Chapter 4

1918

Sobbing furiously, Captain Ralph Kinnison wrenched at his stick--with half of his control surfaces shot away the crate was hellishly logy. He could step out, of course, the while saluting the victorious Jerries, but he wasn’t on fire--yet--and hadn’t been hit--yet. He ducked and flinched sidewise as another burst of bullets stitched another seam along his riddled fuselage and whanged against his dead engine. Afire? Not yet--good! Maybe he could land the heap, after all!

Slowly--oh, so sluggishly--the Spad began to level off, toward the edge of the wheatfield and that friendly, inviting ditch. If the krauts didn’t get him with their next pass...

He heard a chattering beneath him--Brownings, by God!--and the expected burst did not come. He knew that he had been just about over the front when they conked his engine; it was a toss-up whether he would come down in enemy territory or not. But now, for the first time in ages, it seemed, there were machine-guns going that were not aimed at him!

His landing-gear swished against stubble and he fought with all his strength of body and of will to keep the Spad’s tail down. He almost succeeded; his speed was almost spent when he began to nose over. He leaped, then, and as he struck ground he curled up and rolled--he had been a motorcycle racer for years--feeling as he did so a wash of heat: a tracer had found his gas-tank at last! Bullets were thudding into the ground; one shrieked past his head as, stooping over, folded into the smallest possible target, he galloped awkwardly toward the ditch.

The Brownings still yammered, filling the sky with cupro-nickeled lead; and while Kinnison was flinging himself full length into the protecting water and mud, he heard a tremendous crash. One of those Huns had been too intent on murder; had stayed a few seconds too long; had come a few meters too close.

The clamor of the guns stopped abruptly.

“We got one! We got one!” a yell of exultation.

“Stay down! Keep low, you boneheads!” roared a voice of authority, quite evidently a sergeant’s. “Wanna get your blocks shot off? Take down them guns; we gotta get to hell out of here. Hey, you flyer! Are you O.K., or wounded, or maybe dead?”

Kinnison spat out mud until he could talk. “O.K.!” he shouted, and started to lift an eye above the low bank. He stopped, however, as whistling metal, sheeting in from the north, told him that such action would be decidedly unsafe. “But I ain’t leaving this ditch right now--sounds mighty hot out there!”

“You said it, brother. It’s hotter than the hinges of hell, from behind that ridge over there. But ooze down that ditch a piece, around the first bend. It’s pretty well in the clear there, and besides, you’ll find a ledge of rocks running straight across the flat. Cross over there and climb the hill--join us by that dead snag up there. We got to get out of here. That sausage over there must have seen this shindig and they’ll blow this whole damn area off the map. Snap it up! And you, you goldbricks, get the lead out of your pants!”

Kinnison followed directions. He found the ledge and emerged, scraping thick and sticky mud from his uniform. He crawled across the little plain. An occasional bullet whined through the air, far above him; but, as the sergeant had said, this bit of terrain was “in the clear.” He climbed the hill, approached the gaunt, bare tree-trunk. He heard men moving, and cautiously announced himself.

“OK., fella,” came the sergeant’s deep bass. “Yeah, it’s us. Shake a leg!”

“That’s easy!” Kinnison laughed for the first time that day. “I’m shaking already, like a hula-hula dancer’s empennage. What outfit is this, and where are we?”

“BRROOM!” The earth trembled, the air vibrated. Below and to the north, almost exactly where the machine-guns had been, an awe-inspiring cloud billowed majestically into the air; a cloud composed of smoke, vapor, pulverized earth, chunks of rock, and debris of what had been trees. Nor was it alone.

“Crack! Bang! Tweet! Boom! Wham!” Shells of all calibers, high explosive and gas, came down in droves. The landscape disappeared. The little company of Americans, in complete silence and with one mind, devoted themselves to accumulating distance. Finally, when they had to stop for breath:

“Section B, attached to the 76th Field Artillery,” the sergeant answered the question as though it had just been asked. “As to where we are, somewhere between Berlin and Paris is about all I can tell you. We got hell knocked out of us yesterday, and have been running around lost ever since. They shot off a rally signal on top of this here hill, though, and we was just going to shove off when we seen the krauts chasing you.”

“Thanks. I’d better rally with you, I guess--find out where we are, and what’s the chance of getting back to my own outfit.”

“Damn slim, I’d say. Boches are all around us here, thicker than fleas on a dog.”

They approached the summit, were challenged, were accepted. They saw a gray-haired man--an old man, for such a location--seated calmly upon a rock, smoking a cigarette. His smartly-tailored uniform, which fitted perfectly his not-so-slender figure, was muddy and tattered. One leg of his breeches was torn half away, revealing a blood-soaked bandage. Although he was very evidently an officer, no insignia were visible. As Kinnison and the gunners approached, a first lieutenant--practically spic-and-span--spoke to the man on the rock.

“First thing to do is to settle the matter of rank,” he announced, crisply. “I’m First Lieutenant Randolph, of...”

“Rank, eh?” The seated one grinned and spat out the butt of his cigarette. “But then, it was important to me, too, when I was a first lieutenant--about the time that you were born. Slayton, Major-General.”

“Oh ... excuse me, sir...”

“Skip it. How many men you got, and what are they?”

“Seven, sir. We brought in a wire from Inf...”

“A wire! Hellanddamnation, why haven’t you got it with you, then? Get it!”

The crestfallen officer disappeared; the general turned to Kinnison and the sergeant.

“Have you got any ammunition, sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. About thirty belts.”

“Thank God! We can use it, and you. As for you, Captain, I don’t know...”

The wire came up. The general seized the instrument and cranked.

“Get me Spearmint ... Spearmint? Slayton--give me Weatherby ... This is Slayton ... yes, but ... No, but I want ... Hellanddamnation, Weatherby, shut up and let me talk--don’t you know that this wire’s apt to be cut any second? We’re on top of Hill Fo-wer, Ni-yun, Sev-en--that’s right--about two hundred men; maybe three. Composite--somebody, apparently, from half the outfits in France. Too fast and too far--both flanks wide open--cut off ... Hello! Hello! Hello!” He dropped the instrument and turned to Kinnison. “You want to go back, Captain, and I need a runner--bad. Want to try to get through?”

“Yes, sir.”

“First phone you come to, get Spearmint--General Weatherby. Tell him Slayton says that we’re cut off, but the Germans aren’t in much force nor in good position, and for God’s sake to get some air and tanks in here to keep them from consolidating. Just a minute. Sergeant, what’s your name?” He studied the burly non-com minutely.

“Wells, sir.”

“What would you say ought to be done with the machine-guns?”

“Cover that ravine, there, first. Then set up to enfilade if they try to come up over there. Then, if I could find any more guns, I’d...”

“Enough. Second Lieutenant Wells, from now. GHQ will confirm. Take charge of all the guns we have. Report when you have made disposition. Now, Kinnison, listen. I can probably hold out until tonight. The enemy doesn’t know yet that we’re here, but we are due for some action pretty quick now, and when they locate us--if there aren’t too many of their own units here, too--they’ll flatten this hill like a table. So tell Weatherby to throw a column in here as soon as it gets dark, and to advance Eight and Sixty, so as to consolidate this whole area. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got a compass?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pick up a tin hat and get going. A hair north of due west, about a kilometer and a half. Keep cover, because the going will be tough. Then you’ll come to a road. It’s a mess, but it’s ours--or was, at last accounts--so the worst of it will be over. On that road, which goes south-west, about two kilometers further, you’ll find a Post--you’ll know it by the motorcycles and such. Phone from there. Luck!”

Bullets began to whine and the general dropped to the ground and crawled toward a coppice, bellowing orders as he went. Kinnison crawled, too, straight west, availing himself of all possible cover, until he encountered a sergeant-major reclining against the south side of a great tree.

“Cigarette, buddy?” that wight demanded.

“Sure. Take the pack. I’ve got another that’ll last me--maybe more. But what the hell goes on here? Who ever heard of a major general getting far enough up front to get shot in the leg, and he talks as though he were figuring on licking the whole German army. Is the old bird nuts, or what?”

“Not so you would notice it. Didn’cha ever hear of ‘Hellandamnation’ Slayton? You will, buddy, you will. If Pershing doesn’t give him three stars after this, he’s crazier than hell. He ain’t supposed to be on combat at all--he’s from GHQ and can make or break anybody in the AEF. Out here on a look-see trip and couldn’t get back. But you got to hand it to him--he’s getting things organized in great shape. I came in with him--I’m about all that’s left of them that did--just waiting for this breeze to die down, but its getting worse. We’d better duck--over there!”

Bullets whistled and stormed, breaking more twigs and branches from the already shattered, practically denuded trees. The two slid precipitately into the indicated shell-hole, into stinking mud. Wells’ guns burst into action.

“Damn! I hated to do this,” the sergeant grumbled, “On accounta I just got half dry.”

“Wise me up,” Kinnison directed. “The more I know about things, the more apt I am to get through.”

“This is what is left of two battalions, and a lot of casuals. They made objective, but it turns out the outfits on their right and left couldn’t, leaving their flanks right out in the open air. Orders come in by blinker to rectify the line by falling back, but by then it couldn’t be done. Under observation.”

Kinnison nodded. He knew what a barrage would have done to a force trying to cross such open ground in daylight.

“One man could prob’ly make it, though, if he was careful and kept his eyes wide open,” the sergeant-major continued. “But you ain’t got no binoculars, have you?”

“No.”

“Get a pair easy enough. You saw them boots without any hobnails in ‘em, sticking out from under some blankets?”

“Yes. I get you.” Kinnison knew that combat officers did not wear hobnails, and usually carried binoculars. “How come so many at once?”

“Just about all the officers that got this far. Conniving, my guess is, behind old Slayton’s back. Anyway, a kraut aviator spots ‘em and dives. Our machine-guns got him, but not until after he heaved a bomb. Dead center. Christ, what a mess! But there’s six-seven good glasses in there. I’d grab one myself, but the general would see it--he can see right through the lid of a mess-kit. Well, the boys have shut those krauts up, so I’ll hunt the old man up and tell him what I found out. Damn this mud!”

Kinnison emerged sinuously and snaked his way to a row of blanket covered forms. He lifted a blanket and gasped: then vomited up everything, it seemed, that he had eaten for days. But he had to have the binoculars.

He got them.

Then, still retching, white and shaken, he crept westward; availing himself of every possible item of cover.

For some time, from a point somewhere north of his route, a machine-gun had been intermittently at work. It was close; but the very loudness of its noise, confused as it was by resounding echoes, made it impossible to locate at all exactly the weapon’s position. Kinnison crept forward inchwise; scanning every foot of visible terrain through his powerful glass. He knew by the sound that it was German. More, since what he did not know about machine-guns could have been printed in bill-poster type upon the back of his hand, he knew that it was a Maxim, Model 1907--a mean, mean gun. He deduced that it was doing plenty of damage to his fellows back on the hill, and that they had not been able to do much of anything about it. And it was beautifully hidden; even he, close as he must be, couldn’t see it. But damn it, there had to be a...