Uncle Sam's Boys with Pershing's Troops Part 7

Though the men were perspiring uncomfortably, their officer's pleasant conversational way and his interesting talk kept the interest of these young soldiers. Private Page stepped out and took post where the lieutenant indicated, prepared to begin running away at the word of command. Private Dobson picked up a blob-stick, a long, wand-like affair intended to represent a rifle and bayonet, the bayonet's point being represented by a padded ball such as is seen on a ba.s.s drummer's stick.

"Go ahead, Page," commanded the lieutenant. "Kill him, Dobson!

. . . Good work! Any enemy, struck like that in earnest, could safely be left to himself. Dobson, you be the fleeing enemy this time. Aldrich, take the blob-stick."

One after another the men of the skeletonized platoon took their try with the blob-stick. As is usual in the run of human affairs, some of the men made the thrust excellently, others indifferently, and some missed altogether.

"Rest," ordered the lieutenant, presently, and the men stood at ease in the platoon line.

"Some of you men do not get hold of this bayonet work as well as I could wish," d.i.c.k spoke up, all eyes turned on him. "The man who learns his bayonet work thoroughly has a reasonably good chance of coming back from Europe alive. The man who learns it indifferently has very little chance of seeing his native land at the close of the war. Remember that. Bayonet fighting is one of the things no American soldier can afford to be dull about.

Lieutenant Morris, if you will pick up a blob-stick we can show these men some of the value of swift work in the simpler thrusts and parries."

Each armed with a blob-stick, captain and second lieutenant faced each other. d.i.c.k, scowling as though facing an enemy whom he hated, advanced upon his subordinate, making a swift, savage lunge aimed at the other's abdomen. In a twinkling the thrust had been parried by Lieutenant Morris, who, at close quarters, aimed a vicious jab at his captain's wind-pipe. That, too, was blocked.

Warming up, the two officers fought without victory for a full three-quarters of a minute. Then, at a word from Prescott, each drew back.

"Every one of you men, by the time you reach France, should be able to fight faster and better than that," d.i.c.k announced.

Down the line an infectious smile ran. It seemed to these soldiers impossible that a more skillful or a swifter bit of combat work could be put up than they had just witnessed.

"You two men, at the right, bring your rifles here," Prescott ordered, and the bayoneted rifles were brought and handed to the two officers.

"Now, Lieutenant Morris, the first four series, as fast as we can go through them," d.i.c.k commanded.

Bang! b.u.mp! flash! Rifle barrels rang as they crossed; b.u.t.ts b.u.mped hard against barrel or stock, and glittering steel flashed in the sunlight as the two infantry officers advanced and retreated in a savage, realistic contest. It really seemed as though Lieutenant Morris and Captain Prescott were bent on annihilating each other.

Could this fierce, mutual onslaught be pretense---play? Then, as the last move of the fourth series was executed the two infantry officers jumped back a step each and dipped the points of their gleaming blades by way of courtesy. The other three platoons of the company had stopped drill to watch. How the thrilled men of A company wished to applaud and cheer!

"Lieutenant Morris and I are very poor hands at bayonet work, compared with what we want you men to be when this regiment sails for France," Prescott remarked, smilingly, as he handed back the rifle to its owner.

From that platoon Prescott pa.s.sed on to others in his company, offering a remark here and a word of instruction there.

"You men must do everything to get your muscles up to concert pitch," Captain Prescott announced. "No lady-like thrusts will ever push a bayonet into a German's face. A ton of weight is needed behind every bayonet thrust or jab!"

An orderly approached, saluting.

"Compliments of the commanding officer, sir, and he will see the captain in his office at regimental headquarters, sir."

Returning the salute d.i.c.k walked off the drill ground as though he had nothing on his mind. Down the street he espied Greg, also going toward headquarters, and hurried after him. On the other side of the street was Captain Cartwright, who soon crossed over to join them.

In silence, the three captains made their way along the street until they reached regimental headquarters. It was a low one-story pine shed, with the colonel's office at one end, the adjutant's office next to it, and beyond that the rooms occupied by the sergeant major and his clerical force, and, last of all, the chaplain's office.

None of the three captains was exactly at ease as they entered the adjutant's office and reported.

"The commanding officer will see you at once," said the adjutant.

"Pa.s.s through into his office."

Colonel Cleaves, glancing up from his desk, gravely returned the salutes of his three captains.

"Be good enough to close the door into the adjutant's office, Captain Holmes," directed the K.O. "Now, gentlemen, I will hear whatever explanation you have to offer of a very remarkable scene that I came upon this noon."

All three waited, to see if one of the others wished to speak first. After waiting a moment or two Colonel Cleaves asked:

"Captain Prescott, it was you who struck the knock-down blow, was it not?"

"Yes, sir," d.i.c.k answered promptly, "though it followed a parry, and was more of a thrust than a blow."

"You agree to that, Captain Cartwright?" quizzed the K.O.

"Essentially so, sir."

"There had been a quarrel, had there not?"

"I made a reply to a remark by Captain Cartwright, sir," Greg supplied, "which, he felt justified in construing as offensive, though I did not so intend it. I was annoyed at what I felt to be an insinuation. Then Captain Prescott came out of his quarters, sir, and caught Captain Cartwright's wrist. When Captain Prescott released it, Captain Cartwright struck at him. The blow was parried, and Captain Cartwright struck once more. That blow was also parried, and Captain Cartwright went to the floor."

"Do you concur in that, Captain Cartwright?" asked the K.O.

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, Captain Prescott," went on Colonel Cleaves, handing him a small piece of paper, "can you account for this?"

As d.i.c.k Prescott took the paper and glanced at it he felt himself turning almost dizzy in bewilderment.

CHAPTER IV

AS IT IS DONE IN THE ARMY

"That is your handwriting, is it not, Captain Prescott?" demanded the regimental commander.

"It looks just like my handwriting, sir, but I'll swear that I never wrote it," declared astonished d.i.c.k, still staring at the little piece of paper.

"Yet it resembles your handwriting?"

"Yes, sir. If I didn't know positively that I didn't write any such message then I'd be about ready to admit that it is my handwriting.

But I didn't write it, sir."

"Pa.s.s it to Captain Holmes. I will ask him if he has seen this note before."

"No, sir," declared Greg, very positively, though he, too, was startled, for it was hard to persuade himself that he was not looking down at his chum's familiar handwriting.

The note read:

_"Dear H. Stick to what we agreed upon, and we can cook C's goose without trouble. P."_

"May I speak, sir?" asked d.i.c.k.

"Yes, Captain."