TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.

—The transcriber of this project created the book cover image using the front cover of the original book. The image is placed in the public domain.

THE BRIGHTON BOYS SERIES

BY

LIEUTENANT JAMES R. DRISCOLL

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

WITH THE FLYING CORPS

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

IN THE TRENCHES

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

WITH THE BATTLE FLEET

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

IN THE RADIO SERVICE

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

WITH THE SUBMARINE FLEET

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

WITH THE ENGINEERS AT CANTIGNY

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

AT CHATEAU-THIERRY

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

AT ST. MIHIEL

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

IN THE ARGONNE

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

IN TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT

THE BRIGHTON BOYS

IN THE SUBMARINE TREASURE SHIP

“Keep Cool! They Mustn’t Reach Us—Never!”

The BRIGHTON BOYS in the
ARGONNE FOREST

BY
LIEUTENANT JAMES R. DRISCOLL

ILLUSTRATED

THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA

Copyright, 1920, by
The John C. Winston Company

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Brighton Boys in
the Argonne

CHAPTER I
Going in Again

PLUCK and perseverance are American characteristics; in all the world there are none superior. Perhaps more than to anything else the physical advancements of our country have been due to the tremendous desire and the will to go forward, to gain, to consummate. Almost everything that we as a people have set our hearts upon we have achieved beyond the expectations of ourselves and other peoples.

The building of the Panama Canal, the discovery of the North Pole, the results attained at the modern Olympic games are but minor instances of our determination; the accumulative values of inventions and their commercialism, the acquiring of vast wealth and well being express this more generally.

And the great World War has given additional evidence of the kind of stuff that goes along with American brawn and bravery; there was shown more than mere momentary force. The fighter par excellence is he who stays in the battle until every ounce of energy he possesses is expended, if necessary, to beat his opponent and goes back for more and more punishment, with the determination to give more than he gets. Such a fighter and of such fighters the American Army proved itself to be, collectively and with wondrously few exceptions individually; it was this quality, as much as anything else, that caused the foe to respect the prowess of the Yanks, to make way before them and to surrender often when there was no immediate need for it.

Despite much luxury and pleasure, much easy living, much indolence of a kind, the fighting stamina has been instilled into the American youth; history, sports, teaching, habits of life, all have conspired to make him the kind of man to want to smash the would-be bully and rough fully as hard as he deserves. And then, when injustice looks like coming back, to go in and smash some more.

Brighton Academy, in common with other high-grade schools, in the classrooms and on the athletic field, wisely implanted qualities of fairness and of determination into its boys. Imbued thus were the lads who had, from the halls of Old Brighton, gone forth to do and to die for their country against Germany, the thug nation.

Happy, then, was he who could go back after having been invalided home—and there were many, indeed, who gloried in it. One such, wearing the chevrons of a lieutenant of infantry, had come from Brighton Academy and had served with bravery and distinction in the trenches. He stood on the deck of the transport and gazed through moist eyes at the receding coast of the land of the free, for the most part seeing but one figure, that of a one-legged lad waving him a sad farewell.

“Poor old Roy! It’s the first time I’ve really seen him so sick at heart as to show it keenly. But who can blame him? He’d rather fight than eat and now he’s got to sit by and see us go without him.” So thought the youth on the upper deck, as he long held up his fluttering handkerchief.

And then, after not many days of glorious, semi-savage anticipation, there followed disembarkation at an obscure port of France and our returning hero, with many others, sauntered to the billets, laughing, some singing: “Where do We Go from Here?” and “There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” Suddenly the young officer’s arm was seized, he was whirled about and found himself face to face with another lad, evidently a little younger, but quite as tall, with the accustomed military bearing, but upon his khaki sleeve reposed the familiar and much loved insignia of the Red Cross.

“Herb Whitcomb, or I’m a shad! You old dear, you! But ain’t it good to run smack into a son-of-a-gun from Old Brighton? And what now and where are you——?”

“You’ve got me, comrade—” the Lieutenant began, eyeing the speaker narrowly for a moment, his brows set in a puzzled wrinkle as the other grinned at the very idea of not being recognized by an old friend and classmate. Herbert, in turn, suddenly grabbed him, seizing him by the shoulders and chuckling with real delight.

“Don—Don Richards, by the wild, whistling wizard! You boy! Glory, but I’m glad to see you! But say, man——”

“Say it—that I’ve changed a bit. Must have for you not to have known me.” Don fell into step with Herbert.

“Yes, you have indeed! Sun-dyed like a pirate and older, somehow. But I knew that grin. The great thing about it is that you’re alive and looking fit as a fiddle. Why, man, we heard you’d been wounded past recovery—hit with a shrapnel.”

“Shrapnel all right, but it was uncommonly kind to me. Piece just went through my left shoulder and now it’s only a little stiff at times. Clem Stapley and I were together out there beyond Bouresches; the Belleau Wood scrap. He was hurt badly and I was trying to bring him in.” Don spoke mere facts; not with boastfulness.

“Red Cross work; we heard that, too. Clem pulled through; didn’t he?” the lieutenant questioned.

“Yes, just, but he won’t be good enough to join in again. Went back home last ship, three days ago. I didn’t go because Major Little came after me to serve again.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Well, I guess I ought to. It’s got under my skin, but I’d like to get a glimpse of the good old U. S. Came off this boat; didn’t you? Don asked.”

“Just landed. Going back to my company; can’t help it; it’s permeated my carcass, too, with the gas I got near Montdidier. Poor Roy Flynn, you know, lost a leg, but he wanted to come back, nevertheless. I’m billeting with this bunch of fellows. Where are you stopping?”

“Down here at a sort of little inn; jolly fine place, but expensive. Major Little sent Clem and me there. How about your bunking with me now? Then we’ll go back together. If I go on again I guess it will be in an auto and there’ll be room for you. They want me to report at the base somewhere southeast of Rheims. Where is your old command?”

The boys had turned aside from the khaki-clad procession, Donald conducting Herbert toward a side street that led to his inn. Several of the “Yanks” shouted words of friendly banter at the lieutenant, whom they had come to know and respect aboard ship.

“Hey, you scrapper! Don’t let the Red Cross get you this soon!” “Where you goin’, boy? Stay with the bon tons!” “Sure, we need your cheerful reminders of what the Heinies will do to us!”

It was long past the noon hour and the hungry boys ordered a meal; then began a long and minutely explanatory chat during which the affairs at Brighton, the pro-war sentiment in the United States, the retreat of the Germans and the American influence thereon were discussed with the vast interest that only those who had taken and expected again to take part in the conflict could so keenly feel. Presently a Red Cross messenger on a motorcycle came to seek young Richards.

“How about conveyance?” Don asked. “Major Little said not to bother with the roundabout on the crazy railroad; a car would make the direct run across in less time.”

“There are two new ambulances stored here that came in on the last freighter across. I have orders to turn one of the ambulances over to you if you wish,” the messenger said.

“Then I can deliver my reply to the Major in person, after I have dropped my friend here at general Army Headquarters. Let’s have your order. I’ll be on the road early in the morning and likely make the run by night.”

CHAPTER II
To the Front

THAT swift ride through France in the new Red Cross ambulance was quite devoid of any startling incidents. There were the usual bits of well traveled and rutty roads and long stretches of fine highway, the occasional detours by reason of road mending; here old men and boys labored to keep up the important lanes of traffic for the oncoming hosts of Americans and the transportation of overseas supplies. The lads overtook heavily laden lorries, or camions as the French call them; they passed columns of marching men and those billeted in villages or encamped in the wayside fields. They noted the slow moving forward of heavy field pieces and here and there they came to drill grounds where lately arrived Americans were going through mock trench fighting or were bayonet stabbing straw-stuffed bags supposed to be Huns.

Everywhere the boys observed also that there were more people in the towns and villages than the sizes of these places seemed to warrant, and in the fields and woods, in uncultivated or otherwise barren spots little settlements of tents and rude shelters had been established as evidence of the wide exodus from the battle-scarred areas far to the east and north. Hundreds of thousands of people, driven from their ruined or threatened homes, had thus overrun the none too sparsely inhabited sections beyond the war-torn region.

“Non, non, non, non!” That was the common refrain directed by Herbert and Donald to the solicitations of the French, for the purchase of sundry articles, mostly of edible character, whenever the car was forced to stop.

“If you want to get rid of your money very quickly,” Herbert explained to the three Red Cross nurses riding with them in the rear of the ambulance, “you can sure do it if you patronize these sharpers. Their goods are all right generally, but the prices—phew! They must think every American is a millionaire.”

“And yet one must pity many of them; they have suffered and are suffering so much,” said the eldest nurse, a sweet-faced woman whose gray hairs denoted that she was past middle age.

“They seem to be very patient and really very cheerful,” remarked the somewhat younger woman whose slightly affected drawl and rather superior bearing indicated that she belonged to the higher social circles somewhere back in the U. S. And then up spoke the third, a mere slip of a girl, who had been quite silent until now.

“I have wondered and wondered what it would all be like, what the people would be like; and now I’m glad I’ve come. Perhaps when the war is over we can do something for these——”

“We will every one of us be glad to get home again,” said the gray-haired lady. “You, my dear, will prove no exception, however noble your reconstructive impulses are. But these people, no matter what they have gone through, will be well able to take care of themselves.”

And as the car presently dashed on again, Donald remarked to Herbert, so that their passengers could not hear:

“Don’t you think, old man, it is very true when they say that patriotism over in the dear old United States has had a remarkable awakening?”

“Yes, you can call it that, perhaps, if we were ever really asleep. You refer, I know, to these nurses, evidently ladies of refinement and culture, coming over here for duties that they must know can’t be any cinch. The women, if anything, have led the men at home in their zeal for helping toward making our part in this scrap a good one.”

“Very good and all honor to the women,” Don said, “but I guess, from what you and I have both seen and will soon see again, that which is making America’s part in this war a good one is mostly the scrapping ability of the lads with blood in their eyes. The humane part of it comes afterward.”

“And a little before at times also,” asserted the lieutenant. “There is the morale to keep up—the general good fellowship and well-being. If the boys know they’re going to be treated right if they get winged, then they’re heartened up a whole lot; you know that.”

“I do,” Don eagerly admitted. “Don’t think I’m throwing any rocks at the splendid efficiency of the Red Cross; if anyone knows about them I ought to, from every angle of the service. But I have also seen the kind of work that threw a scare into the Huns, and believe me that was not a humane, not a nursing proposition, as you know.”

“Yes, I know that, too. And it may be funny, but I’ve had a sort of homesick feeling to get back and see more of it, and the nearer I get the more impatient I am.”

“Same here. But this boat is doing her darndest for a long run and we can hardly improve the time even if you get out and walk.”

“From watching your speedometer register something over thirty miles in less than sixty minutes I am convinced that only a motorcycle or an airplane would help us better to get on.”

The ambulance did get on in a very satisfactory manner. Here and there along the road and at all turns and forks splotches of white paint on stones, posts, buildings, bridges or stakes and by which the transport and freight camions were guided, made the way across the three hundred miles quite plain. The lads paid no attention to the French sign posts, here and there, which announced the distance in kilometers to some larger town or city and then to Paris farther inland, for the route avoided these places wherever possible and ran into no narrow and congested streets or masses of people.

At the next stop, for a bite to eat in a small village, the middle-aged nurse expressed some disappointment at not going into Paris.

“I have been there many times in former years when my dear husband was living; we stopped there once for several months. But they say now that the city is not like it used to be—I mean the people, of course, in manners and gayety; the mourning for the dead and the fear of invasion or bombardment——”

“There is no longer fear of invasion,” Herbert declared. “That time has gone past. The business in hand now is whipping the Huns clear across the Rhine and into Berlin, if necessary, and we are going to do that in short order!”

“It’s terrible. So much death and suffering,” said the young girl. “And the Germans, too; who cares for them when wounded?”

“They have a Red Cross and very excellent ambulance and hospital service,” Don explained. “We pick up a good many of their wounded and treat them just as well as our own.”

“You have seen this yourself?” asked the gray-haired woman.

“My friend was in the thick of it, around Château-Thierry,” Herbert announced eagerly. “He was wounded, invalided, but he is going back for more work.”

The women all gazed at blushing Donald, who hastened to get even.

“He needn’t heap it on to me!” he exclaimed. “He’s going back, too, after having been gassed and sent across the pond to get well. And, you see, he got to be a lieutenant for bravery.”

“You both seem to be very young, too,” remarked the eldest nurse. “Hardly through school yet; are you?”

“No, ma’am; we are both students, junior year, at Brighton Acad——”

“Brighton? Well, I declare! Why, my brother is a teacher there; Professor Carpenter.”

“Oh, hurrah! He’s a dandy! The fellows all like him immensely!” Don shouted.

“It’s fine to meet his sister over here, Miss Carpenter,” Herbert said.

“It is indeed a pleasure to know you both,” said the lady, and proceeded to formally introduce the other two nurses.

Then they were on the road once more and two hours later had safely landed the women at a Red Cross headquarters on the way, a few miles north of Paris. The boys parted from their gentle passengers with real regret; then sped on again, headed for the Army General Headquarters.

CHAPTER III
Starting a Big Job

LIEUTENANT Herbert Whitcomb stood for a long half minute watching the slowly disappearing Red Cross ambulance. The car merely crept on down the long, straight road, as though the driver were loath to leave his companion of the last twenty-four hours, as indeed he was, for these old Brighton boys, meeting thus on a foreign shore and bent on much the same business, had become closer friends than when at school.

“I wish,” Herbert was thinking, “that Don would get into the army service and could get assigned with me. He’d make a crackerjack of a scrapper; the real thing. But I suppose they’ve got him tied to hospital work.”

Then, after saluting the guard and saying a word or two to an orderly who was waiting to receive or to reject visitors, mostly the latter, the young lieutenant passed inside. Ten minutes later he emerged again with a happy smile on his face and, accompanied by several other men who had also returned to duty after the healing of minor wounds, Herbert Whitcomb led the way to a waiting motor car and presently was speeding away to the fighting front, all of his present companions being assigned, with him, to the Twenty-eighth Division and to a company that had suffered serious depletion because of many violent attacks against the stubborn Hun resistance in the drive beyond Rheims and on the Vesle River.

Herbert was far from being disappointed over the fact that he was not to rejoin his old battalion. Both his major and his captain had been invalided home and could never lead the boys again; several of his comrades-in-arms, among them three old Brighton boys, had been killed or pitiably wounded; there had been such a thinning out of their ranks that nothing but a skeleton of them remained, which must indeed be only depressing, saddening as a reminder. Moreover, this division had now been put in reserve where the American sector joined that of the British and was doing no fighting.

Much rather would the boy take up new duties with new comrades, feeling again the complete novelty of the situation, the test of relative merit, the esprit de corps of personal equation anew. But however glad he was to get back again into the maelstrom of do and dare, a satisfaction inspired both by sense of duty and the love of adventure, he did not welcome the opportunity more than the boys of the —th welcomed him. Before Captain Lowden and First Lieutenant Pondexter received Herbert they had been made acquainted, from Headquarters, with Whitcomb’s record and it meant good example and higher morale for an officer, however young, to be thoroughly respected by the rank and file.

And then, within a few hours back again into the full swing of military precision and custom, the young lieutenant was ready for anything that might or could come.

“The orders are to advance and take up a position on the up slope of that brown field on the other side of this little valley and thus try out the enemy; after which we may go on and attack him. So much from Headquarters. In my opinion the Colonel will say to just go ahead without bothering to try them out.” Thus spoke Captain Lowden at a brief conference of his officers, immediately prior to the line-up after early morning mess. And then he added, by way of sounding the human nature of his under officers:

“What would you say about that, gentlemen?”

Herbert waited until the first lieutenant should express himself. Pondexter was a grave and serious-minded fellow, oldish beyond his years, rather slow of speech, studious, thoughtful, austere.

“We don’t know how strong the Germans may be there,” he said, “and it would not be very wise, it seems to me, if an offensive were made against greatly superior numbers intrenched, or within strong, defensive positions. But if we first try them out then we can——”

The captain did not wait for the lieutenant to finish, but suddenly turned to Herbert:

“I’d take a gamble on it and go over the hill,” the young officer suggested. “We can be pretty sure, judging from the enemy’s general distribution all along the line, that just at this point they do not greatly outnumber us; there can hardly be double our number. We are good for that many any day.”

Captain Lowden laughed joyfully and slapped his knee. He was a young fellow from Plattsburg and Camp Meade, an ex-football star, athletic in build, quick in his motions and decisions, stern, yet kindly toward his men and greatly loved by them. He had already proved his heroism near Vigneulles, during the St. Mihiel battle, when the German salient was being flattened. He gazed at his new second lieutenant in a manner that quite embarrassed that youthful officer; then the captain said:

“You’ll do! Your predecessor is in a hospital in Paris; I hope you don’t have to go there, but can stay with us. And I am blamed glad they pushed you right on through the replacement divisions and landed you here.”

“Oh, thank you! I—I—don’t——” But the captain paid no attention to Herbert’s stammering reply, and continued:

“And I hope the general tells the colonel to send us right on over the hill.”

Perhaps that is what the brigade commander did, or perhaps the colonel decided the matter on his own initiative; it would require a good deal of cross-questioning and then much guessing, probably, to determine these matters. Anyway, the battalion of four companies, each originally of two hundred and fifty men, but now considerably reduced, some of them to only half their number in spite of replacements from the reserve divisions in the rear, now advanced almost as though on parade, except that they were strung out, wide apart, making no attempt to keep in step.

And no sooner were they under way than the watchful enemy made the Yanks aware that their intentions were understood, for almost instantly the desultory firing of heavy shells and shrapnel aimed at our boys was increased tenfold. Added to this was the continuous roar of the latter’s own barrage, the combined American and French artillery sending over far more than shell for shell in the effort to cripple and stop the German field pieces and to chase the enemy to cover.

Of the four companies that composed the battalion advancing across this short open space with their objective the top of the slope between two wooded points, Captain Lowden’s company, composed mainly of very young men, proved to be the most rapid walkers. It appeared also that Whitcomb’s platoon, taking example from Herbert, speeded up until it was considerably in advance of those on either of its flanks. The advantage of this haste seemed evident: the abruptly rising ground and the fringe of trees at the top offered a natural shelter against the enemy fire. Thus only one larger shell landed and burst near enough to the platoon to do any harm, but that was a plenty. It tore a hole in the ground about a hundred feet behind Herbert and the flying pieces killed two privates, wounded two others, the concussion throwing several violently to the ground, the lieutenant among them.

Herbert regained his feet instantly, looking to see the damage and calling for a runner to hurry back for an ambulance. The lad dashed away and a man, heavy-set, with the sleeve marks of a sergeant, marching some distance in the rear, offered the remark, with what seemed a half sneer:

“Red Cross car just down the hill, coming up.”

“Don’t see it. Sure of that?” There was something in the fellow’s manner that nettled the young lieutenant and he spoke sharply, quickly; he must get back to his men. Then he added:

“Who are you?”

“Liaison officer. With the Thirty-fifth Division and this one.”

“Where are your men?” Herbert turned to go.

“Scattered around, of course, and on duty.” The man spoke with an attempt to appear civil, but it was clearly camouflage; his habitual contemptuous expression and lowering glance indicated all too plainly that he possessed some animosity toward the lieutenant. Herbert, noting this, wondered. He had never seen the fellow before; evidently the dislike was sudden, mutual. Whitcomb ran on up the hill and rejoined his men, never once looking back, and the incident was at once almost forgotten.

CHAPTER IV
“Into the Jaws of Death”

ON the platoons went, gaining the top of the low hill that crowned the valley slope and then—suddenly the terrors of real war descended with one swift stroke and bit and tore and gnashed with even more than their usual fury.

Captain Lowden had been walking with a French guide up the slope and not far from where Herbert preceded his men. A moment before the former had gained the top and come within sight of the enemy’s front-line defenses, hardly a second before the outburst of machine-gun fire from the entrenched foe, the captain had turned to his second lieutenant.

“He says,” meaning the guide, “that right over the hill is the edge of the famous Argonne Forest. It is a wild place; the Huns have chosen to make a stand in it and they have boasted that nothing will be able to dislodge them. But we shall see, my boy; we shall see!”

How false was this boast of the Germans has been well and repeatedly set forth in the history of the Great War. Among America’s most glorious deeds on the fields of battle; among the most heroic annals of all warfare the bitter fight for the possession of the Argonne Forest may be ranked with the highest. Perhaps nowhere on earth has the grit and bravery of men at war been so sorely put to the test as in this struggle of exposed attacking troops against thoroughly trained and efficient soldiers with the skill of expert snipers behind well masked machine guns.

The French, long practiced in the art of war, asserted that this wide tract which had been held by the Germans since 1914 had been made defensively impregnable. According to all previously held standards it was a place to avoid, but the Yanks took a different view of it; the Huns must be dislodged and the former were the lads who could, in their expressive slang, “make a stab at it,” and this in the early morning of the 26th of September, 1918, they were beginning to do.

Every soldier engaged in this stupendous undertaking had his work cut out for him and everyone knew this for a man’s size job. Therefore, each Yank went at the task as it deserved, do or die being virtually every fighter’s motto. Throughout the long, bent line made up of the four combat divisions of infantry and their machine-gun battalion that now advanced toward the densely wooded hills, backed by brigades of artillery, there was one simultaneous forward movement with the two other army corps stretching eastward between the Aire and the Meuse Rivers. And there was one common purpose: to rout the Huns, destroy them or drive them back the way they had come. Never before in the history of wars had there been a clearer understanding among all ranks as to what was expected of the army at large and just what this forward movement was meant to accomplish.

For the glory of America, for the honor of the corps, the division, the regiment, the battalion, the company, the platoon; for the sake of justice and humanity and for the joy of smashing a foe that had not played fair according to the accepted rules of warfare, the determination that led this force ahead could not have been excelled. And therein individual bravery and heroism enacted a very large and notable part in the victory over foes numerically almost as strong and having the great advantage of position.

As the line swept up the hill, Lieutenant Whitcomb noted the various expressions on the faces of those about him. Many of the boys were very serious and quiet, some positively grim because fully aware of what they must shortly encounter and were for the moment only shielded from by the terrain. Others seemed unchanged from their habitual cheerfulness, even bantering their fellows, and a little bunch of evident cronies started up a rollicking song, but in subdued voices.

Herbert heard one man near him call to another:

“A Frog who talked United States told me that the Heinies are a bad bunch up here!”

“These here Frogs know mostly what’s what!” was the reply. Herbert knew that “Frog” meant Frenchman; it was the common term used among the Americans, inspired, no doubt, by the idea that batrachians are a favorite dish with the French, though they cannot be blamed for their choice.

“A sky-shooter gave me the dope that the Jerries are just inside the woods,” another man said. “Reckon we’re goin’ to get it right sudden when we top the rise.”

“There’s goin’ to be some Limburgers short if I kin see ’em first!” said another, laughing.

One prediction proved true, in part at least; the line topped the rise—and got it. The barrage and preliminary artillery fire had done little in this case; bullets, or even high-powered shells could not penetrate far nor do much damage within the dense forest. But it was very different with the enemy among the trees and rocks; they could see out from these natural shelters well enough to choose clear spaces for shooting.

And shoot they did. As the Americans went over the first little hilltop across the nearly level ground towards the woods beyond, the streaks of flame in the misty atmosphere and the rat-tat-tat-tr-r-r of machine guns became incessant. The enemy also was on to his job, had his work well planned and it was now being well executed.

Did an order to charge on the double-quick come along the American line? Or was it rather a common understanding born of the impulse to get at an enemy that was capable of doing so much damage unless quickly overcome? At any rate, the men broke into a run, with no attempt at drill about it; every one for himself and yet with the common notion to work with his fellows, to support and be supported by them.

Herbert’s men, being still a little in advance, seemed to draw more of the enemy’s fire than they otherwise might have done. At one moment there was the full complement of men, a little separated from their company comrades, charging toward the enemy positions; in the next sixty seconds there was not two-thirds of this number dashing on, and in another minute, by which time they had gained the wood, less than half of their original number were in action.

It will be remembered that Lieutenant Herbert Whitcomb had been in several charges when serving in the trenches; a half dozen times he had “gone over the top.” In one desperate and successful effort to regain lost ground and then to forge ahead over a hotly contested field he had seen his men go down; in holding a shell hole gun pit, in springing a mine, in finally victoriously sweeping back the Germans when they were driven from Montdidier where he had been gassed, he had witnessed many bloody encounters, missed many a brave comrade. But here was a new and more terrible experience. The Americans had forced the fighting into the open, and yet again and again they were compelled to meet the foe within well prepared and hidden defenses; therefore, the offensive Yanks must suffer terribly before the Huns could be dislodged.

The boys in khaki knew only that before them, somewhere from among the trees, the enemy was pouring a deadly machine-gun and rifle fire, sweeping the open ground with a hail of bullets in which it seemed impossible for even a blade of grass or a grasshopper to exist. The miracle was that some of the boys got through untouched, or were but slightly hurt. Those who had nicked rifle stocks, cut clothing, hats knocked off, accouterments punctured and even skin scratches were perhaps more common than those entirely unscathed.

Yet through they did go; and in the midst of the sheltering trees at last, where now the Yanks, too, were in a measure protected and where almost immediately a form of Indian fighting began, the Americans still advancing and stalking the enemy from ambush, in like manner to the German defense.

The Yanks took no time to consider the toll of their number out there in the open and to the very edge of the forest, where men lay dead and wounded by the score, the ground half covered, except that the desire was to avenge them, to destroy the cause of the loss among their comrades. And this was a very palpable desire, serving to increase the fury of the offensive.

More than ever among the trees it was every man for himself; yet every man knew that his surviving comrades were fighting with him, and while this sort of thing strengthens the morale it was hardly needed here, for each man depended also on his own prowess, and there were many who, had they known that every one of their companions had been shot down, would alone have gone right ahead with the task of cleaning up the Argonne Forest of Huns. Numerous cases of this individuality were shown and will be forever recorded in history to the glory of the American fighting spirit, being all the more notable on account of the German boast that the Americans would not and could not fight, and they could expect nothing else than overwhelming defeat if they should attempt to combat the trained soldiers of the Central Empire.

In the advance across the open the singing and striking of small arm bullets accompanied by the roar of many running feet was the principal impression which Lieutenant Whitcomb received; the purpose of charging the enemy and overcoming him was so fixed in Herbert’s mind as to be altogether instinctive. Several times he glanced aside to see a comrade tumble forward or, going limp, pitch to the ground with his face ever toward the enemy. Several times the lieutenant but just observed the beginning of struggles in agony or the desire to rise and go on again. Once, after a particularly savage burst of fire concentrated from the forest upon his men, when several fellows in a bunch went down and out of the fight and the line for a moment wavered a little, the boy officer called out sharply:

“Steady, fellows, steady! Keep right on! We’re going to get those chaps in there in a minute and make them sorry we came!”

Then a moment later, when they were among the trees, he turned again to call to his platoon, within hearing at least of the nearest, though he could not have told how many of his men were with him, how many had survived the terrible ordeal of the charge in the open:

“Now, men, go for ’em in our own way! Trees and rocks—you know how to make use of them! Give them a taste of their own medicine, only make it ten times worse! Forward!”

CHAPTER V
Kill or Be Killed

TREES and rocks. Lieutenant Whitcomb had always loved the woods and the wild places, but now, with quite a different reason, a sentiment based on a more concrete purpose, he could almost have worshiped these dim aisles of the forest, these noble maples, oaks and spruces and the rocky defiles that appeared on every side. Here was a place where an aggressor might be on nearly even terms with his enemy; at least there was less danger of being hit if one might shield a larger portion of his body behind some natural object the while he located his foe, or exposed himself only for a few seconds in his rush to overcome him.

Anticipating what the fighting would be like and anxious to do all the execution he could where mere directing could be of little avail, Herbert had possessed himself of the rifle and ammunition no longer needed by a grievously wounded comrade and behind the stout trunk of a low tree had begun to pepper away at the greenish helmets of a number of men who were sending their fire from a deep fissure in the rocks against the line to the right. Skilled as the boy was with the rifle, and we remember how he had been chosen in the training camp at home as the instructor in marksmanship and afterward given duty as a sniper or sharpshooter in the trenches, there was every chance of that machine gun nest of the enemy suffering somewhat.

This was war and there could be no holding off in the manner of winning; there could be no sentiment against any means of destroying an enemy who was eager to destroy, no matter if it were against one man or an army that the fire was directed. The boy felt few or no scruples at the time, though he always hated to think of the occasion and he rarely spoke of it subsequently. Warfare is not a pleasant matter; there are few really happy moments even in victory. There may be certain joys, but they can be only relative to the mind endowed with human ideas and schooled to right thinking. Old Brighton labored to teach its lads altruism, charity, gentleness and kindness and these qualities cannot be lightly cast aside, even under stress of battle, which must be regarded mostly as a matter of self-defense, even in offensive action. If you don’t kill or wound the enemy, so called, he will kill or wound you, and as long as the governmental powers have found it necessary to declare that another people must be considered as an enemy, there is nothing else to do. As against aggression, injustice, injury made possible by constitutional declaration, wars are, beyond argument, often most justifiable, even necessary. This idea must impel every patriotic soldier to do his best in the duties assigned him, even though he must rid the earth of his fellow men.

Herbert had a clear aim at about sixty yards distance through an open space in the foliage; he could see no more than the shoulders of any of the Germans. He emptied his rifle with three shots, slipped in another clip, fired five of these cartridges, replaced the clip and turned to see what else menaced. That gun nest was no longer in action; when a corporal and the two men remaining in his squad reached the spot there was one wounded man and one fellow untouched and eager to surrender out of the seven; the others were dead. But there must have been other Americans shooting at them; Herbert always liked to think that, anyway. And now he frowned when one of the men who had remained with him remarked:

“By the Kaiser’s whiskers, Lieutenant, that was great work! Nobody in the army, not even General Pershing, could beat it! Say, if we had all like you in this reg’lar fellers’ army, it would take only this platoon to open the way to Berlin.”

Herbert ducked; so did his companion. Not fifty feet in front of them three Huns came quickly though clumsily in their big shoes, over the mossy rocks, dragging a machine gun. They meant to set it up behind a fallen tree trunk and in the shelter of a spruce; from their position they had not discerned the Americans near by.

The young lieutenant, slowly and without stirring a twig, raised his rifle. This indeed seemed like murder, but——. There was the crack of several guns just to the left and the three Huns sank to the earth as one man. It was this sort of work that made the German respect and fear his American foe.

“Come on; more work ahead!” Herbert shouted and as he and his men made their way through thickets, over rocks, roots and fallen trees they found plenty to do. A little hillock, almost perpendicular, rose in front of them; there was the rapid firing of a gun just over the top of it, though the approach of the boys in khaki beneath wide-spreading branches and behind dense bushes could not have been observed.

“Some risk, but if we go up and over quickly, then——” Herbert began, starting to clamber up the rocks. It was slippery going, a difficult task at best, and he found it necessary, to avoid being seen, to go down on hands and knees. One foot slipped back and the other, too, was slipping when he felt a hand beneath his shoe holding him. He had but to stretch out and upward to bring his head over the rocks above, when a Hun saw him. The fellow could not have possessed a loaded pistol, or in his hurry he forgot it. With a guttural roar of discovery he seized a big stone in both hands and raised it. But Herbert had climbed up with an automatic only in his hand, leaving his rifle below. Now the weapon barked its protest and the rock was not sent crushingly down upon him. The young officer covered the other four men standing in a bunch by a machine gun, their eyes, wide with surprise, glancing from Herbert to their fallen comrade. Then their arms went up.

Now the Weapon Barked Its Protest

“Kamerad! Kamerad!” they shouted and there followed a string of words in their unmusical tongue. In a moment three Americans were at the top of the rocks and Herbert said:

“Gaylord, you’ve had your hand hit, eh? Hurt much? Too bad, old man, but that won’t put you out of the fight, will it? Thought not; knew you’re the right stuff. Merritt, you hold these fellows until I tie up Gaylord’s hand.”

A rapid job of first aid was made to a by no means serious wound; then there were further orders.

“Lucky it’s your left hand. Now then, leave your gun here; your automatic will be sufficient to induce these chaps to go ahead of you to the rear. Turn them over to the guard and get fixed up, old man. I’ll bring your gun along if you don’t come back for it.”

“I’ll be back, Lieutenant and find it. Come along, you Dutchies! Start ’em, Merritt. Now then, march!”

“Come on, Merritt, we’ll catch up with the rest of our bunch,” Herbert said, well satisfied with what had just taken place, but glancing woefully at the inert German lying among the rocks. The lieutenant climbed down to the bottom of the little hill, his soldier after him; they reached the more level ground, parting the branches ahead before proceeding. A flash and the crack of a gun almost in Herbert’s ear, the poking of the muzzle of another weapon through a thick clump of bushes all but in the young officer’s face. Quickly he stooped low with bending knees and at the very same instant a mauser blazed forth its fire, tearing away his hat. The boy fired his pistol directly in line with and beneath the enemy’s weapon and the rifle fell among the bushes. Herbert was about to rise when down on top of him came the weight of a falling man. He caught Merritt in his arms, straightened up, then saw that his khaki-clad comrade’s face was ghastly and that he was unconscious. Something warm, sticky, dark spread over the lieutenant’s hands and with a gasp the soldier lay still. Herbert had liked Merritt, a boy only, no older than himself; thoughtful, studious, delightfully versatile, a writer of beautiful verses, many of which had been published, as had also some of his songs. Here was a youth of great promise, but war, red war, was surely no respecter of persons.

“They’ve got to find him and get him out of here, and save him,” Herbert said aloud, at the same time looking sharply about to see if any more Hun muzzles were being poked through the leafy screen. The boy tenderly placed his comrade on the ground, gazed apprehensively for a moment at the white face, then turned to find someone to go seek stretcher bearers, if such were yet near.

Herbert ran back toward the edge of the woods; a minute or two would thus be consumed. A man in khaki was coming toward him; with the parting of branches and the rounding of a young spruce the two came face to face. The other, Herbert knew at once as the grouchy liaison sergeant whom he had met half an hour ago out on the hill.

“What, not running away, are you?” There was something more than a sneer accompanying this speech. Instantly Herbert lost his temper.

“Keep a civil tongue! I’ll make you eat those words in a minute! You chase yourself back and bring the brancardiers here for one of my men!”

“You can’t give me orders, Lieutenant. I get mine from men higher up. I’m on my way now to you from the field staff. Stop your men and withdraw; they’re the orders. Pretty much everyone has them but you, and they are all halting the charge.”

“You can’t be correct. The orders were to go on till the bugle recall; then to——”

“Changed then. What can you expect, anyway? You heard what I said and if you know what’s what you’d better obey.”

“Something wrong about this. Give the orders to my captain, Captain Lowden.”

“Lowden’s killed, out there near the woods.”

“Is that true?” Herbert was shocked, saddened more and more.

“Don’t take me for a liar, do you?” queried the sergeant belligerently. Suddenly, hearing someone coming, he swung around and stared for a moment, then added quickly:

“Well, if you won’t believe me, you needn’t; it’s your own funeral. I did my duty so far and I’ve got to go on.” With that he turned and hastened away through the forest. Herbert had also turned, wondering what it could all mean. Then he heard a familiar voice, cheery and glad.

“Oh you Herb!” and Don Richards, pistol in hand, was coming rapidly toward him.

CHAPTER VI
Shifted

UPON his return to duty at the new Red Cross base just south of St. Mihiel, Don Richards had been sent at once to the evacuation hospital four miles farther toward the front and there he reported to Major Little, who received him with many expressions of gratification over his return. The two entered the surgeon’s office and supply room in the rear of an old château and sat talking for a few minutes. In one corner of the room was an army officer at a table covered with documents and the man was busily engaged. Presently he arose and came over to the major.

“May I trouble you for that list once again, Doctor?” he asked. “I want just another peep at it.”

“Sure, sure. No trouble. Oh, Colonel, I want to introduce my young friend here, Richards. I don’t know whether you have heard of him or not; he did some fine ambulance work for us up at Cantigny and then above Thierry and along the Marne. Got one through the shoulder near Bouresches—was trying to bring in a blessé there right back of the fight. He also got that Red Cross Hun spy who was signaling the balloon; you may remember hearing about it.”

“Remember? I guess I do. I had a hand in that; gave orders to a squad of the Marines to get him; one of them had some dope on him. Well, I’m glad to meet you, young man. But how about that shoulder? Get over it and come back to us?”

“Oh, he’s the right stuff, you may bet that!” put in the surgeon, searching for the list.

“I believe you, Major, and that’s what we want. Spin that full yarn about the spy to me, will you, Richards?”

Don looked a little sheepish; he did not much like to talk about himself, but Major Little said:

“Colonel Walton is in part command of one branch of the enemy Intelligence Division here.” And Don related fully his part in the spy affair, beginning even with the capture of the spy’s confederates back in the States and the important part also that Clement Stapley had performed. The colonel listened with much interest; then turned and spoke to the major:

“Doctor, you have about as many men as you really need now for drivers, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but we can always make room for another expert at it.”

“Or you can let one go if he can be of more use elsewhere. We must have more men who are keen on spy work and this lad is a go-getter in that particular. Will you turn him over to me? You wouldn’t mind becoming a liaison officer; would you, Richards; also a messenger at times; that is, to all appearances? Your work will really be that of army detective, to operate in some little measure with the military police at times, when necessary, but to gain intelligence of what the enemy may be trying to do within our lines in seeking information. In short, to stop him from getting information. Agreed?”

“Anything,” Don replied, “to help lick the Huns!

“You have an automatic and ammunition? Good! Clothes and shoes O.K.? Fine! Continue to wear your Red Cross arm band. Now then, report first to headquarters of the First Army Corps and then to Captain Lowden, with the Twenty-eighth Division in the field. We have some information from him. By the time you can get there the advance will be under way and you’ll probably catch up with the boys somewhere west of the Aire River; their orders, I believe, are to attack in the Argonne sector. You will find an ambulance or a lorry going up; the pass I shall give you will take you anywhere. You are starting out without any definite information now, but such may come to you from time to time. Now then, I’ll swear you and you can get on the job at once. Your rank will be a sergeant of infantry; the pay——”

“I don’t care what the pay is, Colonel. It’s the duty I’m after,” Don said.

A little while later the boy was on his way with half a dozen jolly, care-free fellows, who were a sapper squad, and two others who were transferred army cooks, all loaded into a big transport camion that thundered, jolted, creaked and groaned, sputtered and backfired over the uneven and rutted roads, stopping now and then for deliberate repairs, to cool the motor or for meals, when a rest was always in order, together with card games or crap shooting, accompanied by a vast amount of hilarity.

Don took no part in these latter performances, but was an intent observer; he very plainly smelled alcohol fumes among the men and he noted that the driver, a morose and silent fellow, was evidently not under the influence of the beverage that was being passed around. The boy bided his time. Presently a bottle was offered to him, but he declared that it made him sick. A little later there was a call for more and the driver stopped the car, reached back under his seat and brought forth a bottle of yellow fluid which was handed around, the driver himself persistently refusing to imbibe. Don watched him and saw the fellow’s eyes take on a queer, wicked glance at the increasing intoxication of the men. The boy liked this so little that he decided something must be wrong; at least there was open disobedience to strict orders against the use of intoxicants, this being dared because of the isolation of the long run somewhat out of the usual route and the expressed desire of everyone in the lorry, except Don, who was evidently regarded from his youth as quite unworthy of serious consideration. Instinctively the boy felt that here was a chance for some investigation along his new endeavor.

Some risk was being run by the party; an M. P. was sighted ahead as he rode toward them. The driver gave them all a signal and comparative quiet ensued, with only one choked-off snatch of a song. The policeman reined in his horse, turned partly and gazed after the lorry, evidently thought better of following them and they were presently as noisy as ever.

Another stop was made. Don did not believe, nor could he detect anything was the matter with the motor. Several of the men got out and started another crap game; some were asleep, or near it, inside the car. Don saw and took his chance to have a quiet word with the driver, though he foresaw that he must prod his own nerve.

“What’s the use of just delaying a little?” he said, looking the other in the face, with a wink. “Why don’t you run into the ditch and then get under and disconnect your steering rod, chuck the bolt away and blame it on that?”

“What you talkin’ about?” demanded the driver, turning almost savagely upon the boy.

“Why, it’s a nice day if it doesn’t rain tomorrow,” Don said, laughing a little. “I said cross steering rods are often weak and ditches handy. That’ll fix these teufels so they can’t get to the front.”

“Who wants to fix them?”

“Why, don’t you and I both want to? What use are they there, anyway? The Fatherland doesn’t want anyone there; that I know.”

“Say, who are you and what?” the driver quickly demanded.

“You can see,” Don said. “Liaison officer messenger, Red Cross. I’ve got enough to keep them from even guessing who I may be. You don’t need to tell who and what you are; I know.”

It was an awful bluff, barely a guess, but Don reasoned that nothing ventured nothing have, and now that he had started to burn his bridges he would go ahead with his quest.

“Get out; you don’t know nothin’ ’bout me,” denied the driver.

“Nothing about where your orders came from, eh? When I get mine from the same general source? We’ve all got to work together. Say, if you haven’t the nerve to ditch her, let’s start on and give me the wheel; I’ll do it. And I know a way we can get off unsuspected, too.”

“Aw, gwan! You’re kiddin’ me, Sarge.”

“Aw, don’t be a clam! Your think works must be rusty or your mush case too thick. Come on, get her to going and let me show you a thing or two that’ll put you wise.”

“How’d you get into this, Sarge?”

“How’d a lot of us get into it? One kind of money is as good as another, if it’s good in exchange. And it’s big money, too, eh? You know that. Quit your hedging, fellow, and let’s talk sense. Going to let me ditch her?”

“You daren’t ditch her. If you do, I reckon you’re givin’ me the straight dope. But let me say this first: You talk A-1 American; how, then——?”

“Well, what of that? So do you. But that doesn’t keep my folks from being—well, maybe like yours are. We’ve both listened to ‘Deutschland uber alles’ enough to know it by heart, haven’t we?”

“Let’s see you ditch her. I don’t believe you’ve got the nerve,” the driver said and shouting “all aboard!” they started the motor, gliding off as soon as the passengers were in the car. Fortune favored Don at the wheel. The driver saw at once that the boy knew how to handle the big car; the fellow sat watching him closely; watching also the road. It was very rutty for a stretch, but the ground was solid; another motor car could pull them out of the ditch if they couldn’t get out alone.

The boy could not be sure of his ground; there were too many contributing circumstances for him to be altogether wrong. Yet there was a large element of risk, too, and it required all his courage to do what he did. It was really more impulse than an act of clear reason, but often unerring inspiration may come in leaps from an uncertain footing. And now before Don lay one course or the other; he had to choose and that quickly. Showing a lack of nerve would defeat his object.

There was a sudden grinding of brakes, a sudden swaying, a big jolt, a splash. Skidding into the ditch went the big car and stopped almost as though coming against a tree trunk. Half of the passengers were in a heap on the floor.

“You done it! You done it all right, señor. I didn’t think you had the nerve, but you done it!” whispered the driver fiercely.

“Now let’s get out and look her over,” Don said in a calm voice which belied his feelings.

They jumped to the ground, hearing expressions of injury and protest from those within. Around at the front of the car the man and boy were quite alone.

“She’s fixed now, I think.” Don’s manner appeared stern.

“She is. We’d better attend to that rod and bolt, as you——”

“Plenty of time. Say, this is getting results. It’ll even things up with me and the coin—— Say, where did you say you’re from?”

“I didn’t say yet. Want to know? I’m Mexican born; folks came from Bavaria. Foreign colony at home; talk English mostly. My old man and his crowd lost all their money——”

“Where do we go from here, Betsy; where do we go from here?” sang one of the sappers within.

“We don’t go; we stay awhile, blast your boots!” yelled Don.

“—through an English oil syndicate; he was tryin’ to do them and they were tryin’ to do him and did it. Reckon there’s some way of getting square. I enlisted from El Paso. What’s your trouble?”

“Mebbe you’d be surprised if I tell you I was born in Germany and learned to talk English on a visit to America, where they got me for this scrap. Who do you take your orders from? I get mine from——”

Don paused, as though listening; then added: “That slow shooting is German machine-guns. Give it to ’em, Fritz, me boy!”

“I get mine from a liaison sergeant; he’s up at the front now. Got ’em complete fooled, he has. A German fellow that was in America before the war broke out. He raised the roof over there, he says; helped to blow up one ammunition storehouse and set fire to a gun factory.”

“Mebbe I’ve seen him and I ought to know him. What’s he look like?” Don asked, making no attempt to hide his eagerness.

“Short, thick-set; looks something like a wop. Little mustache; has a cast in his eye. Good feller, though, and free with the coin. You can ask one of the cooks in there—the big one; he’s with us, too; German. Where’d you say you got your orders?”

“From the United States Government!” Don replied, suddenly pulling his automatic. “Now, hold up your hands! Up, up, I say, and keep ’em up high!”

CHAPTER VII
A Good Beginning

A SUDDEN quiet, after much complaining, settled upon the occupants of the transportation camion; Don Richards’ quick, sharp order had been heard and the driver was seen to back away with his arms in air. Then the chap with the red cross on his sleeve was heard again:

“Hey, some of you fellows in there, tumble out; will you? Bring a rope! Here’s a German!”

A sapper and one of the cooks responded at once; the latter was a big man and he came ahead, evidently wanting to keep the other back. Don heard the cook say: “I’ll be enough; you needn’t butt in.” But the sapper, a wiry little fellow, edged along just the same and he was quite sober. So was the cook, who spoke quickly: