Читать книгу Over There with the Marines at Chateau Thierry - G. Harvey Ralphson - Страница 7

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That settled it in Phil’s mind. There would be no “over the top” from the enemy lines that night. Probably, after all, he was mistaken in assuming that the boches, conscious of their own insufficiency of reserves, would hesitate to make a morning attack. They were planning to harass the Yanks all night with gas and a hurricane of shells, and in the morning make a charge that would sweep everything before it.

With the putting on of the masks, the conversation between Phil and Tim stopped. It really seemed that the former’s soliloquy following this operation was better reasoning than his earlier conjectures had been. The cannonade that followed the “gas wave” was terrific and it seemed that such a barrage must mean something in the nature of a sequence, but they would hardly charge right into the gas they had shelled into the Yank’s lines.

But again Phil was privileged to change his mind, and that very suddenly. The bombardment continued until after dark and many shells exploded perilously near the Pershing forces—a few did fatal damage right in the midst of the waiting Americans at the edge of the woods.

At about 9:30 o’clock this bombardment ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Neither Phil nor Tim had taken part in or witnessed a night attack, except in the nature of a cannonading, since their first experience on the Verdun front, and they were greatly astonished at what came next.

But they were not without warning, for the signal service was on the qui vive constantly, as were also the advance sentries, and about two minutes before there was any sign of the approach of the enemy, word went along the line to be on the lookout for an attack.

“So my first surmise was right, after all,” Phil mused. “They’re going to attack under cover of the darkness so that they may retreat more successfully if their attack fails.”

Another surprise was coming not only to Phil and Tim, but to many other “dug-in” Marines along the American front. It had to do with the character of the attack.

Suddenly the American lines were swept with a sharp, snappy, vicious machine-gun fire. The boches had crept up under cover of the darkness and succeeded in planting a score or more of machine guns at various places in the timber a hundred yards ahead and started pumping a murderous storm of bullets at the doughboys.

But fortunately it was murderous in sight and sound chiefly, for very few of the Yanks were hit. In the first place, it was almost a random attack, for the muzzles of the guns were elevated a degree or more too high to rake the edges of the funk holes in which the Americans were crouching. Moreover, the intervening trees intercepted many of the bullets, as was evident from the tattoo thuds that could be heard even amid the noisy spitting of the machine guns.

Just what the enemy hoped to accomplish by this method of attack it was difficult at first to determine, although the Yanks were destined to discover very shortly that it was a clever sort of camouflage.

But the cunning boches were destined to discover something, too, and to Phil was due the credit for this rather startling enlightenment of the enemy.

“Tim,” he called out to his friend, “I believe that is nothing but a machine-gun barrage intended to throw us off our guard. They’re planning a surprise attack.”

A “machine-gun barrage” was a new one to Tim, but he listened respectfully for further explanation.

“We can expect them to come over any minute,” Phil continued rapidly. “I’ve got an idea of how they’re going to do it. By the way, I’m going to make a dive over to Lieutenant Stone and tell him what I’ve got in mind. He’s only a few jumps away. He’ll probably reprimand me, if he doesn’t report me to headquarters, but the suspicion I’ve got seems to me so important that I’ll risk any punishment this side of the firing squad.”

The thunder of the cannonade and the sharper rattle of the machine guns were so intense that Phil found it necessary to scream his message to his next-trench neighbor to insure being heard.

“Well, if it’s so very important, don’t stop to tell me about it, but hurry up and get it where it will do most good,” Tim yelled back. “They won’t take me by surprise.”

A moment later Phil was dashing over the underbrush and among the trees in momentary danger of butting his head against a very solid and substantial interference or of sprawling violently on the ground. But he had surveyed the vicinity carefully before the shadows of evening thickened in the woods and knew pretty accurately where the lieutenant had dug in. He had to move just as carefully also as if he were stealing along an enemy line of trenches, for some of the American soldiers were likely to discover him and shoot him as a spy.

He succeeded in making his way within a few feet of the lieutenant’s trench and, crouching low, began to signal to him by calling his name in graduated rising tones. Presently the officer replied and Phil informed him who he was.

In a few words the sergeant communicated his self-imposed message to his superior officer.

“That is probably the best suggestion that has come from any source on this front since the American Marines were stationed here,” remarked Lieutenant Stone. “Now, you get back to your post as fast as ever you can, or I’ll order you sent back behind the lines under guard.”

Phil darted back gleefully along the rear of the American line and toward his empty funk hole, which he reached with very good caution as well as expedition.