CHAPTER XX AN ADVENTURE OF ARMS

The next morning, when we resumed our march on the heels of the retreating enemy, I was unaccountably depressed. I felt that I was standing on the verge of calamity. I will acknowledge that I am superstitious. Ever since I can remember I have had warnings when unusual trouble was impending. I did not, however, allow this feeling of coming misfortune to impair my work as an officer; for I had no time to consider such minor things as personal feelings, when the interests of my country were looming large ahead of me in battles about to be fought.

The tendencies of a soldier’s life are to make him a fatalist. He gets to feeling and thinking that what is to be will happen, and that he has only to do his duty faithfully as his part in it. And he is confirmed in that belief by the everyday happenings of his adventurous life; so why borrow trouble about that which you can’t help?

This, though not often put in words by them, is a very common feeling--or I may call it belief--among soldiers who are constantly offering their lives to the hazards of battle.

When I speak of the retreating enemy, I do not mean that we had an easy time of it always, or that they were running away. They had been forced into such a position by the strategy of Foch, and the hard fighting of the Allies, that it was essential to their safety to retreat. But to do this they must fight at certain points for the protection of their divisions and the vast munitions of war which they were removing to another line.

We soon came upon a detachment of the enemy on our immediate front strongly posted and defended by their light artillery, machine-guns, and infantry. When we attempted in our over-confidence to rush them and drive them back we were checked by a bitter fire.

Then our heavy guns from the rear opened on them. And as shell and shrapnel, with loud-mouthed defiance, went screaming over our heads, hissing as though saying to the foe, “Get outtt offf thattttt!” it was comforting to us, who had met with the check.

“I tell _you_,” said Hen. Goodwin approvingly, “them gunners are hustlers, and that Boche bunch will have to climb down or get out pretty soon!” But they didn’t!

Then information came--how, I do not know--that the enemy lines were so formed that we could get at them by a flank approach. A plan was accordingly made to strike their flank and front simultaneously and capture or drive them back.

The land was rolling ground, like that of my native Massachusetts; and the enemy at this place was posted on a ridge with their right flank imperfectly protected by their machine-guns. The plan was to strike this exposed flank and at the same time attack in front.

I was put in command of about a hundred men, besides my platoon, which I had for some time been commanding, to make the contemplated flank attack.

The night was as dark as “a stack of black cats,” when we silently marched to the position assigned for assault on the enemy’s flank, and where we were to await the signal to charge.

We got there all right and in the darkness were ambushed ready for our part, when the enemy in some unaccountable way discovered our approach. This upset the plan we had formed, and I was, naturally, undecided what to do; whether to retreat--which I had no inclination for--or assault; when the Boche forced my hand by a furious onset.

I did not stop to argue the question of fight or retreat then, with myself or any one else. The time had come to fight; and all questions of strategy must yield to this simple fact. We had four of the new machine-guns which had lately come to us, and which could be carried like an ordinary rifle on the shoulder, and I had a good deal of confidence in them.

My orders were for every man to go forward, protecting himself by the ground, when he could, and fight with all the fight that was in him! The sun was up when I gave the order, “Forward!” The men answered with a cheer, and rushed in quick time to a place about twenty yards from us to the front. Every man was ordered to reserve his fire until he could make sure of downing an enemy, or for dangerous emergencies--which, heaven knows, were more likely to occur than not. Then we made another rush, relying upon our courage and our bayonets to drive out the foe. We were successful at first in rolling up Fritz’s flank, by our audacious and unexpected tactics. I gave the order for the line again to go forward at a jump and, as Sam sometimes expressed it, for every man to “holler his head off,” hoping by this means to shake the nerve of the enemy and, at the same time, let our main force know that we were fighting, and guess that we were in need of help.

For personal defence I had my revolver and an old German cavalry sword which I had picked up, and though without great confidence in the outcome, I could see no other way than, as Hen. Goodwin said, “to get a good run for my money.”

My men, without exception, fought like wildcats and, if noise counted, the Boche must have thought that there was an army of us, and those new guns must have helped them think so. Hen. Goodwin had one of them, Sam and Sutherland one and I have forgotten who had the others.

We were in the midst of the fracas, when we heard a long, wild heartening cheer from our lines. That encouraged us. We were then sheltering ourselves as best we could, picking off the enemy at every chance, hoping to hold them back until rescue came. The new guns were _great_, and were worked to the utmost by the men who had them.

We were trying to make a cautious fight; but the enemy would not let us. They outnumbered us three to one. But we didn’t mind that so much as we did that they could better protect themselves than we could, and attack, while we found it hard to get at them over the rough intervening ground.

Such was our situation when we heard the bugle from our lines sounding the retreat.

We were losing men fast it is true; and it was not likely to be a winning fight if we got no help. But I could see no good in retreating, when I could save more men by fighting. And I had no stomach for running away from the rascally Huns, so long as I _could_ fight. The advantage was with the enemy both in superior numbers and in knowing the ground. It was plain, then, that we _must_ fight or--do worse.

I gave a little talk to the men, during a momentary lull. “It is going to be some fight, men! And possibly we may get the worst of it. But it will be better for our pride and our skins to fight it out, than to turn tail. So let us trust to luck and our American grit and possible help, to lick them before they get us. Now fight like devils!”

An amen of cheers was the response, and we continued to make short dashes over the rough ground, firing at every head we saw; for it was agreed we must thin the Boche off all we could, before the final tussle came.

We got as near the enemy as was prudent by these short dashes, and then dug in; that is, we threw up with our knives and bayonets a little ridge of earth in front of us. We were on a slight rise in the ground which gave us a good view of the enemy, and a chance to pick them off. I had at that time about ninety-five men. I had lost in killed and wounded about thirty. But several of the wounded, including Goodwin and Sam, could still fight. None of my men had been made prisoners; but several--to put it mildly--were absent without leave.

There was one friend that had stuck to me like wax, and that was my dog. Then a thought came to me. I scribbled a short note and addressed it to my captain, saying: “I am fighting in a tight place; Help!” Then fastening it in the dog’s collar, I headed him towards our lines saying: “Go!” He answered by running like the wind, and I knew that it would not be long before the captain got that message.

We were in a tight corner, almost surrounded, but fighting for all we were worth. Several of our best men were wounded or dead and the enemy shots came fast and thick. Hen. Goodwin, wounded in the arm and head, being no longer able to use his Browning machine-gun, I had taken it. I was firing fast, when I heard a prodigious cheer from our lines. My message had reached them.

“Help is coming, men!” I said. “I have sent word by the dog, and that is the answer. Cheer up! We’ll get ’em yet!”

Our group of fighters at this time was in pitiful plight. I had lost in killed and wounded over one third of my men since taking refuge behind that rise of ground. Sam was wounded but still fighting. Pat Quinn was bleeding from a wound in the head, but still firing--and making sulphurous talks to his comrades. It looked so discouraging that, but for the undaunted courage I saw in the faces of my men, I could almost have given up the fight in despair.

“Hold on a little longer!” I cried. “Our men are coming!” But minutes seemed hours, as one after another of my men fell or cried out in anguish from their hurts.

Strange to say, I thought of other things than the fight I was making; of my mother, of Jot and--some one else. One minute had passed--so my watch said--since hearing those reassuring cheers, but it seemed hours. I thought that Joshua must have been in the same kind of a fix when he thought the sun had stood still to give him victory.

Another moment passed, then we heard a cheer still nearer.

“Hear that!” I cried. “They are almost here! Help is coming!”

But the Germans had heard it too. That which had encouraged us warned them. They were gathering for a final rush upon us. Why they had not rushed us before was a mystery to me (for I had been expecting it) unless they thought to fight safely--and in the end were confident they would get us.

“Pick them off!” I cried. “Don’t let one of them get away!” It was a foolish command, perhaps, for there was a big band of them. _Crack! Crack! Crack!_ and every rifle and machine-gun did its work, until they were dangerously near. Just then I felt a sharp blow on my left arm, which made me drop the Browning gun.

We fell back a few yards to get time, but it wouldn’t do! “Stand up, men!” I cried. “Go for them with your bayonets!”

In another instant, volley after volley from our rescuers sent the Boche staggering back. We were rescued.

I had turned my head to see our comrades who had delivered us, when my foot caught between two stones. In trying to liberate it, I wrenched my ankle sadly. Before I could get away I was seized by two Boches and absolutely carried away as a prisoner of war.

My only consolation was that I had made a good fight. And that _was_ a consolation; though being a prisoner to the Boche was not.

The result of the fight, as I learned later, was that a small part of the German line was driven back from their strong position, many killed, and many prisoners taken. We had made good.

Still I was far from being reconciled. A prisoner seldom is.