CHAPTER XXV
THE MARINES MOVE FORWARD
“Chester,” said Hal, “that is the finest looking body of men I have ever seen.”
Hal eyed the long lines of marines with pride and a critical eye.
“Right you are, Hal,” Chester agreed. “I’ll bet they make the Germans sit up and take notice.” He turned to Bowers. “You are to be congratulated on being a part of such an outfit, sergeant,” he added.
“Thank you, sir,” said Bowers.
“And we’re in luck to have been detailed here at this time,” said Hal.
“You’re right again,” declared Chester.
It was three days after Hal and Chester had returned from their mission for General Pershing. Soon after the American commander had communicated to Marshal Foch the results of the lads’ work, he had ordered them south to General Bundy’s two divisions of marines, which for several days had been encamped some distance from the front. The lads had delivered dispatches from the American commander-in-chief to General Bundy and had been detailed to the Sixth Regiment. There, much to their surprise, they encountered their old friends, Lieutenants Smith and Jenkins, and Bowers, who had been promoted to a top sergeancy.
All were delighted with the reunion and the marines expressed their satisfaction when they learned Hal and Chester had been promoted.
“It’s probably a bit irregular to have you with us, sir,” Sergeant Bowers said to Hal, “but we’re glad you’re here.”
“I’ll tell you something, sergeant,” said Hal, with a knowing wink. “It will be only a matter of hours now until we move to the front.”
“Is that so, sir?” asked Bowers. “Well, it can’t be too soon for me. I’ve had one crack at these Huns, but up to date the marines haven’t been in sufficient strength to show what we can do. But,” and his eyes swept the large encampment, “there are enough of us here to run Fritz to death if they give us a chance.”
“Practically eighteen thousand men,” Chester agreed.
“Let’s hope we get another crack at them soon, sir,” said Bowers.
The chance was to come sooner than even Hal or Chester had believed possible.
It was on the evening of June 15 that the marines suddenly received orders to march. This was the day following the arrival of Hal and Chester at General Bundy’s headquarters.
The lads had been much impressed with General Bundy upon sight; and he was not to lose caste in their eyes; for, as it developed, here was the man who was to be mainly responsible for the launching of the great Allied offensive.
General Omar Bundy was tall and spare and was chiefly distinguishable by a rather prominent mustache. He was a capable officer and a man prone to prompt decision, as he was to prove.
Hard upon the orders to move forward, the marines vaulted into camions, or French motor trucks. These vehicles found great favor in their eyes. The springs are so staunch and stiff, the hard seats are so dependable, and their capacity is so blindly ignored when they are loaded that the soldiers had many a laugh.
Although they had had no supper, there was quite a lot of singing as the troops embarked.
All night long the trucks bumped over the traffic-torn roads. When dawn peeped above the purple horizon they pulled into a little French village and the men jumped from the tracks. They were hungry and thirsty.
Up to this time the men had not thought much about their destination, but as the roar of the guns at the front became louder and louder they began to realize that there was serious work ahead. In spite of their growing thirst and the emptiness in their stomachs, however, there was not a murmur of protest in the ranks.
A division cannot be moved over one road and expect to reach its destination in proper formation—and there were two divisions moving here. All the roads leading to the destination must be utilized, and even then some parts of the division will be dumped many kilometers from their destination.
So the troops hiked and hiked till the roads beneath them rose in dusty protest at the ceaseless tramp, tramp.
In the afternoon the regiment to which Hal and Chester were attached struck through a deep wood. The trees were magnificent. All the underbrush had been cleared out. It was replaced by shells. Acres on acres were piled high with shells of every calibre. Most of them were made in America, and the troops cheered as they recognized the trade marks.
Around the edges of this stupendous mountain of death there was a feverish activity, a subdued excitement that boded ill. American and French ammunition trains came tearing, galloping, whirling in dust-clouds ahead of smoking exhausts—into that trembling woods. With seeming recklessness shells were tossed into the wagons and camions, which departed with fresh haste.
A flood of giant trucks streamed into the woods, dumped their loads of ammunition and whirled away for more. The marines tightened their belts and decided to stick around. There was something doing!
Finally the marines emerged onto the main road. And what a road! It was a nightmare, a thousand bedlams. There was noise, noise and more noise. It was a Niagara of sound that deafened the men.
The shouting of the workers, the crunch and grind of wheels, the groan of gears, the cracking of whips, the clang of metal, the pounding of countless horses’ hoofs, the chugging of streams of motors and the screams of their many-throated sirens; empty ammunition trains going and loaded ones coming, light artillery and heavy artillery, tanks in platoons, trucks in companies, field kitchens, water wagons, supply trains, ration carts, all fought for space and air in order to make their own particular noise vibrate. Every square foot of that road, broad and gummy-surfaced, supported something all the time, while the ditches on either side were used by endless lines of plodding Americans, faint from hunger and thirst, almost exhausted from want of sleep, but all thrilled by the hunger for Huns that would only be satisfied by victory and peace.
The marines were about to strike the enemy and they knew it. Marshal Foch was behind them.
So they plodded on and on without complaint. The road with its babel of streaming traffic told them that something was about to happen. And each man secretly congratulated himself on being considered good enough to have a part in the show.
Toward the evening it was pure agony for most of the men to pass a French kitchen, located in the woods that flanked both sides of the woods. The men took to robbing the water wagons as they passed. French drivers, angered, slashed at them with their whips, but the marines didn’t mind.
Looking back along the road, Sergeant Bowers saw a young marine with a loaf of French bread. The sergeant stepped out of line and waited for him. In the presence of that loaf of bread, the sergeant actually trembled.
“Where’d you get it?” demanded the sergeant of the young marine.
“Frenchman, for the makin’s,’” returned the youngster.
Instantly the sergeant turned his eyes to the side of the road, where for the first time he noted the presence, at irregular intervals, of French soldiers, most of them slightly wounded, some of whom carried loaves of bread. Sergeant Bowers approached one and exposed a sack half full of tobacco.
“For one loaf,” he said to a Frenchman near him.
Without haggling, the man passed the loaf of bread to the sergeant and the latter gave him his tobacco.
“Pretty high,” said the sergeant to himself, “but I’ve just naturally got to have something to eat.”
Congestion soon halted the line as the Americans advanced. Lured on by Sergeant Bowers’ action, hundreds of privates were able to make exchanges with French soldiers, and it took sharp orders from the officers to make them move on again.
Every now and then the marines came to a place where a shell had exploded in the road recently. At one place they came upon what had been five horses, and a part of another, and some blue helmets. These were dragged aside hastily.
Around 5 o’clock, Hal, who had gone to headquarters in a commandeered automobile, rejoined his regiment, which soon stopped for a rest. Sergeant Bowers dropped down in the ditch and eased his pack straps from the spots that ached. Hal went over to him.
“Sergeant,” said the lad, “have the men got emergency rations?”
“No, sir,” said Bowers.
“What?” exclaimed Hal. “Why haven’t they? Major Drew told me they had.”
“Well, they haven’t, sir,” repeated Bowers dryly. “I can vouch for that. I’ve had to pull up my belt a couple of notches.”
“Now, that’s pretty tough,” declared Hal. “But I am afraid it can’t be helped now, sergeant.”
“Right you are, sir. I don’t hear any kicking.”
Hal smiled in spite of himself.
After a brief rest, the marines resumed their journey. They struck out along a quieter road. They hiked and hiked till their shoes quit squeaking. The road gradually became deserted. Soon the marching marines were the only men in sight.
The men zig-zagged from side to side, ducking trees cut off by big shells. Suddenly the vanguard was confronted by a gesticulating Frenchman, who waved his hands for them to stop. Hal halted his company and rode forward.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded in French.
The Frenchman pointed dramatically along the road.
“Boche!”
“What?” queried Hal. “Com bien kilometers?” (How many kilometers?)
“Non. Non!” returned the Frenchman. “Kilometer!”
Hal thanked the Frenchman and discreetly ordered his men into a woods. The withdrawal was assisted by five German shells that burst on both sides of the road.
“Just in time, sir,” said Bowers.
“Right,” replied Hal, “thanks to the Frenchman.”