CHAPTER X

THE LAST LAP

Though the shadow of the trenches hung over them, Bob's latest acquisition put his bunkies in a decidedly lightsome mood. After bidding a pleasant good-bye to Gaston's keepers, and giving the redoubtable Gaston himself a fairly wide berth, the five Brothers wandered on through the village. It was not yet three o'clock, and they were not due back to camp until four o'clock.

Dusk would see them under full pack again, and ready to take the road to the firing line. The advance guard, composed of military police, were to start at least two hours ahead of the main detachment. They would not march in a body, but would straggle along by ones and twos, lest some lurking enemy along the road might learn from their numbers that a new army was soon to be on its way to the front-line trenches.

"We'd best turn back to camp," Schnitzel at last suggested. "It's twenty after three, and we must be almost a mile from headquarters. I want to fix up my pack before we start."

The exploring party had left their heavy packs and equipment in charge of a comrade. They carried on their stroll only their haversacks containing their supper and breakfast ration, two thick sandwiches apiece.

Until dugout shelters were reached the next morning, they would have no more hot food. Nothing that required cooking would be given them on this last march except hot coffee. Now, so close to the German lines, the cook wagons would be temporarily closed. Bits of food or sparks dropped in the road might also serve to inform the enemy that Uncle Sam's Boys were nearing the front.

About to retrace their steps, the five Khaki Boys were suddenly brought to a sudden standstill by a loud cry from Ignace.

"Look you!" he exclaimed, pointing upward. "So is it the fight by the air!"

Instantly turning their eyes skyward, the group saw high above them an aeroplane cutting wild circles in the air. Around it little puffs of white smoke were continually bursting. As each puff burst, a peculiar "plopping" could be heard, though dully.

The plane itself was up too high for the watchers to tell much about it. Besides, they were not familiar enough with the various types of aeroplanes used by the Allies and the Huns to be able to distinguish to which side it belonged.

"It must be a French or an English plane, and the Boches are peppering it with anti-aircraft shells," surmised Bob, ever ready to theorize on whatever chanced to meet his gaze.

"You're wrong, old man. It's a Boche plane, and the Allied guns are after it."

Schnitzel's correction was uttered with a quiet positiveness that brought instant questions of, "How do you know?" "Who put you wise?" "What makes you so sure of that?"

"Oh, I've been finding out all I could about anti-aircraft guns, batteries, shells and all that," Schnitzel answered. "I worked in a gun plant, you know, before I enlisted. I've told you that. Machine guns were its specialty, but I learned a lot about other kinds of guns, too. I put in a request for Artillery when I enlisted, but I landed in Infantry instead. I was pretty sore about it at first, but I soon got over it.

"Just the same," he went on, "I've still a hankering after the big guns. I've been asking questions right and left ever since we came over. Back in England at the rest camp I met a Tommy who'd been in artillery since the war began. He'd done his bit, and lost an eye, so he was back to Blighty for good. He told me a lot of interesting stuff about guns. He said the Allied anti-aircraft shells showed white smoke when they exploded, and the Boche anti-shells showed black. So there you are. If what he said was so, and I'm sure it was, that's an Allied battery shelling a Boche plane."

Listening to Schnitzel's explanation, the eyes of the quintet, nevertheless, remained fixed on the swooping, circling black speck overhead. Not for a moment did the concealed Allied battery cease its attack on the enemy plane.

Though their necks began to ache and their eyes to smart, they could not draw their fascinated gaze from that gyrating black dot. Even as they watched, it seemed to grow a trifle larger.

"It's coming down!" yelled Jimmy. "They got it! Hurray! I'll bet this plane was trying to get a line on what was doing down here."

"It's dropping, sure as a gun!" shouted Bob. "Some drop! Oh, glory, I wish it would flop right here!"

"It's coming down, down, down, all right!" sang out Roger. "We won't see it though. It'll probably land miles from here, on the other side of those hills. That aviator didn't have much show as an observer."

In what seemed to them an incredibly short time, the doomed plane had sped earthward, and out of sight behind the distant hills east of them.

"So is it, some Boche get kill pretty quick. He never more do nothin'," commented Ignace with grim satisfaction.

"Not so you can notice it," airily agreed Bob. "If he wasn't croaked by the anti, he'd hit the ground with a bump that would finish him. Well, show's over. We've seen a Boche plane shelled and a Hun aviator downed, now let's be on our way. If we never live to see another Fritzie birdman's wings clipped, we've seen one, anyhow."

"We're going to live to see a whole lot more welcome sights like that," asserted Jimmy sturdily.

"Glad to hear it," grinned Bob. "Only the saints croak young. We have a pretty fair show to keep on going, according to that."

Signally inspirited at witnessing the defeat of an enemy the five bunkies set off for headquarters talking cheerily as they walked. There they found their comrades had already begun to assemble, preparatory to the night march, which would begin as soon as sheltering twilight descended. Group after group of soldiers, who had been resting during the afternoon, or roaming about the village, now reported, and stood awaiting the order to "Fall in."

As time went on, conversation gradually died out among the men. Earlier exchange of good-humored badinage ceased, and comparative silence replaced it, broken only by an occasional low murmur of voices.

With the first signs of twilight the tension began to tighten. A curious hush pervaded the two detachments, as the heavily burdened Sammies stood about and watched the dusk grow and deepen. Strangely enough, no distant rumble of artillery broke the spell. Though the voices of the guns had boomed all day, now they were silent. It was an hour which those who survived the struggle they were about to enter would long remember.

At last it came; the clarion notes of the bugle, blowing the order "Fall in." With calm, resolute faces each Khaki Boy found his place in the long double line.

The order was passed along: "Right dress--right dress!" A shuffling of feet, a straightening of lines, and the Khaki Boys were ready for the next command.

"Front!"

Every pair of boyish eyes looked unswervingly ahead.

"Report!"

Corporal after corporal accounted for his squad. There were no laggers or deserters in that heroic band. The time had come, and the Khaki Boys were ready.

"Squads right--March!"

By rows of fours the soldier boys turned, then in the growing darkness they swung off, rifles on their shoulders, stepping alertly, and with the rhythm that long training had given them. On every face shone the quiet determination to do well. Every man was imbued with the resolve to give good account of himself. The Khaki Boys were out to "do and dare" for the honor of Uncle Sam and his Allies.