CHAPTER IX
ON THE MARCH
Jimmy's prediction that they were likely to move on soon was speedilyverified. The very next morning at Assembly the men were orderedto report on the parade ground at noon under full pack. An hour'sdrill and they were dismissed in order to allow them to make finalpreparations before starting on their march to the front.
Though they had had hardly time to explore the little village or makethe acquaintance of its inhabitants, the entire population turned outto see them off. French matrons and pretty young girls fluttered theirhandkerchiefs at the marching columns of Sammies, just as the Americanmothers, wives and sisters did when the trains pulled out of the hometowns bearing Uncle Sam's Boys away to the training camps.
With the backbone of winter broken, the day was clear and fair. Thesun shone brightly down in inspiriting fashion. There was but onedrawback--the ever-present mud. A recent spell of wet weather hadmade of the roads an unending succession of small pools of water,interspersed with little stretches of sticky, clinging mire, into whichthe soldiers' feet sank, ankle deep.
Long before the afternoon merged into sunset, the Khaki Boys had begunto feel the effects of that strenuous march. Their heavy, hob-nailedtrench shoes, made heavier by constant contact with the mud, blisteredtheir feet and caused them acute suffering. Yet they sang home songs,and joked with one another as they plodded along, unmindful of theirdiscomfort. Not a man hung back or gave up. Neither did the facttrouble them that every step they took was bringing them nearer to thebig guns, the booming of which was ever in their ears.
For each hour on the road they were allowed a ten-minutes' halt, inwhich to nurse their swollen feet, and rest their weary backs, achingfrom the heavy packs. Though the majority did not know of how longduration the hike would be, a few knew that their difficult march wouldend in a partially ruined village, just out of range of the Germanguns. There they would be billeted until the order came to take theirfirst turn in the trenches.
It was after eight o'clock in the evening when a foot-sore,mud-spattered company of young defenders tramped wearily along theprincipal thoroughfare of the French hamlet. That thoroughfare wasnothing more than a very muddy road. On each side of it stood theshattered remnants of what had once been the homes of the unfortunateinhabitants whose quaint little cottages had been demolished by theenemy's guns. Less than half the houses in the village still remainedintact. So near to the firing lines, they had not been able to avertthe dire misfortunes of war.
Continuing on through the village, they were finally halted in a largemeadow on its outskirts. Here the work of erecting shelter or "pup"tents began, in which they would sleep that night. The cook wagons,too, immediately went into action, and the way-worn travelers werepresently given the comfort of a hot supper before turning in for anight's sleep.
Rolled up in their ponchos, the Khaki Boys slept as soundly that nightas though back in the home barracks they had so long ago left behindthem. A hot breakfast the next morning and they were again in good trimfor the eventful hike that would bring them to the firing line.
Save for an hour's limbering-up drill, the day was theirs to roam atwill about their new environment. Not until the dusk of evening hadsettled down upon the landscape would they start again on the last lapof their journey.
Immediately after drill, the five Brothers got together and went on aroving tour about the partially wrecked village. By daylight they foundit teeming with life. It seemed principally peopled, however, with oldwomen and children, although they encountered a goodly number of Frenchsoldiers resting in billets from trench duty.
Here and there they saw small inns, largely patronized by the French_poilus_. Entering one of them out of curiosity, they were ratherdisappointed to discover that they could obtain little there in the wayof refreshment other than brown bread, cheese and French wines, thelatter in which none of them ever indulged.
"For a place that's been all shot to pieces by Boche Kultur, I must sayit's a mighty prosy old burg," was Bob's opinion.
The quintet had repaired to their impromptu camp for dinner, andafterward started out again in the hope of finding something reallyexciting. They had been roaming about for over an hour since dinner,and had, thus far, met with no startling adventures.
Bob's remark arose from the fact that they had just passed aschoolhouse, through the opened windows of which came the high, shrillvoices of children, placidly reciting their lessons.
"Funny, isn't it, that those kids can settle down to school with thenoise of the guns going on all the time?" mused Roger. "You'd thinkthey'd be scared out of their baby wits."
"They're just like all the rest of these good sports of Frenchies.They've grown so used to it they don't blink an eyelash now," declaredSchnitzel. "Wish I'd been born a Frenchman instead of a G. A. The A'sall right, but not the G."
"Well, you got the G. out of your system when you enlisted," consoledBob. "You've no kick coming."
"Thank goodness I did," was Schnitzel's fervent response. "I'd hate tofeel that I had a single tie that bound me to these cursed, butcheringBoches. If some of the Germans in the U. S. could really be made tobelieve what we've seen with our own eyes, it would give 'em a jolt."
"They don't want to believe," Bob cried out scornfully. "But waitawhile. If some German-American father whose son got in the draftand was sent over here gets word that his boy has been crucified ortortured by a delegation of Fatherland friends, he'll wake up in ahurry."
"Yes," nodded Schnitzel, "when the chickens begin to come home toroost, it's going to make some difference in the way these Germanfanatics at home feel about this war."
Greeted on every side by evidence of havoc and devastation wrought bythe enemy, the talk of the strollers remained centered on the war.In the home camps and on shipboard they had discussed it but little,preferring to keep it in the background. Now they were so near to thegreat conflict it could no longer be ignored. It had become the onevital topic of conversation.
"Let's go into that wreck and see what it looks like inside," proposedRoger at last.
Proceeding in an opposite direction from their camp, they had walkedthe breadth of the village, and were well toward the open country.Standing by itself in a field, the broken stone walls of a shelledcottage had attracted Roger's attention.
"I'll go you," was Bob's ready response.
"I'm game," agreed Jimmy.
"So would I it to see," assented Ignace. "Yet think I there is no moochby it, only the many stone and mooch roobish."
Circling the wrecked cottage for a place by which to enter it withthe least effort, the explorers climbed over a heap of debris, whichpartially blocked a doorless aperture at the rear, and gained theinterior.
Once inside they saw nothing more remarkable than ragged heapsof stone, splintered beams, and the broken remnants of householdfurniture. The only part of the floor still intact was the narrow stripon which they stood.
"Let's go. It's fierce." Jimmy spoke in hoarse, husky tones.
Sight of that ruthless wrecking of a home made him think of his ownbeautiful, far-away home, where his beloved "folks" dwelt in safety,immune from shot and shell.
"I guess we know why we're here, when we look at this," he continuedtensely. "If I had a thousand lives I'd give 'em all to save the homefolks from such a thing ever happening to 'em."
"Right-o!" emphasized Bob.
Silence hung over the group for an instant, then, by mutual consent,they turned and left behind them the frightful demonstration of"Kultur."
"Look who's here! He's mine. I saw him first!"
Emerging from the ruin a step in advance of his comrades, Bob suddenlyraised his voice in a shout, and set off on the run across the fieldbehind the cottage.
Echoing his yell, his bunkies tore after, laughing as they went. Bob'sprize was nothing more than a solemn white goat, meandering aimlesslyabout the brown field in search of a green bit on which to graze.
"You old fake! I thought you'd lamped someth
ing wonderful! Nothing butan old Billy goat. Hello, Bill! How's tricks?"
Jimmy now jocularly addressed his goatship.
"M-a-a-a!" bleated Bill politely.
"Don't call him Bill," objected Bob. "Have some respect for hisdelicate feelings. You can see for yourself it won't go down with him.He's a werry fine animule, and I'm going to adopt him and call himGaston. He's a French goat, hence the _Francais_ handle."
"You'd better let him alone," warned Roger. "He must belong to somebodyaround here. You know what'll happen to you if you pinch him."
"Pinch him nothing. I'm no goat-robber," was Bob's indignant retort."I'm going to do the square thing by Gaston. See that house down theroad? Well, I'm going to tie him up and lead him to it. Bobby has anice piece of string in his pocket. I'll bet the folks down there knowhis history. If he's a orfin, then Bobby will be his foster-papa andtrain Gaston to charge on you fellows if you ever get too fresh. Won'tyou, Gaston?"
Gaston, it appeared, was already about to get busy. His first surpriseat the invasion having vanished, he lowered his head and dashed at hisadmirers with an energy that sent them scattering.
"He's got the true war spirit," yelled Bob. "Now watch me tame him!"
Bob agilely circled the belligerent Gaston. The goat had stopped aftermaking the charge to reflect upon his next course of action. Pouncingupon the surprised animal, Bob grasped it by the horns. To his delight,it meekly stood still, whereupon he relaxed one hand from a horn andpromptly fished a piece of tough string from his trousers' pocket. Aninstant later, Gaston was being led, an acquiescent captive, from thefield by his beaming master. Prudence, however, warned Bob's bunkies towalk in Gaston's rear.
Duly arriving at the house Bob had pointed out, he consigned hisnew pet to Roger's care, and went boldly up to the door in quest ofinformation.
Watching him, his comrades saw him ushered inside the house by a prettyyoung French girl.
Ten minutes later he emerged, grinning like a Cheshire cat. At hisheels trooped two or three children, the girl and an old man, all ofwhom made bobbing little bows to _Les Americains_.
"He's mine!" called out Bob jubilantly. "I bought him for two plunks.He's an old-timer, and not very popular with the family. He's going tobillet here, though, while I'm in the trenches. I'm going to pay forhis keep and be a father to him when I'm not on duty. If I get pluggedthe first whack, then somebody else can have my goat. But as long asBobby's in good health, Gaston's going to have a friend. Believe me!"