Читать книгу Over There with the Marines at Chateau Thierry - G. Harvey Ralphson - Страница 8

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Before Phil got back to his funk hole, the intelligence he had communicated to Lieutenant Stone had been transmitted over the trench telephone to every camouflaged station, and rapidly thereafter by runners to every man in the line. The message thus delivered was this:

“Look out for an attack while the machine guns are going full blast. They may elevate the muzzles of their machine guns and send their men over the top when it seems impossible for them to leave their trenches without being mowed down with their own fire.”

Phil’s prediction was fulfilled. Indeed, the preliminary, which constituted, in effect, a signal for the charge, was exceedingly obvious to all the Marines in the front line after they had been advised as to what to expect. It is quite possible that many of them would not have observed the elevation of the streams of machine-gun fire to an angle of forty-five degrees if they had not received Phil’s warning; and most of those who might have observed this seemingly reckless waste of “powder and pills” undoubtedly would have been puzzled, if not confused, by so strange a phenomenon.

As it was, the Yanks were able to time the attack with remarkable accuracy and met the boches with volleys from their rifles so nearly simultaneous that those of the enemy who were not taken off their feet by the deadly hail of steel-jacketed bullets must almost have been taken off their feet with astonishment. At any rate, the attack failed utterly, not a few of the Marines leaping out of their “trenchettes” and engaging the panic-stricken boches with bayonets or clubbed guns.

It was impossible to get any idea of the number slain in the fight, for although the sky was clear and the stars shone brightly, the moon had not risen and the woods was almost as dark as a pocket. The Americans kept a sharp lookout for the appearance of shadowy forms a few feet away from their intrenchments, and as soon as they saw them creeping cautiously forward they blazed away with good execution.

The Marines were bothered with no more “over the top” from the boches that night, although there was a heavy bombardment from their larger guns located beyond the opposite edge of the woods. When this began, Tim called out to his friend:

“That means they’ve gone back a respectful distance. We’re surely safe from another attack as long as that keeps up. By the way, they’re pretty bum marksmen, aren’t they? Those shells are dropping far behind us.”

“Yes; but we have other lines back there, and they’ll get a taste of what is probably meant for us,” Phil replied. “Say, there’s a wounded fellow lying only a few feet away from me. Somebody else shot him. I was just drawing a bead on him when some good friend tipped him over for me. It wasn’t you, was it, Tim?”

“Yep, I’m the fellow,” Tim answered modestly. “I’d disposed of the baboon that was coming in my direction and saw the one that was makin’ for your hole in the ground, and I said, says I, to myself: ‘Phil’s well able to take care o’ himself, but I don’t think he’ll be offended if I relieve his soul of the burden of slayin’ a man.’ So I pulled my trigger, and over went the villainous gink.”

“Good work,” Phil commended. “I won’t criticise you for failing to kill him, for you did far better than I did as it was. You’ve put at least two serfs of the kaiser out of business, and I didn’t even fire my gun at one.”

“What’ll we do with ’im?” asked Tim. “Pull ’im back behind the lines to wait till the Red Cross comes along?”

“No, we won’t pull him,” Phil returned more compassionately. “We’ll pick him up and carry ’im.”

“He doesn’t deserve any such gentle handling,” Tim objected stubbornly.

“It isn’t a question of what he deserves, but the kind of record we Americans want to leave behind us,” Phil replied earnestly. “You know how horrified we were by the sinking of the Lusitania and the atrocities in Belgium and northern France. Because of those atrocities we called the whole group of central allies Huns. Do we want to deserve the same title of reproach? Besides, the boches aren’t more than half responsible. They were brought up that way. A man can get in the habit of thinking anything that’s popular if he drifts with the current.”

“Now, you’re doing the very thing I warned you against,” Tim protested vigorously. “I told you that wartime was no time for any philosophy business.”

“And I agreed with you,” Phil responded. “You win. Come on and we’ll get that fallen foe and hustle ’im back behind the lines. We’ll take him any way you say.”

The two boys leaped out of their shallow “trenchettes” and picked up the boche and carried him almost gently ten or fifteen feet to the rear. Just then two relief men dashed up, laid the wounded man on a stretcher and hustled him away.

“Bloodthirsty Tim listened to reason that time,” Phil told himself.

“I drove some common sense into Phil’s head,” Timothy mused. “I hope he keeps it and he’ll make a better soldier.”