Army Boys in France Part 17

It was too far for a hike and the railroads were taxed to their capacity in taking supplies to the forces at the front. But the problem was solved by a mult.i.tude of gigantic motor trucks, lorries, in which two score of men could find accommodation.

They were high-powered machines capable of tremendous speed and they rushed over the fine French highways like so many express trains.

"This is the thing that saved Paris," remarked Frank. "If Gallieni hadn't packed all his troops and rushed them up as reinforcements, France would have lost the battle of the Marne."

"They're great goers all right," commented Bart. "We're sure breaking the speed laws. But I don't see any traffic cops stopping us."

"They'd only cheer us on," grinned Tom. "We can't get to the battle lines too quick to suit the French."

Up hill and down dale they raced, through thriving cities, and quaint villages, past peasant cottages and princely chateaux, lying beautiful and serene in the bright sunshine.

They were in the garden spot of France, a place that had yet been spared the horror and devastation of war, and the only thing that seemed unnatural was the striking absence of young men.

Women everywhere were doing the work, in the fields, in the stores, at the railroad stations, on the streets and country roads. Scarcely any males were seen except old men and boys.

There was no need to ask where the young men were. At Verdun, on the Somme, on the Aisne; everywhere on that long line of trenches that stretched from the Vosges to the sea, they were fighting like heroes to keep the Hun at bay.

And on the heart of each were written those immortal words spoken at Verdun: "_They shall not pa.s.s!_"

Hour after hour went by. Suddenly Frank asked:

"What was that, fellows? Did you hear it?"

"Sounded to me like thunder," said Bart.

"With a sky like this?" replied Frank. "Never. Listen!"

Borne on the wind came a long, booming sound, growing longer and louder as they sped toward it, falling fitfully at times, only to swell into a mightier rumble like the roar of waves dashing against the coast.

They looked at each other with comprehension dawning in their eyes.

"It's thunder all right, Bart," said Frank, quietly. "It's the thunder of the guns! We are getting near the fighting front at last!"

CHAPTER XVI

THE AIRSHIP RAID

The signs multiplied now that they were approaching the battle lines.

Apart from the ominous roar which had now become unceasing, war showed its grim face on every hand.

They dashed through "rest billets"--the towns behind the lines where the exhausted soldiers, who had served their term in the trenches, were sent back for a few days or weeks of rest while fresh troops took their places.

The roads became more congested with trucks carrying supplies and ammunition to the front. Ambulances came past in an endless stream, bearing their quota of wounded men. Hospitals were everywhere, marked with a Red Cross that bespoke their mission of mercy and healing.

And there were cemeteries too, with their endless rows of simple wooden crosses on which were inscribed the names and regimental numbers of those who slept beneath.

Cripples, too, there were, with missing legs or arms, and blinded ones, who had looked for the last time on scenes of warfare.

It was the seamy side of war that thrust itself upon their sight. But though it sobered, it did not daunt these eager young Americans who had come to do their part and "see it through." It only deepened their indignation at the merciless military power that had brought such woe and misery upon the world, and each breathed a vow to himself that he would not rest until that power was curbed and punished as it deserved to be.

"This looks like the real thing," remarked Frank.

"That's what!" agreed Bart. "You can see already that war is what Sherman said it was."

"This is nothing," put in Billy. "It's only the fringe. It's only when we get in the trenches that we'll know anything about it."

"Some of us may not know much then," put in Tom. "It all depends on how long we succeed in dodging the bullets."

"Yes," observed Billy. "Or our experience may be like that of the Tommy who said 'First, I 'ears a 'orrible noise and the next thing I 'ears the nurse sayin', "Sit up and drink this!"'"

There was a laugh that broke the tension, and before long they reached the district that had been chosen for their intensive training.

It was a wide stretch of rolling country several miles in extent, and it had been chosen because it resembled in its main features the actual territory where the fight was going on.

There were brooks and hills, valleys and quarries, woods and meadowlands with a few small hamlets of scattered houses.

There were no s.p.a.cious barracks such as they had been used to in the cantonments at home. The troops were quartered here and there as opportunity offered.

Thousands of dog tents had been erected on the level places and in these the majority of the men were sheltered.

Every cottage and chateau also had its quota, and farmhouses with their outlying barns and stables were utilized to the utmost.

"Hope they don't separate us, fellows," said Frank, as he watched the corporals and sergeants picking out various squads and a.s.signing them their billets.

"Gee, so do I," echoed Bart. "The old bunch has been together ever since we left Camport and I have a hunch our luck's going to continue."

The "hunch" proved to have a solid foundation, for the four army boys were all sent off together with about forty more of their comrades to an old mill that stood near the edge of the camp.

It was a low, rambling structure with plenty of windows that gave it ample light and an air of homely comfort that delighted the young soldiers.

"This is what I call luck," chortled Tom, as he looked about him and glanced up at the well-thatched roof that seemed rain-proof.

"It beats a dog tent by a thousand miles," returned Billy.

"It doesn't matter so much while the weather's still warm," said Bart, "but oh, boy! when the winter comes, maybe it won't be good to have a snug roof like this over our heads."

A little cottage adjoining the mill served as a mess hall for the squad billeted there and the presiding genius of the place was a French cook, who had as his a.s.sistant a young Irish lad whose most prominent points were a shock of red hair and a mischievous disposition.

"Anatole is a good chef, all right," Frank remarked one day, shortly after they had had a most appetizing meal. "He may have his faults and probably does, but he cooks to beat the band."

"Yes," agreed Bart, "he's a dandy cook but he's got a hair-trigger temper. I've heard him bawling out his helper in all the French epithets there are, and that's quite a few apparently."

"Righto!" laughed Frank. "There's a big lot of them and Anatole knows them all. He could give points to the driver of a team of army mules.

You've got to hand it to him for being thorough anyway. Without that outlet he'd probably go crazy."