in the ravine hicks was busy trying to place his maxim in a position from which it would sweep a portion of the field. he had succeeded in making it remain upright on its haunches, and was now experimenting with it in various positions, so that he could swing it back and forth as he fired, and cover the maximum of ground. the water-cooler had been set at its side and the long rubber hose was attached to the machine-gun. a belt filled with cartridges was inserted in the chamber, and the affair was ready to be fired.
“’at’s some gun you got there, hicksy, old boy. what do you ’spect to do with it? you don’t aim to kill nobody, do you?” pugh had recovered and was in good humor. as he talked, a black stubble of beard that grew grotesquely on the chin of his elf-like face rose and fell.
“no, jack. i’m just keepin’ it for a souvenir.”
“hell, y’ain’t got no souvenir. lookit, hicksy.” he produced a small pearl-handled pistol. “got this offen one of them dutchmen.[114] lookit here.” he placed his hand in his blouse and brought out a pair of field-glasses. “got this from another one. now all i want to do is to git wounded and i’ll take these babies back and sell ’em for beaucoup francs to them s. o. s. birds.”
“don’t talk about getting wounded, pugh,” harriman requested. “it’s bad luck. remember what kitty kahl said the other night?”
“naw, how’d i know what kitty kahl said? he didn’t say nothin’ to me.”
“he said that he’d either win a decoration or get killed.”
“i don’t care if he did. i want a bon-bless-ey so i can git outta this damn hole.”
“say, hicks,” lepere called, “you’d better take down that confounded gun. the boche will see it and then we’ll all get killed.”
“oh, they won’t see it.”
“you can’t tell. one of their aviators is liable to come over here any time.”
“tyah tyah tyah tyah, you talk like you come from where they have possums for yard dogs, lepeah,” pugh sneered. “hicksy, let’s you and me go out salvagin’. there’s a lot of salmon and stuff in some of them boys’ packs that’ll never want it no more.”
“you mean some of the fellows that have been killed?” hicks asked. “i don’t like to do that. it seems too ghoulish.”
“i don’t cah what it seems like. i’m hawngry. le’s go.”
“maybe bedford’ll stop us.”
“naw, he won’t. he’s too damned scared to git out of his hole.”
they climbed out of the ravine and started back through the woods.
“hicksy! be damned! lookit that!”
“where, where? what is it?”
“look!” pugh pointed his finger toward a large tree. its knees on the ground and its forehead pressed stiffly against the bark of the tree, a body kneeled.
“let’s go back.”
“naw, i wanta git some of that salmon.”
it was easy enough without touching the bodies to collect armfuls of canned salmon from the packs of the dead men. soon they had all they could carry. besides the salmon, pugh had collected several razors and a carton of talcum.
they had but reached the ravine when the bottom seemed to drop from the sky, dumping a deluge of shells. for a moment the men[116] were stunned by the fierceness of the bombardment. hicks and pugh emptied their arms of the cans and dived for a burrow, reaching it simultaneously. another flock of shells struck in and around the ravine. it was not until after they had exploded that the report of their having been fired was heard.
“oh-o, hicksy, can’t you get in a little closer and give me some room,” pugh yelled. “them’s the whizz-bangs they’ve been tellin’ us about.”
the shells, with their terrific “bz—bang, bz—bang” poured in upon the men.
“stretcher bearer on the left!” some one screamed above the racket. the plea went unheeded.
“god damn it, there’s a man half killed up there. stretcher bearer on the le-f-f-t.”
“i didn’t know there was anybody fool enough to yell for one of them lousy stretcher bearers. hicksy, le’s you and me go up.”
while the shells fell and burst directly in front of him, behind him, and on each side, a huge fellow whose proportions made him an easy target, walked conscientiously along the ravine. in his hand was a bag containing first-aid implements. to hicks, as he passed, the huge fellow, with the red cross on his arm,[117] looked like a doting father who felt the necessity forcibly to reprimand a child. a few minutes later hicks saw him, with the wounded man thrown over his shoulder as if he were a bag of salt, making his way along the ravine and through the woods to the dressing station.
bang—crash. the ravine reverberated from the explosion. another volley had been hurled into it.
“stretcher bearer on the left. stretcher bearer on the left,” some one called. from time to time the cry was repeated, each time less hopefully, more stridently.
fiercely whining, a shell bore down upon the ground under which hicks and pugh were crouched. it landed softly. they waited, breathless, for it to burst. hicks was convulsed. oh, if only it would explode and end the suspense. hicks found himself wanting the shell to burst, imploring it!
the smoke in the air was stifling them, burning out their lungs. their eyes were shot with blood, and tears streamed unceasingly down their cheeks. their throats felt as if they had swallowed handfuls of fine dust.
“i’ll choke, i’ll die,” hicks thought with every breath. he felt for his mask, knocked off[118] his helmet, and adjusted the mask to his head. frenzied, he bit his teeth into the hard-rubber mouthpiece, and breathed deeply. oh, what a relief; the picrine could not penetrate the chemicals of the mask! he breathed again; gulped, rather. immediately his throat and lungs were on fire. the mask was more of a hindrance than a help.
incomprehensibly, the bombardment stopped.
men ran from their burrows and clambered over the ravine in an effort to escape the blinding, choking smoke.
“stop, men,” lieutenant bedford called hoarsely. “come back here and be ready to stand off an attack.”
reluctantly they returned and placed themselves in a position from which they could fire across the field. hicks drew out his canteen. it was empty.
“water, got any water, pugh?”
“no, jist drained the last drop.”
hicks walked down the ravine. “anybody got any water to spare?”
no one had. no one had any water. he walked back beside pugh. as he approached, pugh called:
“oh, hicksy, you’d better go over and ask[119] them dutchmen for another gun. one of their shells swiped that pretty one you had up here.”
the maxim which hicks had diligently striven to get into shape was gone—where, no one knew.
“i don’t care. if they come over now i wouldn’t have strength enough to pull a trigger. i’m all in, pugh.”
fearfully the men waited for the attack. it grew dark, but none came. out in the field a cow slowly moved across the broken ground. in the dusk lieutenant bedford was stumbling along the ravine, calling for volunteers to go on a water detail.
from one of the holes king cole’s voice croaked: “i’ll go, lieutenant. i’ll go.” he sounded like a bullfrog.
“i’ll go, too; be glad to,” hicks offered.
“god, me too,” complemented pugh.
“i only want two men. pugh, you stay here. all right, hicks and cole, collect up the canteens and then i’ll tell you where to go.”
“je’s, these canteens make a lot of noise. the squareheads can hear us for a mile. hadn’t we better put something around them?” hicks asked lieutenant bedford.
“yes, have the men unhook their canteen covers and put them on. now be careful when you go, for the german lines are only a few hundred yards. you follow this ravine until you come to a place where it splits. take the one to the right. it leads into a little town where there’s a pump.”
they started off, feeling their way over the huge boulders that lay in the ravine. when they were no more than a hundred yards from the platoon, a shell severed the air over their heads and burst in the field to their right. they fell flat on their faces. after the shell had exploded they got up and started again. another shell burst ten yards in front of them. they ran forward again, the canteens jangling over their shoulders. this time the shell burst just to their left, throwing up a mass of dirt which showered down on them.
“good-by, canteens; i’m goin’ to throw mine away and run,” said cole.
“yes, you are. and we die of thirst. come on, it’s not far now.”
they hurried blindly on. another shell screeched over their heads and struck the edge of the ravine to their right. they were violently thrown against the opposite side.
“i sure do admire that boy’s aim. let’s go, hicks.”
abruptly the ravine shallowed out and they found themselves running for the village, their bodies wholly exposed. as they approached, a door in one of the buildings of the badly battered town was thrown open and a voice called: “here you are, fellows. come in this way.”
“hell, if you think you had it hard, you ought to have been with us.”
hicks and cole, resting after they had filled the canteens with water from a creaky pump in the village square, were seated in a room of the building through which they had entered the town. at the window near the door a thin-snouted hotchkiss machine-gun was pointed out over the field. beside it, his head lying against the saddle, a man was reclining. it was he who had spoken.
“think of carrying one of these guns over your shoulder and walking through heavy rifle fire the whole length of that field! pretty tough. pretty tough.”
“oh, forget about it; it’d a been worse if you’d a been killed.”
“i don’t know so much about that!”
“and when we got in this town. boy, we sure did clump them dutchmen over the head! firin’ out of the windows, they were, and us comin’ in in plain sight. but we knocked ’em for a gool, a cock-eyed gool. i thought them god-damned squareheads could fight.” he chuckled and stretched his body. “but you oughta seen ’em run when we swarmed in here.”
“i guess they fought well enough to knock off most of us.”
hicks shuffled his feet restlessly. “guess we’d better be gettin’ back, king.”
it had grown quite dark and along the lines of restless men white rockets were fired, to flare for a moment, covering a part of the ground with an intense brightness and then expiring on the ground with a short hiss.
the platoon was not in sight when they returned to the mouth of the ravine. but as the clanking of their canteens was heard, men hurried from their burrows and surrounded hicks and cole.
“here, give me mine.”
“mine’s the one with the dent in the side, cole.”
“that’s not my canteen. here, let me find it.”
“git the hell away from here or you’ll never git anything to drink. who the devil went after this water, anyway?”
sergeant harriman stood in the background, much to the surprise of hicks, who had expected him to rush forward demanding that he be given his canteen first of all. the canteens were passed out and harriman’s was the next to the last one.
“thank you, hicks,” said harriman warmly.
“go easy on that water now; we can’t go running to that town every five minutes, you men,” sergeant ryan called.
along the ravine the water gurgled from the canteens into the mouths of the men. their most pressing want satisfied, their thoughts soon turned to the matter of food, which they had been without for two days, save for the cans of salmon which hicks and pugh had salvaged from the dead men’s packs. after expressing among themselves their desire for food they raised their voices and began to lament:
“what makes the wildcats wild?”
“because they’re hungry.”
“why are they hungry?”
“because there ain’t no chow.”
“why ain’t they got no chow?”
“because they ain’t got nobody to look out for them.”
“pipe down, up there,” scolded lieutenant bedford. “if the ration detail don’t come along pretty soon, we’ll send one of our own after chow.”
hours of quiet passed, while the men silently lay in their burrows in the ravine, listening to the cheerful chirp of the crickets, and trying to relax their nerves which had been tautened almost to breaking by the terrific barrage of the early afternoon.
“je’s, i wish we had some more of that salmon, pugh. we were crazy to give it all away.”
“no, we wasn’t. these mamma’s boys’d starve to death if somebody didn’t pr’vide for ’em.”
while they were talking, sergeant harriman, stealing along the ravine, came to their burrow: “here’s some argentina beef that you fellows can have some of. i got three cans of it.”
it was a little blue can, and when pugh lifted a piece of it to his mouth he shuddered. “smells like some’p’n you’ve stepped in. mah guts can’t go that stuff.”
“yes, they can,” harriman encouraged.[125] “it’s not half bad if you don’t breathe while you’re chewing it. i’ve been eating it all day.”
pugh, holding his nostrils together, gulped down a handful of the evil-smelling food. “that’s not so bad, hicksy. try some of it.”
he passed over the can to hicks.
in the early morning the german lines were represented by a black strip of woods, some five hundred yards in the distance, that looked a narrow piece of jet-black lace through the gray dawn. to the men on watch it was inconceivable that such a calm, almost sketched scene existed so near to them. the brain-piercing explosions of the shells still remembered, the calmness of the surroundings was unreal. quiet belonged to another world.
day broke fully. from above, the hot sun beat cruelly upon the earth. the helmets of the men were like hot frying-pans. sweat soaked through the padding in the helmets and ran down the men’s faces in tiny, dirty rivulets. their skin, beneath their woollen shirts and breeches, itched unbearably. at the knees, where the breeches tightly fitted, the shell powder had soaked through and was biting the flesh.
there was a sameness about the expressions on the men’s faces. as yet it was barely perceptible. the mouths had set in certain rigid lines. the lids of the eyes were narrowed, and beneath them the pupils reflected only a dull apathy. of each man the shoulders sagged as if bowed down with a dreadful weight.
hicks lay against the sloping wall of the ravine, his head peeping over, watching an airplane circle lazily above. the drone of its engine was like some enormous bluebottle fly. it was soothing. a slight breeze rippled the wheat. “ah,” he breathed. but on the breeze was carried a stomach-turning stench. it was sweet and putrid and seemed to take substance around the nostrils. as the heat of the day grew more, the odor strengthened until hicks felt as if he were submerged in it up to his eyes.
as the sun glided out of sight the odor became less evident, until at last, as the shadows were thrown full length, it ceased entirely to be.
lieutenant bedford made his way along the ravine. “where’s sergeant harriman?”
harriman poked his pallid face out of his burrow.
“yes, sir?”
“oh, there you are, harriman. pick out four men to go after rations. right after dark.”
“shall i go along in charge?”
“go if you want to. ryan and i can take care of things all right.”
the ration party tracked through the thick woods, purpled with late evening. trees stretched gaunt arms in awkward gestures toward the sombre-colored sky, through which lights gaily winked and danced. under foot were objects over which they tried to step without touching. now and then a foot would strike a dead man’s pack or his body, and some one would draw back, mutter “damn,” feeling as if he had committed sacrilege. branches of trees, half torn from the trunk by shell explosion, barred their way. on they walked, their hands flung out in front of them, and walking as closely to each other as was possible. passing one place in the woods harriman thought:
“here’s where halvorsen got killed.”
they went on farther. an open space in the woods reminded him that it was there that kahl received three machine-gun bullets through his head. “he’s probably rotten by this time.”[128] harriman shivered to his marrow. it seemed hours before they got out of the woods and into the field through which a small dusty road ran toward the village where they had first gone into action.
in outline the buildings, worn down by heavy shell fire, clung to each other for moral encouragement. they looked so tightly clustered in their common misery suffered by devastation.
a shell, like the flash of lightning, hurtled over and resounded as does that kind of lightning after which one says: “that struck somewhere, all right.”
the village was being used as the supply station for the regiment. inside the shattered houses and barns the field kitchens had been drawn; in the dim light made by candles the mess sergeant was the centre of a group of unwashed louts dressed in greasy blue denim.
“say, weaver, where’s our chow?”
“been sellin’ another quarter of beef to the frogs again?”
“don’t you let us catch you at any o’ them fancy tricks.”
weaver was a small, shifty-looking person. it had been found out by the platoon that he had once sold the company axe to a frenchman[129] for a gallon of vin rouge, and since that time he had always been suspected of making away with the company’s rations.
“how do you boys expect to git any chow if you don’t come after it? the chow was here, but you wasn’t.”
“you think we can fight germans and run up here after chow, too?” the men were belligerent.
“of course he does. these damned yellah grease balls ain’t got any sense.”
“yellow? i like that. jist because you guys are up there at the front that ain’t no sign there ain’t other places jist as dangerous.”
the squabble would have gone on indefinitely had not the arrival of a flock of shells ended it then.
weaver had thrown himself under the field kitchen, where he arrived at the same time his assistants did.
the ration party had remained standing. “get up, weaver,” harriman commanded, “and get our chow.”
there was coffee, boiled potatoes, boiled beef and white bread. placing a stick through the handles of the coffee container, harriman and another man led the way. one man carried[130] the bread and the other two brought the potatoes and meat.
they walked along the road to the woods without an adventure. through the woods they made their way without a mishap until they arrived at a clearing. then, for some reason, a salvo of shells were fired which struck with the wild shriek of some lost soul. after the shell had exploded, the man with the bread could be seen gathering up the loaves from where they had rolled when he threw himself on the ground. the others had remained standing for fear they would spill the food.
“oh, hicks. hicksy, the ration party’s come.”
pugh shook hicks from his slumber.
“what.... the ration party? whatta they got?”
“that’s jis’ what i’m goin’ to see. hurry up or the rest of these hogs’ll eat it all up on us.”
they walked quickly toward the place where a queue of men had formed.
“hurry up, you guys. bring your canteen cups. sergeant-major coffee.”
it was a glorious moment.
“is it hot?” asked hicks.
“hot as blazes.”
“hold me, pugh, i’m faintin’ with joy. coffee, hot! and milk and sugar in it.”
they sat around and munched their food and drank their coffee. under the feeling of warmth in their stomachs many of the men relaxed and their thoughts became once again normal.
the platoon had grown used to the late afternoon bombardment that beat and slashed at them every day. the shells driving at them with a white fury were accepted as a part of the whole stunning, disagreeable duty of the front line. as their durance in the ravine lengthened they were able even to comment upon the fierceness or the comparative mildness of the attack.
in his burrow sergeant ryan, his blouse and undershirt lying by his side, was exploring with his right hand a place beneath his left shoulder-blade that had begun to pain. his fingers felt a swollen, hurting lump. as he pressed on it, a pain like being prodded in a nerve with a needle shot through him.
lieutenant bedford, from a burrow near by, leaned out.
“what’s the matter, ryan? looking for cooties?”
“no, there’s something the matter with my shoulder. it’s swelled.”
“let’s see.... hell, man, you’d better go back to the dressing station. you’ve been hit.”
“take your knife and see if you can get it out.”
“what do you think i am, a surgeon? you report to the first-aid station and let them send you to the hospital. i don’t want any men to come down with gangrene.”
ryan, reluctant, departed alone, his small reddish mustache still smartly waxed, his puttees neatly rolled, his helmet set jauntily on his head.
in the early morning light the outlines of the objects in front of the ravine were crisply apparent. the strands of barbed wire were blackly filigreed against the opaque light of the horizon. an aluminum moon hung waveringly in the sky. the stalks of wheat stood stiffly erect, their yellowness merging in the distance with the shadowy green of the trees. on the breath of the morning wind was carried the sweet, sickening smell of decayed cadavers. to the left and to the right unbroken lines of infinite length lay huddled in holes, the guardians[133] of their snoring hours seeing without variation the same sight. for the sector which the platoon was holding the night had not been quiet. eyes, though worn with constant straining to pierce the shadows, had seen the wheat tops moving; and ears, the drums battered by the explosion of striking shells, had still heard the rustling among the stalks. so rifles, venomous and catlike, had spit shots of fire into the dark.
as the sun rose, the heat growing more intense, the nauseating smell from the corpses in the field seemed to coat all objects in one’s line of vision with a sticky green. even the tops of wheat, standing stiffly in the field, looked as if they were covered with a fetid substance.
occasionally, as the day advanced, a man would labor over the opening of a can of argentina beef with the point of his bayonet. and then the contents would be exposed, green and sepulchrally white, the odor mingling and not quite immersed in the odor of decaying human flesh.
laboring over the small blue can, sweat poured down their chests, the streams dislodging particles of dirt and sweeping them down their bodies.
the air was dead. the sky was suspended[134] not high above the earth. the odors had ceased to move; they were massive, grotesquely shaped objects fastly rooted to the earth. the silence was elephantine.
and somewhere in the everlasting silence a frightened, hurt, bewildered voice broke tentatively forth:
“landsmann. oh, landsmann! kamerad. hilfen sie mich.”
hicks and pugh, their heads peering over the crest of the ravine, started, then listened, their ears like terriers’.
“mein gott. ich bin gewundet. o-o-o g-o-tt.” the voice floated through the heavy stillness.
pugh put the butt of his rifle to his shoulder. “watch out; it’s one of their damned tricks.”
“put down your gun, you fool. nobody could fake a voice like that.”
while they were talking the voice once again reached them. in the stillness it seemed as if it were at their sides. “landsmann, landsmann, hilf mich bitte.”
“the poor fellow must be half dead. kruger! oh, paul, there’s a wounded squarehead out in front here. talk to him, will you?”
a bleached but eager-faced kruger came out[135] of his burrow and commenced to talk in german to the wounded man.
“what does he say, paul? what does he say?” a group had gathered around the scene.
“he says some of you guys shot him in the guts and that he’s pretty bad off.”
“well, let’s go out and git him. we can’t let him lie there all day.”
“is he all right, kruger? i mean is he a good guy?”
“how the hell do i know? he sounds all right.”
“kruger.” pugh insinuated himself closer. “kruger, let’s you and me go git him? huh?”
and jack pugh, from meridian, mississippi, jack pugh, the gambler, who could make a pair of ivory cubes cakewalk and tango, was the first man to volunteer to rescue the wounded german.
the german had to be moved very carefully. directly above the wide leather belt that he wore around the waist the gray uniform was soaked with blood. pugh and kruger carried him from the field and lowered him to the bottom of the ravine.
“now what do you think of the kaiser, you damn squarehead?”
“bet, by god, he wishes he’d stayed home drinkin’ beer.”
“hell, these dutchmen git beer right in the trenches.” the speaker passed his tongue over his dry lips.
“shut up. can’t you let the poor devil alone? he probably hates the kaiser as much as the rest of us.”
the wounded german raised himself on his shoulder, gasping with pain. “kaiser. gottverdammt.”
he fell back exhausted.
the stretcher bearers who had been sent for arrived and placed him on a stretcher. they started to carry him to the dressing station.
“wait a minute there, buddy.” a muddy, wizened-face soldier, advancing with an open razor in his hand, snipped a button from the german’s tunic. “there, that goes home to my gal.”
the platoon had been subjected to heavy bombardment since, two weeks earlier, they had occupied the ravine, but upon this particular afternoon there was a force, a spitefulness, an overwhelming, dull, sickening insistence to the dropping, exploding shells that made each one[137] of the men feel that, as any of them would have expressed it, “one of them seabags has got my name marked on it in big letters.” the shells hammered over, shaking the sides of the ravine as they broke and sending particles of flying steel through the air, to land with a “zip” on the ground. men called for stretcher bearers until there were no more stretcher bearers, and, as it seemed, as if there were no more men to call. and meanwhile the thick, pungent smoke from the exploding shells was filling up the ravine and seeking out the throats and eyes of the men, to blind and choke them. before it was over there were men, ostrich-like, with their heads in their burrows as far as they could get them. many of them were blubbering, not so much from fright as from nerves that had broken under the insistent battering of the shells. but when it ended they were ready at the call to stand by to repel an enemy of any size.
it was felt certain that this time there would be an attack by the germans to regain the woods from which they had been driven. the men were working the bolts of their rifles, or trying to check the tears that flowed from their eyes, inflamed by the heavy smoke. but while[138] they were making ready to stand off the attack the company commander sent a runner to lieutenant bedford, telling him that the platoon would be relieved for the night by other men, and that they were to return farther back in the woods and rest in case there was no attack.
gasping and choking, the platoon made its way out of the ravine and up the hill. exhausted, they dropped into the holes, slightly deeper than their own, that the relieving men had occupied. the captain, with his orderly and his runners in holes around him, was lying back on the ground, peacefully smoking a cigarette.
but the attack which the officers had anticipated failed to be made. the sun withdrew from the scene and a pale gold moon took its place, stars peeped out like eyes, and the air became thin and chilly. the men were beginning to feel that they were to enjoy a night’s sleep.
far off a faint whining began. nearer and nearer it came, growing louder and awe-inspiring. it was as if some high priest of the elements were working himself into a frenzy before hurling an incantation at his supplicants. it grew to a snarl, a bitter snarl full of hate,[139] and it seemed as if the high priest had bared his teeth, which were long, narrow, and sharply pointed. the tree limbs bowed in fright, and against the dull-blue sky the leaves turned under, curling themselves up. like a hurricane the shells descended, and with terrific noise they threw out splashes of reds and yellows, in the light of which the trees seemed to cringe.
“we’re in for it,” thought hicks, trying to co-ordinate his jangling nerves. he sought more closely to press his body against the clayey side of his burrow. sharply and frighteningly another salvo of shells struck and burst in the little patch of woods. hicks bit at the leather strap of his helmet. the tree limbs crackled and falling branches fell hesitatingly through the foliage to the ground. other shells burst. “oh, my god, i’m hit!” some one cried. and before he had ended his words another group of shells pounded over. hicks’s spine felt bare with scorpions parading along the flesh. “i won’t get killed. i can’t get killed. i’ve got too much to live for,” he thought, as the bursting shells continued and pieces of their steel casing ripped past and viciously over him. “oh, god, don’t let me die.” the shells mocked him. “shall i pray? what shall i[140] say? oh, it wouldn’t do any good!” but he formulated an incoherent prayer between interruptions of his fancying that among the trees was a huge black animal with fiery eyes and hoofs of brimstone that were kicking and prancing all over the woods. the animal’s head was above the trees, and it snapped at their limbs with its long, punishing jaws. hicks felt as if his eyes would pop from his head and that his temples would split. the animal’s hoofs kicked nearer him, and he closed his eyes and twisted his neck in fear. red, purple, white lights danced before his eyes. he turned round to face the monster, forcing a grin over his stiff face. then he began to cry and then ... blackness, all was blackness.
the morning sun sent wavering rays through the boughs of the trees, and exposed the white stumps whose tops had been blown to the earth by exploding shells. tree limbs, with ghastly butts, lay dead-still on the thick, calm grass. steel helmets, spattered with blood, were now and then encountered on the ground. on the space where the captain had been lying there was a blood-soaked shoe and a helmet, turned bottom up, and neatly holding a mess of brains. near by lay a gas-mask which would never[141] again be used. and near it the sleeve of a coat.
hicks awakened and cautiously sat up, his head peeping over the top of his burrow. close enough to be touched a body, the legs spread wide, the chin raised high, and the chest slightly puffed, offered its belly to the sun. hicks stiffly got out and looked at the body. “by god, they did come close all right,” he breathed.
hicks walked over to the helmet. like an inexperienced surgeon prodding a wound, he touched at the helmet, finally discovering on the leather cover of the padding the initials “w. o. p.” as he straightened he felt a deep pity, a great sorrow. “i used to cuss him a lot and he was an awful bonehead, but he was a pretty good fellow.”
weighted down by two large food containers, four men made their way, stumbling and cursing, into the patch of woods. seeing no one but hicks, one angrily called: “hey, you guys, don’t you want no chow?”
out of nowhere a group of perhaps twenty-five men gathered around the pails of food.
“all right, you guys, snap it up. we can’t wait here all day. quit fingerin’ your noses and grab your mess kits.”
another man, resting from carrying the heavy stuff, started forth:
“oh, the infantry and the cavalry
and the dirty engineers,
they couldn’t lick the leathernecks
in a hundred thousand years.”
pugh looked at him sourly. “you all wouldn’t be singin’ that if you’d been wi’ us las’ night. you musta been hidin’ in some dugout eatin’ up our rations.”
“who?” the man broke off, indignant.
“who? who?” said pugh. “your feet don’t fit no limb.”
“who do you mean?”—incensed.
“oh, gwahn.”
with their canteen cups the men dipped eagerly into the thick, brown, greasy fluid.
“god, an’ it’s hot, too.”
but for the most part they were silent. one man tasted of the concoction in the other receptacle. he began to retch horribly.
usually, the early afternoon was the period of the day’s recreation for the men in the ravine, an hour more favorable to their personal pursuits. between the time when an attack might be expected and the diurnal four-o’clock german bombardment, the moment gave the platoon[143] a chance once more to assume their normal existence. at such a time the guardians of the ravine would emerge from their burrows and, under the shade of an overhanging tree, try to recollect their thoughts.
it was now such a time, and sergeant harriman was sitting cross-legged in the ravine, assaulting with the point of his bayonet a can of argentina beef. events of late had left him shaken. he had entered the trenches with a handicap; he believed that he was a crusader reincarnate, engaged in the holy service of saving religion, morality, purity, and civilization from the barbaric hand of that nation whose people he referred to as huns. he had enlisted because he was of draft age and would be unqualified to dodge the call of congress, requesting him to join the selected army of the united states of america. had he possessed a widowed mother, or a wife and child, he would as gladly have fought the hun from an office desk in kenosha.
he had pierced the cover of the foul beef when a messenger from battalion headquarters parted the trees near harriman and dropped in the ravine. seeing harriman, he spoke:
“is this the third platoon?”
“it is, you know.” harriman had picked up the postscript to his sentence from a man of many enlistments and whom he tried in many ways to emulate.
“you one of the non-coms?”
“yes,” harriman answered pleasantly.
“well.” the messenger reached in the leather saddle-bag suspended from his shoulders. “got some mail for the third platoon. you take it?”
“bet i will.” harriman fairly grabbed at the package of letters, so eager he was to see if it contained one for him. yes, there it was. the one he had expected, waited for these many days.
“gillespie!” he called. “gillespie, do you want to give out the mail?”
gillespie hurried forward, got the package, and ran to the middle of the ravine, calling: “mailo, mailo, third platoon.”
the envelope which harriman fondly and carefully opened was different from the other letters in the package. on it the stamp had been glued at an angle which, to many young men and women, meant “i love you.” the stationery was lavender and a reminiscent odor of sachet was on it. the writing was cramped[145] and affectedly schoolgirlish. harriman unfolded the sheet of lavender paper.
“dear carl,” it began. “you poor dear boy!! how you must be suffering over there in those horrid trenches. and how brave of you to be so joking about it. but we know how badly the conditions really are. the papers keep reporting the frightfulness of those huns, and i pray each night that you won’t be taken prisoner and be treated as some of our poor boys have been treated. the other day mrs. wilwerscheid told mama the most awful story of what the huns were doing to our prisoner boys. oh, carl, it was so awful that i cannot repeat it. i ought not to even think of it. but we know that our carl is too brave to let himself be taken prisoner.
“four of your letters came to-day and it set me wondering where you are. are you, by any chance, at chateau therry? they say there are a great many of our american boys there. i sent you a box two weeks ago. i wonder if you got it. i put in a helmet that i had knitted especially for you, and six big bars of chocolate. you must have plenty of cigarettes. both helene mason and i have subscribed to oodles of soldiers’ tobacco funds. you know,[146] you pay a quarter and get a box of cigarettes and tobacco. you can write whosever name on it that you want to and it will be sent to him. so of course i made helene write yours. i know that you used to not smoke cigarettes, but the papers say that now that all the boys over there are smoking them and of course you would be doing what the rest of the boys are. remember, i didn’t use to like to see boys smoke. but i am willing to sacrifice a mere prejudice for so great a cause as you boys are fighting for. and then rector tyson, of the first m. e., said from the pulpit the other sunday that he thought it was all right for the boys over there to smoke. he is so broad-minded!
“carl dear, this war will never end. you have been over there so long. almost a year, and mama keeps talking about john ryder (he has a big farm now and is raising the food that the government most needs), and saying that carl will never come back. would you forgive me if i did, carl? i mean, became mrs. john r. ryder? you better hurry or i will.
your loving
ellen.
“p.s. the papers say that we must call you sammies now. are you my little sammy?”
hope was burned to a white crisp in his intense disappointment. it left him feeling cold and as if a large hole had been burned in his side. his eyes were blinded and weak as if by a sudden glare. “oh, damn. oh, damn.” he crushed the letter in the palm of his hand, making it a paper wad. feverishly he unfolded the letter, spreading out the wrinkles. ellen danced before him, a fiend with golden hair, an angel who had a forked tongue. she didn’t care, she never cared. but she did, a voice informed him, rationalizing his experiences with her, the words she had spoken to him. she must still care. there was hope. if only he could get back, could see her, could talk to her.... but that was ridiculous. he would stay there with the platoon until he was killed, or, by a piece of luck, wounded. he looked at the combat-packs whose owners never would wear them again, at the pierced helmets and the blood-stained gas-masks. pieces of equipment were scattered over the ground alongside the small, pitiful holes which had been dug for safety. the tall, straight trees grew thicker in the distance. their shadows invited him. the grass acted as a continual spring-board, pushing his body forward into the thicket. on he walked, a smile, half of gladness, half of bewilderment,[148] turning up the corners of his mouth.
at last, out of sight of every one, in the thickest of the woods, he sat upon a small hill and regarded his misshapen, hobnailed shoe. it held a curious fascination for him. yes, the little bump was where the small toe curled. but none of his other toes reached to the end of the shoe, he reflected. what nice leather. a shame to spoil such leather as that. yes, a shame, and besides.... from his pack he drew a small, round can of argentina beef, which he balanced between his instep and the toe of his shoe. no harm in spoiling that! he wiggled his toes around in the shoe and felt squeamish. his hand felt for his pistol at his side. yes, there it was and nicely oiled. he drew the pistol from the holster and aimed it at the small blue can. forty-five-caliber pistols kicked up in the air when they were fired, he remembered. he aimed it a bit lower—and bang. for a moment he felt nothing. the grin was still on his face. then his look changed to one of consternation. better go back and report to the platoon. he rose to his feet, took a few steps, and fell to the ground. by heavens, this was no joke, shooting yourself in the foot. this was serious business. hospital[149] and everything. then he remembered that he had done it himself. it was probably the first time that he had really known it. court martial and disgrace. and he had only meant to get back home. he began to whimper.
lieutenant bedford, his skin the color of sun-bleached ash, walked among the men, a beaten napoleon. a patch of black, ragged beard, his heavy, bristling mustache, his dull brown eyes that seemed to pain, made him appear more dead than alive as he loped along. the men remained lying on the ground, recognizing his approach by a speculative glance. their faces were interestingly similar. a dull gray pallor overspread them all. their eyes were leaden, expressionless, save for a kind of apathetic fear of the inevitable. each lower jaw hung at the same depressed angle. lieutenant bedford sat down as if it were his final act.
“any of you men feel like doing any work?” there was no answer. lieutenant bedford spoke again. “i got to have a work detail. these fellows must be buried. are there any volunteers?” after a short silence some one asked weakly: “where is that damned grave-digger battalion? what are they for?”
“yes, where are they? i didn’t come in this man’s army to dig graves.”
lieutenant bedford tried to appear indignant. “how the hell do you expect the grave-diggers to be here when the artillery haven’t even got up here yet? nope, we’ve got to bury them, that’s all. besides, they’re our dead. they’ll be stinkin’ like hell by to-night if we don’t bury ’em,” he encouraged. “harriman,” he went on in a sort of drone, “pick out a burial detail and have the men work in reliefs.” there was no “yes, sir” forthcoming. the men looked at each other and then at lieutenant bedford. “harriman ain’t here.”
“did he get knocked off, too?” lieutenant bedford asked.
“naw, he was around here this morning.”
“does anybody know what happened to him? where’d he go?”
no one knew.
“well, if he’s gone, he’s gone.” lieutenant bedford grew decisive. “lepere, you take charge. you don’t need to bury ’em so deep. they’ll have to be dug up again, anyway.”
lepere showed surprising signs of life. “all right, men.” his accents became almost crisp. “hicks, pugh, bullis, hartman, kruger.” he[151] pointed his finger impressively as he named off eight men.
sullen, they rose and stood around hesitatingly, asking: “where are the shovels? do you expect us to dig holes with our hands?” bullis was weak and exasperated.
lepere had become a dynamo. he radiated energy. “you’ll find plenty of shovels right down by where captain powers was killed. follow me.” the men trailed off in a group.
they set to work laboriously. soon the first hole had reached a depth so that the bodies would not be too near the surface when the dirt was thrown back in place. on a bloody stretcher a mutilated body was carried to the freshly dug hole and rolled over upon a blanket.
“all right there, pugh. grab hold.” lepere was peremptory.
“lepeah, ah can’t. i’d throw up my guts. you call me when you’re ready to dig the next hole.” pugh walked away.
“come back here, pugh. i’ll report you for insubordination.”
“ah doan cah wot yo do. go to hell.”
while lepere had been talking the body had been lifted into the hole and the first shovelful of dirt had been thrown over it.
“say, wait a minute. stop that. we’ve got to git his dog-tag off.”
lepere stooped over the body and fumbled at the dirty collar. “gimme a knife.” he snipped one of the identification disks from the greasy string. stuffing it in his pocket, he drew back and ordered: “now go ahead.”
the business was continued silently. bodies were carried to the clearing marked off for the temporary burial-place, rolled in a blanket, and dropped into shallow holes. before they were dumped into their temporary graves their pockets were searched and the contents placed in little piles on the ground. some of the bodies were unrecognizable, although the men at work had seen them and talked with them the day before. one or two of the bodies looked as if life had fled them peacefully. the uniforms were unspotted with blood, the faces were calm. but some of the faces were distorted. the lips rose from the teeth and made them look like fangs. one body, on which the skin looked like liver, had been struck lifeless a few days earlier. it stunk terrifically, and when lepere’s hands sought out the neck for the identification tag, his fingers sank into the flesh. but he went stolidly on about his work. hicks turned his[153] body and engaged in a paroxysm of gagging. he turned again, his face the color of a piece of paper. the work went on.
the late afternoon sun shone upon a group of mounds of fresh-dug dirt. each mound was marked by two rough sticks, made to form a cross, at the juncture of which a small aluminum disk bearing a number was fastened. a few yards away men were eating cold beef, cold boiled potatoes, and drinking lukewarm coffee from their muddy canteen cups.
the sky was clear and the air was like a bell. it could have been fancied that any noise must be a tinkling one. the tree tops were tall gothic spires that reached to the heavens. the man in the moon was distinct in the round, pale ball that threw silvery sheets into the forest.
the platoon believed that it had embarked upon a night that at last was to be silent, harmless. they tried to stretch their muscles, which had been taut for days; their thoughts sought out other and more pleasant scenes of remembrance. the air was crisp and their bodies felt comfortable under their blankets. their heads, pillowed on their gas-masks, were, for once, inert. fear had flown.
the first shell that whined its course from the german lines to the place where they were asleep passed unnoticed. it struck the ground with a “p-tt.” the next one did likewise, but some one awakened. he touched the man lying near to him. “what was that?” he asked fearfully, wanting to be assured. another shell, sounding like a full bottle that is shaken, dropped several yards away.
“oh, hell,” said the aroused man. “the squareheads are out of ammunition. they’re shootin’ beer-bottles over.” he fell asleep, unconcerned. the first man sniffed. “beer-bottles! i guess not. gas!” he screamed, in a panic. grunting, swearing, frightened, the men got their masks over their faces in less time than they had been trained to. now they sat around tense, their minds blank, the saliva running down their chins from the mouthpiece of the mask.
ahead of them, in the ravine, where they had been a few days ago, shells broke, reporting noisily. more shells were hurled over, to fall and explode, battering at the ravine. meanwhile the barely discernible p-tt continued around them. the bombardment seemed to be everlasting. under so heavy a bombardment[155] the ravine must be levelled out. bang, crash, bang, up in front at the ravine. p-tt, p-tt, p-tt, back where the platoon was lying. out of the noise a voice was heard calling: “hey, third platoon. we want volunteers for stretcher bearers!” through the dimness made by the glass eyes of his mask, hicks saw a man come stumbling through the trees.
“where are you, third platoon?” the form cried.
hicks drew off his mask, yelled “here!” and replaced it, then forcing the contaminated air out of the mask.
“we want volunteers.” the form had a querulous voice.
hicks took off his mask again. “put on your mask!” he shouted.
“damn the mask!” cursed the form. “we’ve got nothing but wounded men up at the front line and we want some help.”
from somewhere among the still figures lieutenant bedford arose and walked to the form.
“hello, doc. you better put on your mask. the gas is damn heavy here.” he dove into his mask again.
“damn it, i came back here for volunteers,[156] not to be told what to do. we got a lot of wounded men up there.”
“all right; i’ll get you some men.” he summoned six men and ordered them to take litters up to the ravine.
“good god, hicks, don’t go so fast. wait a minute.”
“all right; let your end down, then.”
hicks and pietrzak had been assigned to the job of litter bearers. it was now the third time that they had carried a wounded man from the ravine to the first-aid station, almost two miles away. to do so they had to escape the shells that fell so numerously in the ravine, and, with their masks on, to carry their burden through the gulley filled with gas. on arriving at the first-aid station the first time they found their burden to be dead. his arm had been severed from his body. the second man was unconscious when he was lowered to the ground in front of the first-aid station. now they were on the way from the ravine once more, carrying a man whose middle had been pierced by a fragment of shell casing. as they lowered the stretcher to rest, the man groaned and pleaded with them to go on. hicks tried[157] to reason: “we’ll never git there if we don’t take a little rest. we’ll be there soon, buddy. do you want a drink?” he offered his canteen. “no, just take me away from here,” the man groaned piteously. they rested until they could endure the man’s groaning no longer; then they started off. they had no more than started when a shell struck directly in rear of them. they plodded on with their burden, stumbling over the boulders in the gulley. a little farther on and another shell exploded. on they went until the mustard-like odor of gas filled their nostrils. then they stopped to put on their masks. letting his end of the stretcher sink slowly to the ground, hicks asked the wounded man: “can you wear a mask, buddy?”
“yes, oh, yes, give it to me. i’ll die without it.” fear in the man’s voice was stronger than pain. hicks bent over the man’s chest for the familiar respirator. it was gone. “where is your mask?” he asked. “i don’t know.” very gently hicks raised his head and placed his mask over the face of the wounded man. they started on again. rapidly, successively, three shells struck close by. the rear end of the stretcher dropped to the ground.
“pete!” cried hicks.
pietrzak did not answer, and hicks, putting down his end of the stretcher, walked to the other end and felt along the ground. pietrzak was lying on his side. his neck was wet with blood. a large piece of shell casing had struck him below the ear, and he was now quite dead. his mask was in shreds.
the wounded man was unconscious. until he was hoarse and the gas had burned his eyes so that they were coals of fire, hicks called for help. but none came. his eyes smarting dreadfully, hicks wrapped his coat around his head and took up his night’s vigil beside the wounded man. the bombardment continued most of the night.
when the sun made its pilgrimage over the rim of the distant field and showered the scene with light, hicks was still sitting on a small rock beside the stretcher, his chin supported by his knees, the coat over his head.
for a distance of two miles, from the ravine to the village where the supply wagons were stationed, men lay dead and dying. in the woods and particularly in the gulley that ran through the woods to the village, the thick yellow[159] gas clung to the ground. wherever the gas had touched the skin of the men dark, flaming blisters appeared. like acid, the yellow gas ate into the flesh and blinded the eyes. the ground was a dump-heap of bodies, limbs of trees, legs and arms independent of bodies, and pieces of equipment. here was a combat pack forlorn, its bulge indicating such articles as a razor, an extra shirt, the last letter from home, a box of hard bread. another place a heavy shoe, with a wad of spiral puttee near by. where yesterday’s crosses had been erected, a shell had churned a body out of its shallow grave, separating from the torso the limbs. the crosses themselves had been blown flat, as if by a terrific wind.
in the gray light of early morning hicks felt the fury of impotence as he tried to rise. he unwound the coat that covered his head, forgetful, unmindful for the moment of the man whom he had guarded during the night. he seemed fastened to the surface of the stone. dimly he knew that his legs burned with an awful pain. but the feeling of pain was lost in his marvelling at his inability to rise. not far, distant voices sounded. soon a detail of men filed along the gulley, commenting among themselves[160] upon the havoc of the night. he called weekly to the men who were approaching. as their hands touched him he lost his senses and all went black.
