CHAPTER IX A CALL RETURNED

“See here!” said our burly top sergeant, “the Boches have made a call on us, and it seems to me it is up to us to return it, as is usual in polite society.”

“I wouldn’t be so sorry,” growled Sutherland, with a grin, “if I never saw them again.”

“An’ sure, as my mither used to say about the O’Flyns,” said Quinn, “their room is bether than their company.”

But individual preferences do not count in the army. Everything, even human nature, must yield to discipline. The making of a soldier is not the matter of a day, or one of personal preference; it is one of progressive training; and a part of that training is to put in practice that which has been learned in theory.

For illustration: we had been taught, in theory, the importance of personal cleanliness for the preservation of health; but in the squalor of trench life, we were apt to disregard it. Especial care in washing of the feet was enjoined, to prevent trench feet which is not only a painful infliction but one that unfits a soldier for marching or other duty.

“An’ why,” said Quinn, “don’t they put off bein’ so particular until we have more toime?”

“Because,” said Sutherland, “the time to do a thing in the army is when it is the most inconvenient.”

“I belave yees,” said Pat. “They expect us to shave and kape nate as though we were going to a dance, or to call on the prisident, instid of standing on a fire step in a muddy trench, with rats running over us and cooties for steady visitors.”

Though others complained of rats, I was not inconvenienced by them; for Muddy, who was a good ratter, slept cuddled up by me. Woe to one that was seen within his range by night or day. Though it was at first feared that he might bark, he seemed to understand that the trench was not a place for noise.

There was a rumor that we were soon to go “over the top” to make a morning call on the Boches. Where or how an army rumor starts no one knows. But if there was ever a place where rumor first had birth, it must have been in a camp of soldiers.

“You can hear anything here but the truth,” said Quinn, “and a botherin’ soight of that.”

No matter where this rumor originated it was largely believed. Most of the men could not see the use of being so polite as to return enemy calls and, I confess, that I regarded even the thought of it with some qualms. I wanted to be brave and hated myself for not welcoming the chance to be in the lists of valor; but I didn’t!

“It’s bad weather,” said Sutherland jocosely, “and a mighty inconvenient time to be killed.” And that was the way I felt about it. But a soldier is not consulted about his likings or conveniences in doing anything; for he is but a part of a machine that is working for a great purpose, and which must be fed on human discomfort and, possibly, on human blood and life.

When the order came for us to take a special bath and put on clean clothing, the order that in modern warfare precedes a fight, we thought it of the same piece with previous exactions for cleanliness and “fuss scraping,” as Sam called it. I soon learned, however, that it was a precaution taken as a preventive of blood poison and infection in case of being wounded.

There had been a rehearsal in the part which we were to take in the attack. Every man was assigned his place and instructed as to what he must do and how to do it. It was like the rehearsal of a stage piece. To each man was issued an extra gas helmet,--making two in all. These were examined by professionals to see that they were in order; and we were drilled in quickly adjusting them in case of need. Our identification disks, which are carried by each soldier, were carefully fastened to our persons, to identify those severely wounded or killed.

Our aviators, like great gulls, flying above the German lines, had been searching out their machine-gun emplacements, magazines and artillery; and we knew by all these signs that our trial of arms was near.

At twelve o’clock at night men were sent out to cut broad paths through the barbed wire barricades for the passage of our troops. At about half past one our guns opened fire on the enemy to destroy the rest of their wire entanglements; and, although I knew that the cannonade was a friendly one, it seemed to lift the roots of my hair from my scalp, at the thought that one of them might accidentally kill me.

I couldn’t make myself feel brave when I thought of taking part in the impending attack; though I had schooled myself to stolid determination to get killed, rather than to let my comrades know that I was scared. Pride is often a good substitute for courage.

With all my fears and dread, my mind was clear, possibly because of the stimulant of danger. But I saw too many unpleasant possibilities. A vivid imagination is sometimes an inconvenient possession for a soldier.

All at last was ready. Short ladders had been placed all along the parapet, and rude stairways made of stakes were prepared, so that the men could quickly go over the top of the trenches. An hour before the coming attack we were moved to the front trench while others filled the connecting trenches, ready to follow us over the top.

It was in the gray hours of morning,--about four o’clock I should judge,--while the guns were still belching over us, that the shrill whistle of command sounded for advance. And up and over we went!

To my surprise, I was less frightened than when contemplating the danger. My mind worked with peculiar clearness as we went forward at quick time towards the enemy under their heavy fire from machine-guns and rifles.

I saw men fall as though they had stumbled over a stone. One hundred and fifty yards is not a great distance, but it is a long way to travel under fire, at least it seemed a long way to me.

As we neared the hostile trenches their entire front lit up with red flame from machine-guns and rifles.

Humming bullets, fierce screams, hoarse attempts at cheers, guttural shouts, the clatter of machine-guns, all blended in one demoniac roar as we piled over into the enemy’s trench. The foe at first resisted, but at last yielded before the impetuous assault of our bayonets and fell back through their communicating trenches. I saw one sticking out his head from behind a traverse as much as to say, “I am at home.” Another big German, swinging his rifle by the barrel for a club, confronted me. I fended with my rifle barrel, lunged, and down he went!

Then a confused mingling of men and sounds impossible to describe succeeded. I was struck by some projectile and found myself wondering what had happened to me. Then came the shrill whistle for retirement. I struggled up and, but for a little faintness and an aching place under my vest, was myself again.

While comrades were climbing out of the trench, and I was about to follow, my foot struck a prostrate form. It stirred slightly. I was excitedly anxious to get back to our lines, but could not leave a wounded comrade in the hands of the enemy. Picking up the man I threw him over my shoulder, climbed painfully over the parapet and across the shell-pitted ground. But on reaching our trench, my memory lapsed, and down I sank with my burden.

My first thought on recovering was of Jot. I had caught but one transient glimpse of him during the fight.

“Where’s Jot?” I asked. Then, seeing that they didn’t understand I added, “Lieutenant Nickerson, I mean?”

No reply was given.

“Can you walk?” some one asked.

“I guess I can,” I answered; “I came over here with a man over my shoulder. I can walk.”

“I think,” said Sutherland, “that I had better carry you pig-a-back; these trenches are too narrow for a stretcher. There’s a bullet hole in the breast of your coat. You are shot.”

“Nonsense!” I said, “I can walk; but I have an awful sore spot under my vest pocket; something knocked the breath out of me for a spell.”

Arriving at the first aid station, with Sutherland’s help, my upper clothing was stripped off and out fell a bullet! It had struck my watch, broken the crystal, smashed the works, and left a big dent in the case, almost half as deep as a thimble. It was directly over my heart. The watch had saved my life. It had been my father’s watch, presented to him by his company in the Civil War.

“Carry him to the Clearing Station,” I heard some one say.

In attempting to get up from my seat after the examination, I fell again. I fancied that I heard the Surgeon say, “Collapse!” Then, once more, everything faded, and next I found myself in a white still place with many cots. It was a hospital.

“What’s the matter, doctor?” I inquired; “what’s happened to me?”

“Bad collapse; need rest. I wonder you did not drop dead, carrying a man on your shoulder across No Man’s Land after that hurt.”

One unpleasant fact was evident to me, and that was, I was in the clutches of a surgeon. I always did hate doctors.

I got up, looked in a little mirror to smooth my hair, and started back to see a pale face looking out at me. I turned to go out of the door, but was confronted by a blue-eyed Red Cross nurse and a burly attendant.

“Let me alone,” I protested, “I want to see how my friend, Lieutenant Nickerson, got out of the fight.”

The nurse pointed, as a reply, to a near-by cot where a still form lay. “What’s the matter!” I exclaimed, striding to the cot. “Who is it?”

I needed no answer, it was Jot.

“What’s the matter?” I again cried. “Is he dead?”

“No,” said the surgeon; “only stunned; concussion of the brain from a heavy blow. He will be all right with proper attention, after a while.”

“How did he get here?”

“Why, don’t you know?” he answered. “They said that _you_ brought him across No Man’s Land almost on a run.”

Thus it was I came to know that the comrade I had brought back into our trench was my friend, Jot.

I stayed in the hospital for several days, during which time they fed me on light stuff, as though I were an infant, instead of a full-sized doughboy, and I was losing strength. I wouldn’t have stayed there contentedly that long, but to assure myself of Jot’s recovery. Then I kicked.

“There is nothing the matter with me, doctor, except I am faint with hunger. I shall starve unless you give me something man’s size to eat!”

“Give him something hearty,--an egg on toast,” ordered the doctor, “and keep him quiet.”

Then I knew I was in for “low diet” some more.

“Lieutenant Nickerson wants to see you,” said the nurse. So I went to his cot.

“What is it, Jot? Are you better?”

“Head’s a little sore, but otherwise fit as a fiddle!”

“Well, look out,” I said, “or the doctor will starve you.”

Jot smiled, and then said, “I want to thank you for saving my life. You have always managed to stand between me and trouble from the first; and now you have got between me and death, Davie.”

“Why,” I replied, “I didn’t even know it was you, until after I got here. I was in a hurry when I slung you over my shoulder. Your face was downward. So you needn’t thank me for it; but I am as thankful as you that I did it. I fixed that big Boche that was swinging his rifle for a club, though.” Then I told him about it.

“You always were good and brave, Davie.”

“There is where you are out, this time, Jot,” I said. “Don’t tell any one; but I was awful scared before we started for the Boche trench. I would have run away had I dared. I suppose courage is a cumulative thing, mine had to be given time to accumulate.”

Jot lay back and laughed.

“You needn’t laugh,” I said. “It is true as gospel, and I am ashamed to let you know, I was a dreadful coward; but it is true!”

After feeding on thin soup and a single egg on toast for breakfast, for a week, I bribed the nurse to give me a beefsteak and some potatoes and, on that forbidden diet, grew so strong that I got my discharge from the hospital in a day or two.

I am sincerely convinced that the most of my faintness was from underfeeding,--sheer hunger. But that theorist of a doctor would not believe it and thought his low diet and medicines had helped me to a rapid recovery.

I was glad to get back to my company again, and to receive the rough but hearty congratulations of my comrades.

“You still look pale,” said Sutherland. “Are you feeling all right now?”

“Yes,” I replied. “You’d look as pale as I do if they had fed you on air. When’s mess?”

I saw the boys grin, for I had the reputation of being a good feeder; but I was surely glad to get back to plain, hearty army rations again.

So it was that I again took up my duties with a heartiness that, before going “over the top,” I had been a trifle lacking in.

I learned that on counting noses three of our company were killed and seven wounded.

We talked about that skirmish so much that the woman who owned the barn where we had our billet complained, because her cow couldn’t sleep. And after all the talk, there was not much of an understanding about the fight; for a soldier does not see much that is taking place in battle a great way from his nose. What we afterwards saw dwarfed this first call on the Boches; but a first experience leaves a deep impression.