worth."

3:02. "Storming party reports unhindered progress. No enemy encountered yet."

This was the first message back from the raiders. It had been sent over the wire and the instruments they carried with them and then relayed to the Colonel's command post.

"Magnifique," says the French Major.

3:04. "Boston talking. X-10 reports gas in Bois des Seicheprey."

3:05. "Boston talking. Hello, yes, nothing coming in here to amount to anything. Just had a gas warning but none arrived yet."

3:07. "Boston talking,——Yes, all right" (turning to Colonel), "operator just received message from storming party 'so far so good.'"

"Not so bad for thirty-seven minutes after opening of the operation," remarks the Colonel.

"What is 'so far so good'?" inquires the French Major, whose knowledge of English did not extend to idioms. Some one explained.

3:09. "Boston talking—Watson reports all quiet around 23 now."

"Guess that barrage changed their minds," remarks the Colonel.

With gas mask at alert, I walked out for a breath of fresh air. The atmosphere in a crowded dugout is stifling. From guns still roaring in the rear and from in front came the trampling sound of shells arriving on German positions. The first hints of dawn were in the sky. I returned in time to note the hour and hear:

3:18. "Boston talking—O-P reports enemy dropping line of shells from B-4 to B-8."

"Trying to get the boys coming back, hey?" remarks the Colonel. "A fat chance. They're not coming back that way."

3:21. "Boston talking—23 reports that the barrage called for in their sector was because the enemy had advanced within two hundred yards of his first position. Evidently they wanted to start something, but the barrage nipped them and they fell back fast."

"Perfect," says the French Major.

3:25. "Boston talking—two green and two red rockets were sent up by the enemy from behind Richecourt."

"Hell with 'em, now," the Colonel remarks.

3:28. "Boston talking—all O. K. in Z-2. Still waiting to hear from Michel."

"I rather wish they had developed their counter attack," says the Colonel. "I have a reserve that would certainly give them an awful wallop."

3:30. "Boston talking—more gas in Bois des Seicheprey."

3:33. "Boston talking—white stars reported from Richecourt."

"They must be on their way back by this time," says the Colonel, looking at his watch.

3:37. "Boston talking,—enemy now shelling on the north edge of the town. A little gas."

3:40. "Boston talking—X-1 reports some enemy long range retaliation on our right.

"They'd better come back the other way," says the Colonel.

"That was the intention, sir," the lieutenant reported from across the room.

3:42. "Boston talking—signalman with the party reports everything O. K."

"We don't know yet whether they have had any losses or got any prisoners," the Colonel remarks. "But the mechanism seems to have functioned just as well as it did in the last raid. We didn't get a prisoner that time, but I sorter feel that the boys will bring back a couple with them to-night."

3:49. "Boston talking—G-9 reports some of the raiding party has returned and passed that point."

"Came back pretty quick, don't you think so, Major?" said the Colonel with some pride. "Must have returned over the top."

It is 3:55 when we hear fast footsteps on the stone stairs leading down to the dugout entrance. There is a sharp rap on the door followed by the Colonel's command, "Come in."

A medium height private of stocky build, with shoulders heaving from laboured breathing and face wet with sweat, enters. He removes his helmet, revealing disordered blonde hair. He faces the Colonel and salutes.

"Sir, Sergeant Ransom reports with message from Liaison officer. All groups reached the objectives. No enemy encountered on the right, but a party on the left is believed to be returning with prisoners. We blew up their dugouts and left their front line in flames."

"Good work, boy," says the Colonel, rising and shaking the runner's hand. "You got here damn quick. Did you come by the Lincoln trench?"

"No, sir, I came over the top from the battalion post. Would have been here quicker, but two of us had to carry back one boy to that point before I could get relieved."

"Wounded?"

"No, sir,—dead."

"Who was it?" asks the young lieutenant.

"Private Kater, sir, my squad mate."

As the sergeant raised his hand in parting salute, all of us saw suspended from his right wrist a most formidable weapon, apparently of his own construction. It was a pick handle with a heavy iron knob on one end and the same end cushioned with a mass of barbed wire rolled up like a ball of yarn. He smiled as he noticed our gaze.

"It's the persuader, sir," he said. "We all carried them."

He had hardly quitted the door when another heavily breathing figure with shirt half torn off by barbed wire appeared.

"K Company got there, sir; beg pardon, sir. I mean sir, Sergeant Wiltur reports, sir, with message from Liaison officer. All groups reached the objectives. They left their dugouts blazing and brought back one machine gun and three prisoners."

"Very good, Sergeant," said the Colonel. "Orderly, get some coffee for these runners."

"I'd like to see the doctor first, sir," said the runner with the torn shirt. "Got my hand and arm cut in the wire."

"Very well," said the Colonel, turning to the rest of the party, "I knew my boys would bring back bacon."

More footsteps on the entrance stairway and two men entered carrying something between them. Sweat had streaked through the charcoal coating on their faces leaving striped zebra-like countenances.

"Lieutenant Burlon's compliments, sir," said the first man. "Here's one of their machine guns."

"Who got it?" inquired the Colonel.

"Me and him, sir."

"How did you get it?"

"We just rolled 'em off it and took it."

"Rolled who off of it?"

"Two Germans, sir."

"What were they doing all that time?"

"Why, sir, they weren't doing anything. They were dead."

"Oh, very well, then," said the Colonel. "How did you happen to find the machine gun?"

"We knew where it was before we went over, sir," said the man simply. "We were assigned to get it and bring it back. We expected we'd have to fight for it, but I guess our barrage laid out the crew. Anyhow we rushed to the position and found them dead."

"All right," said the Colonel, "return to your platoon. Leave the gun here. It will be returned to you later and will be your property."

I went out with the machine gun captors and walked with them to the road. There was the hum of motors high overhead and we knew that American planes were above, going forward to observe and photograph German positions before the effects of our bombardments could be repaired. A line of flame and smoke pouring up from the enemy's front line showed where their dugouts and shelters were still burning.

Daylight was pouring down on a ruined village street, up which marched the returning raiders without thought of order. They were a happy, gleeful party, with helmets tipped back from their young faces wet and dirty, with rifles swung over their shoulders and the persuaders dangling from their wrists. Most of them were up to their knees and their wrap puttees were mostly in tatters from the contact with the entanglements through which they had penetrated.

As they approached, I saw the cause for some of the jocularity. It was a chubby, little, boyish figure, who sat perched up on the right shoulder of a tall, husky Irish sergeant. The figure steadied itself by grasping the sergeant's helmet with his left hand. The sergeant steadied him by holding one right arm around his legs.

But there was no smile on the face of the thus transformed object. His chubby countenance was one of easily understood concern. He was not a day over sixteen years and this was quite some experience for him. He was one of the German prisoners and these happy youngsters from across the seas were bringing him in almost with as much importance as though he had been a football hero. He was unhurt and it was unnecessary to carry him, but this tribute was voluntarily added, not only as an indication of extreme interest, but to reassure the juvenile captive of the kindly intentions of his captors.

"Jiggers, here's the Colonel's dugout," one voice shouted. "Put him down to walk, now."

The big sergeant acted on the suggestion and the little Fritz was lowered to the ground. He immediately caught step with the big sergeant and took up the latter's long stride with his short legs and feet encased in clumsy German boots. His soiled uniform had been the German field grey green. His helmet was gone but he wore well back on his head the flat round cloth cap. With his fat cheeks he looked like a typical baker's boy, and one almost expected to see him carrying a tray of rolls on his head.

"For the luva Mike, Tim," shouted an ambulance man, "do you call that a prisoner?"

"Sure he does look like a half portion," replied Sergeant Tim with a smile. "We got two hundred francs for a whole one. I don't know what we can cash this one in for."

"He ought to be worth more," some one said; "that barrage cost a million dollars. He's the million dollar baby of the raid."

"Sergeant, I'm not kidding," came one serious voice. "Why turn him in as a prisoner? I like the kid's looks. Why can't we keep him for the company mascot?"

The discussion ended when the Sergeant and his small charge disappeared in the Colonel's quarters for the inevitable questioning that all prisoners must go through. Several wounded were lying on the stretchers in front of the first aid dugout waiting for returning ambulances and passing the time meanwhile by smoking cigarettes and explaining how close each of them had been to the shell that exploded and "got 'em."

But little of the talk was devoted to themselves. They were all praise for the little chaplain from New England who, without arms,