Short Stories of the New America Part 15

"A man who is careless about himself is not likely to look after his men, and that is an officer's first duty. You set a bad example to the members of your squad, Mr. Wheeler."

"Yes, sir."

Wheeler saluted and the captain turned away just as Kennedy came forward. The corporal gripped Kennedy's wrist and held him fast, then led him in silence back to his place.

"That's all right," he whispered in Kennedy's ear. "Don't you b.u.t.t in.

You'd only get it in the neck if you did."

Kennedy, believing that a soldier's first duty is to obey, did not persist; he saw the captain leave the shelter and join a group of officers on the bank.

"It isn't fair, though, for you to take the blame," he began.

"It's of no importance," Wheeler answered.

A few moments later Kennedy was convinced that the corporal was mistaken. While Wheeler was talking to another member of the squad, Morrison said to Kennedy in a low voice:

"I guess Wheeler's chance for promotion is gone now. They're going to make some new sergeants tomorrow, and I thought Wheeler would surely be one; but I guess that forgetting his poncho has queered him with the captain. He's a stickler about little things."

"It doesn't seem fair," repeated Kennedy, as if speaking to himself.

Night had settled down, the blackest kind of night, when the first platoon was ordered into the advance trenches. From ambush among the trees behind the shelter searchlights began to play against the woods five hundred yards away, out of which the attack was expected to come.

The watchers in the shelter and the trenches remained in utter darkness while the streaming lines of rain and the distant trees emerged into view under the sweeping rays. Back and forth the searchlights plied, raking the whole sector of forest that bounded the field. The men in the shelter, who had stood up to see what the searchlights might disclose, soon sat down again and wrapped their ponchos about themselves more snugly. The minutes pa.s.sed; there was no sound except that made by the determined, trampling rain.

Wheeler, who had been peering over the top of the embankment, came and seated himself between Kennedy and Morrison.

"There's one thing," he murmured. "The enemy are getting it same as we are."

Morrison grunted. "How do you know? They're regulars, and maybe they haven't left their barracks yet. Maybe they won't till about 2 A. M."

"Don't be always taking the joy out of life," Wheeler entreated.

At last came the turn of the second platoon. They filed out through the runways into the second-line trench, where they waited until the squads of the first platoon returned from the sections that they had been holding.

"Second platoon, load!"

In the pitch blackness it was not an easy thing to do. Kennedy got his clip jammed in the magazine and for a few moments could not shove it down or pull it out. Then, when he gave a final desperate wrench, out it came with a jump, slipped through his fingers and fell somewhere in the mud.

"Lock your pieces. Forward!"

Kennedy had to straighten up and move on without having found his cartridges. When he was in his place between Wheeler and Morrison, he took another clip out of his belt and, working carefully and slowly, inserted it in the magazine. The sound of others working with their rifles let him know that he had not been the only one to get into difficulty.

From somewhere behind, Captain Hughes gave instructions:

"Keep your eyes on that strip of woods. Squad on the right, take the sector from the ravine to the top of the knoll. Next squad, the sector from the top of the knoll to that tree that stands out in front of the woods. Next squad, the sector from that tree to the big rock. Fourth squad, the sector from the big rock to the road. If anyone comes out of the woods in your sector, fire on him."

"No one will come," murmured Morrison. "Not for five or six hours yet."

But they all stood peering intently over the low ridge of earth that protected the top of the trench and on which their rifles rested.

Without cessation the searchlights swept back and forth along the belt of woods; for only the briefest interval was any section left in darkness. Time pa.s.sed, and still the only sound was the steady drumming of the rain.

Then suddenly out of the belt of woods broke a line of men and charged forward. Instantly all along the advance trenches burst jets of flame and the vicious crackle and bang of the rifles. After the wearisome and uncomfortable vigil, Kennedy felt warmed into excitement; he got off three shots before the enemy dropped to the ground and began shooting in their turn. Then an enemy platoon on the right made a short rush forward and dropped, and immediately resumed firing. By platoon rushes the line advanced, and its fire seemed to grow steadier and stronger as it drew nearer. In contrast, the fire of the defenders of the trenches weakened.

Only three men in Wheeler's squad were maintaining a steady fire; the other squads displayed a corresponding feebleness of resistance.

"Fire faster, men!" cried Captain Hughes.

But fire faster they did not-and could not. More than half of them were now having the trouble in loading their rifles that Kennedy had experienced-and was having again. Fumbling in the darkness with the wet, slippery mechanism, trying hurriedly to slide the cartridge clips into place, man after man had jammed his magazine, and with clumsy fingers was frantically trying to adjust it. Meanwhile, the fire of the enemy became more intense; they drew nearer and nearer by platoon rushes; and at last Captain Hughes gave the order to the defenders of the trenches, "Cease firing!"

Then, a few yards away, up sprang the enemy and, with bayonets fixed and a wild yell that at the last fizzled out into laughter, charged down on the trenches. They stopped on the edge and greeted the defenders derisively: "Well, boys, all dead, ain't you?" "Fired as if you were, anyway." "How'd you have liked it if this had been a real attack?" "Any of you boys want to have a little bayonet practice?"

Captain Hughes gave the command to unload. After "inspection arms" had been ordered, the captain pointed the moral of the evening's experience: "You see, it's not enough to be good daylight soldiers-important though that is. You have got to be able to use your rifles as well in the dark."

B Company marched back to camp; Kennedy sought an audience with Captain Hughes. He could only say in a husky whisper:

"I want to explain about Corporal Wheeler's poncho." He had to stop for a fit of coughing; the captain bent down and looked at him sharply. "He took off his poncho and made me put it on-I'd forgotten mine. I hope it won't count against him."

"What do you mean by staying on duty in this condition?" demanded the captain.

"I sound worse than I am."

The captain grunted. "Report at sick call tomorrow. I'll remember what you say about Wheeler. Goodnight!"

The next morning, when Kennedy returned from the hospital tent, having been p.r.o.nounced fit to continue on active duty, he found the members of squad five congratulating Wheeler on his promotion to the rank of sergeant.

"Here's the fellow that saved the job for me." Wheeler clapped Kennedy's shoulder. "Captain Hughes said you went to him and told tales out of school."

Kennedy looked pleased. "I heard the captain tell you that you mightn't be good at looking after your men," he answered. "I thought I'd show him."

"Business, just business," said Wheeler with a twinkle in his eyes. "Dad would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you. I feel just as responsible for the bank, having you up here, as he does. Now come and I'll give you another lesson in how to tie a knot."

-Arthur Stanwood Pier.

VII-THE PATH OF GLORY

I

It was so poor a place-a bitten-off morsel "at the beyond end of nowhere"-that when a February gale came driving down out of a steel sky and shut up the little lane road and covered the house with snow a pa.s.ser-by might have mistaken it all, peeping through its icy fleece, for just a huddle of the brown bowlders so common to the country thereabouts.

And even when there was no snow it was as bad-worse, almost, Luke thought. When everything else went brave and young with new greenery; when the alders were laced with the yellow haze of leaf bud, and the brooks got out of prison again, and arbutus and violet and b.u.t.tercup went through their rotation of bloom up in the rock pastures and maple bush-the farm buildings seemed only the bleaker and barer.

That forlorn unpainted little house, with its sagging blinds! It squatted there through the year like a one-eyed beggar without a friend-lost in its venerable white-beard winters, or contemplating an untidy welter of rusty farm machinery through the summers.

When Luke brought his one scraggy little cow up the lane he always turned away his head. The place made him think of the old man who let the birds build nests in his whiskers. He preferred, instead, to look at the glories of Bald Mountain or one of the other hills. There was nothing wrong with the back drop in the home stage-set; it was only home itself that hurt one's feelings.

There was no cheer inside, either. The sagging old floors, though scrubbed and spotless, were uncarpeted; the furniture meager. A pine table, a few old chairs, a shabby scratched settle covered by a thin horse blanket as innocent of nap as a Mexican hairless-these for essentials; and for embellishment a shadeless gla.s.s lamp on the table, about six-candle power, where you might make shift to read the _Biweekly_-times when there was enough money to have a Biweekly-if you were so minded; and window shelves full of corn and tomato cans, still wearing their horticultural labels, where scrawny one-legged geraniums and yellowing coleus and begonia contrived an existence of sorts.