Читать книгу Over There with the Marines at Chateau Thierry - G. Harvey Ralphson - Страница 10

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A bullet through his own body would not have given Phil as intense a pain as the one that struck Tim and apparently ended his career. But he was too good a soldier to let even so distressing an incident delay him in the duty of speedy self preservation.

And yet, swift though he was in springing behind a tree and bringing his rifle into position for firing, there were others just as speedy as he. Six men in gray uniforms, but decidedly un-uniform as to size and grace of physique, were standing out in full view with guns leveled at him.

Instinctively Phil’s hand moved an inch or two toward his hand-grenade sack. But it stopped almost with the impulse. He had used the last of his grenades half an hour before in the squad’s last fight that resulted in the extermination of one of the most obstinate of all the machine-gun nests in the woods. How he wished he had been more mindful of his supply while hurling those missiles at the enemy. Two of them, he recalled distinctly, had gone wide of their marks and represented a sheer waste of powder and shell. Oh, if he had only one of those grenades! With it he could produce such execution in that group of snipers that he could easily capture or finish with his rifle those not slain by the explosion of the hand missile. He was sure he could hurl a grenade accurately and at the same time keep his head and body fairly well protected from the enemy’s rifles behind the hole of the tree.

But there was no use now of mourning over spilled milk or exploded shells, and an attempt to engage in battle, alone, with six Hohenzollernites, all of whom had the drop on him, could mean nothing more hopeful than death.

One of the snipers called out an order in German, but Phil did not understand it, although he had studied the language one year at school. Then all six men advanced toward him with their guns ready to fire the instant the Marine showed a disposition to fight.

The boy was on the verge of offering to surrender when a new interruption of proceedings produced one of those spectacular thrills that relieve the carnage of battle of some of its dreadfulness. Almost without warning, save for a heavy, momentary rushing sound in the atmosphere, there was an explosion and upheaval of earth midway between the boches and the American Marines.

Phil did not see what occurred. For the moment he could see nothing but confusion. His first thought was that the explosion was caused by a shell from either American or boche artillery. But this could hardly be. He had heard no shrill scream that always heralds the approach of such missiles. Sound travels more rapidly than even a cannon projectile, and soldiers often comment with grim amusement on their acquired skill at “dodging” shells whose approach is announced by their own shrieks piercing the air ahead of them.

Suddenly Phil recalled that, in the midst of the excitement attending his and Tim’s excursion into the ravine, he had heard faintly a familiar noise in the upper atmosphere—caused by the powerful gyrations of an aeroplane. As the echoes of the explosion of the shell died away, he heard the super-sonorous buzz of the “great mechanical bee” again and looked upward.

It was a French aeroplane, from which the bomb had fallen. Apparently the flyer had seen the unequal combat going on below and dropped an explosive in the hope of incapacitating the opponents of the boy in khaki to do him any harm. The overhead foliage was not heavy at this point and it was not inconceivable that the aviator might have seen even more of the activities of the six snipers than Phil and Tim had seen.

None of the advancing enemy was killed, although it seemed well-nigh miraculous that all of them were not at least fatally injured. However, Phil saw two of them picking themselves up after the cloud of flying earth, stones, and sticks had fallen back to earth. Blood was trickling from the face of each of these and all of the others were nursing severe cuts or bruises.

Phil saw his opportunity. Every one of the boches had dropped his gun in order the better to pet his smarting wounds. The boy, protected by the hole of the large tree which he was endeavoring to keep between himself and the enemy’s bullets, had not been touched by even the smallest of the flying stones, sticks, bits of earth or pieces of shell. Springing out from behind the tree he ran toward the panic-stricken sextette, with rifle ready to be brought to his shoulder at a moment’s warning.

“Halt!” he cried; “Halt, or I’ll shoot!”