And they thought we wouldn't fight Part 31

"Wounded?"

"No, sir,--dead."

"Who was it?" asks the young lieutenant.

"Private Kater, sir, my squad mate."

As the sergeant raised his hand in parting salute, all of us saw suspended from his right wrist a most formidable weapon, apparently of his own construction. It was a pick handle with a heavy iron k.n.o.b on one end and the same end cus.h.i.+oned with a ma.s.s of barbed wire rolled up like a ball of yarn. He smiled as he noticed our gaze.

"It's the persuader, sir," he said. "We all carried them."

He had hardly quitted the door when another heavily breathing figure with s.h.i.+rt half torn off by barbed wire appeared.

"K Company got there, sir; beg pardon, sir. I mean sir, Sergeant Wiltur reports, sir, with message from Liaison officer. All groups reached the objectives. They left their dugouts blazing and brought back one machine gun and three prisoners."

"Very good, Sergeant," said the Colonel. "Orderly, get some coffee for these runners."

"I'd like to see the doctor first, sir," said the runner with the torn s.h.i.+rt. "Got my hand and arm cut in the wire."

"Very well," said the Colonel, turning to the rest of the party, "I knew my boys would bring back bacon."

More footsteps on the entrance stairway and two men entered carrying something between them. Sweat had streaked through the charcoal coating on their faces leaving striped zebra-like countenances.

"Lieutenant Burlon's compliments, sir," said the first man. "Here's one of their machine guns."

"Who got it?" inquired the Colonel.

"Me and him, sir."

"How did you get it?"

"We just rolled 'em off it and took it."

"Rolled who off of it?"

"Two Germans, sir."

"What were they doing all that time?"

"Why, sir, they weren't doing anything. They were dead."

"Oh, very well, then," said the Colonel. "How did you happen to find the machine gun?"

"We knew where it was before we went over, sir," said the man simply.

"We were a.s.signed to get it and bring it back. We expected we'd have to fight for it, but I guess our barrage laid out the crew. Anyhow we rushed to the position and found them dead."

"All right," said the Colonel, "return to your platoon. Leave the gun here. It will be returned to you later and will be your property."

I went out with the machine gun captors and walked with them to the road. There was the hum of motors high overhead and we knew that American planes were above, going forward to observe and photograph German positions before the effects of our bombardments could be repaired. A line of flame and smoke pouring up from the enemy's front line showed where their dugouts and shelters were still burning.

Daylight was pouring down on a ruined village street, up which marched the returning raiders without thought of order. They were a happy, gleeful party, with helmets tipped back from their young faces wet and dirty, with rifles swung over their shoulders and the persuaders dangling from their wrists. Most of them were up to their knees and their wrap puttees were mostly in tatters from the contact with the entanglements through which they had penetrated.

As they approached, I saw the cause for some of the jocularity. It was a chubby, little, boyish figure, who sat perched up on the right shoulder of a tall, husky Irish sergeant. The figure steadied itself by grasping the sergeant's helmet with his left hand. The sergeant steadied him by holding one right arm around his legs.

But there was no smile on the face of the thus transformed object. His chubby countenance was one of easily understood concern. He was not a day over sixteen years and this was quite some experience for him. He was one of the German prisoners and these happy youngsters from across the seas were bringing him in almost with as much importance as though he had been a football hero. He was unhurt and it was unnecessary to carry him, but this tribute was voluntarily added, not only as an indication of extreme interest, but to rea.s.sure the juvenile captive of the kindly intentions of his captors.

"Jiggers, here's the Colonel's dugout," one voice shouted. "Put him down to walk, now."

The big sergeant acted on the suggestion and the little Fritz was lowered to the ground. He immediately caught step with the big sergeant and took up the latter's long stride with his short legs and feet encased in clumsy German boots. His soiled uniform had been the German field grey green. His helmet was gone but he wore well back on his head the flat round cloth cap. With his fat cheeks he looked like a typical baker's boy, and one almost expected to see him carrying a tray of rolls on his head.

"For the luva Mike, Tim," shouted an ambulance man, "do you call that a prisoner?"

"Sure he does look like a half portion," replied Sergeant Tim with a smile. "We got two hundred francs for a whole one. I don't know what we can cash this one in for."

"He ought to be worth more," some one said; "that barrage cost a million dollars. He's the million dollar baby of the raid."

"Sergeant, I'm not kidding," came one serious voice. "Why turn him in as a prisoner? I like the kid's looks. Why can't we keep him for the company mascot?"

The discussion ended when the Sergeant and his small charge disappeared in the Colonel's quarters for the inevitable questioning that all prisoners must go through. Several wounded were lying on the stretchers in front of the first aid dugout waiting for returning ambulances and pa.s.sing the time meanwhile by smoking cigarettes and explaining how close each of them had been to the sh.e.l.l that exploded and "got 'em."

But little of the talk was devoted to themselves. They were all praise for the little chaplain from New England who, without arms, went over the top with "his boys" and came back with them. It was their opinion that their regiment had some sky pilot. And it was mine, also.

CHAPTER XIV

ON LEAVE IN PARIS

"So this--is Paris,"--this observation spoken in mock seriousness, in a George Cohan nasal drawl and accompanied by a stiff and stagy wave of the arm, was the customary facetious pa.s.s-word with which American soldiers on leave or on mission announced their presence in the capital of France.

Paris, the beautiful--Paris, the gay--Paris, the historical--Paris, the artistic--Paris, the only Paris, opened her arms to the American soldier and proceeded toward his enlightenment and entertainment on the sole policy that nothing was too good for him.

I saw the first American soldiers under arms reach Paris. It was early in the morning of July 3rd, 1917, when this first American troop train pulled into the Gare d'Austerlitz. It was early in the morning, yet Paris was there to give them a welcome. The streets outside the station were jammed with crowds. They had seen Pers.h.i.+ng; they had seen our staff officers and headquarters details, but now they wanted to see the type of our actual fighting men--they wanted to see the American poilus--the men who were to carry the Stars and Stripes over the top.

The men left the cars and lined up in the station yard. It had been a long, fifteen hour night ride and the cramped quarters of the troop train had permitted but little sleep. There was no opportunity for them to breakfast or wash before they were put on exhibition. Naturally, they were somewhat nervous.

The standing line was ordered to produce its mess cups and hold them forward. Down the line came a bevy of pretty French girls, wearing the uniform of Red Cross nurses. They carried canisters of black coffee and baskets of cigarettes. They ladled out steaming cupfuls of the black liquid to the men. The incident gave our men their first surprise.

Rum or alcohol has never been a part of the United States army ration.

In the memory of the oldest old-timers in the ranks of our old regular army, "joy water" had never been issued. On the other hand, its use had always been strictly forbidden in the company messes. Our men never expected it. Thus it was that, with no other idea occurring to them, they extended their mess cups to be filled with what they thought was simply strong hot coffee. Not one of them had the slightest suspicion that the French cooks who had prepared that coffee for their new American brothers in arms, had put a stick in it--had added just that portion of cognac which they had considered necessary to open a man's eyes and make him pick up his heels after a long night in a troop train.

I watched one old-timer in the ranks as he lifted the tin cup to his lips and took the initial gulp. Then he lowered the cup. Across his face there dawned first an expression of curious suspicion, then a look of satisfied recognition, and then a smile of pleased surprise, which he followed with an audible smacking of the lips. He finished the cup and allowed quite casually that he could stand another.

"So this is Paris,"--well, it wasn't half bad to start with. With that "coffee" under their belts, the men responded snappily to the march order, and in column of four, they swung into line and moved out of the station yard, at the heels of their own band, which played a stirring marching air.

Paris claimed them for her own. All that the war had left of Paris' gay life, all the lights that still burned, all the music that still played, all the pretty smiles that had never been reduced in their quality or quant.i.ty, all that Paris had to make one care-free and glad to be alive--all belonged that day to that pioneer band of American infantrymen.