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Transcriber’s Notes:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_), and text
enclosed by equal signs is in bold (=bold=).

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

CIVIL WAR STORIES BY WARREN LEE GOSS

=IN THE NAVY=, (7th Thousand) Illustrated, 399 Pages, =A Story of naval
adventures during the Civil war=.

  “_The Marine Journal_” says of it: “The author, takes as usual for
  his fiction, a foundation of reality, and therefore the story reads
  like a transcript of real life. There are many dramatic scenes, such
  as the battle between the Monitor and the Merrimac, and the reader
  follows the adventures of the two heroes with a keen interest that
  must make the story popular especially at the present time.”

=TOM CLIFTON, A story of adventures in Grant and Sherman’s armies.=
(13th Thousand) Illustrated, 480 pages. 12mo. Cloth.

  “_The Detroit Free Press_” says of it, “The book is the very epitome
  of what the young soldiers, who helped to save the Union, felt,
  endured and enjoyed. It is wholesome, stimulating to patriotism and
  manhood, noble in tone, unstained by any hint of sectionalism, full
  of good feeling; the work of a hero who himself did what he saw and
  relates.”

=JACK ALDEN: Adventures in the Virginia Campaigns, 1861-65.= (12th
Thousand) Illustrated, 404 pages.

  “_The New York Nation_” says of it: “It is an unusually interesting
  story. Its pictures of scenes and incidents of army life, from the
  march of the 6th Massachusetts regiment through Baltimore to the
  surrender at Appomattox, are among the best that we can remember to
  have read.”

=JED. A boy’s adventures in the army.= (28th Thousand) Illustrated, 402
pages. 12mo. Cloth.

  “_The Boston Beacon_” among other complimentary remarks about this
  book says: “Of all the many stories of the Civil War that have been
  published--and their name is legion--it is not possible to mention
  one which for sturdy realism, intensity of interest, and range of
  narrative, can compare with Jed.”

=A LIFE OF GRANT FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.= Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth.

  “_The Christian Advocate_” (_Cincinnati_) says of it: “One of the
  best lives of U. S. Grant that we have seen--clear, circumstantial,
  but without undue and fulsome praise. The chapters telling of the
  clouds of misfortune and suffering over the close of his life are
  pathetic in the extreme.”

=THE BOY’S LIFE OF GENERAL SHERIDAN.= Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth.

  The “_Living Church_” (_Milwaukee_) says of it: “The story of the
  dashing officer in his war career and also afterwards--in his
  campaigns among the Indians, form a thrilling story of American
  leadership. The book contains a thorough review in thrilling language
  of the various campaigns in which Sheridan made his mark.”

Order from your bookseller. Send for Catalogue.

THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY, NEW YORK

[Illustration: _Frontis._ “I GRIPPED MY NERVE AND SHUT MY TEETH. COULD
I REACH A PLACE OF SAFETY?”--Page 111.]

JED’S BOY

  A STORY OF ADVENTURES IN
  THE GREAT WORLD WAR

  BY
  WARREN LEE GOSS

  AUTHOR OF “JED,” “JACK ALDEN,” “TOM CLIFTON,” ETC.

  _ILLUSTRATED_

  NEW YORK
  THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
  PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY

THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY

  DEDICATED
  TO THE SOLDIERS AND SAILORS
  OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR

PREFACE

During the progress of the Great War, the writer has been often
requested by his boy friends and others, both by letter and verbally,
to write a book like “Jed” (“A Boy’s Adventures in the Army, ’61-’65”)
depicting the scenes of this later war. Some of them have even
suggested that he recreate some of the characters therein. To do this,
of course, was a logical impossibility, since those not killed in that
story would be too old for military service. Prompted, however, by
that demand, he has taken a nephew of Jed as the hero of this story.
Incited by his mother’s patriotism, and her recital of her brother
Jed’s heroism, he enlists and serves his country on the battlefields of
France.

The author’s main purpose in writing this book, as with his other
books, is to stimulate a true spirit of Americanism. Patriotism thrives
best where it is best nourished, and is not a plant of accidental
growth. The Posts of the Grand Army of the Republic through their
exercises on Memorial and other patriotic days, and their teachings of
patriotism in the public schools, have been springs of liberty flowing
throughout the land nourishing a love of country in our youth. That all
this has borne fruit is shown by the spirit in which the boys of to-day
have sprung to the defence of human liberty in the great conflict of
their own time.

We have been privileged to see the last shreds of hatred left over from
our Civil War burned away in a fervor of patriotism, that has sent the
sons of the Gray shoulder to shoulder with the sons of the Blue to the
defence of liberty on the fields of France and Belgium.

If the writer has made clear that the young manhood of America has the
same spirit to-day as had their fathers, in our great conflict of the
sixties, and as had the Nathan Hales of the Revolution, he will have
satisfied his own aspirations.

W. L. G.

CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                 PAGE

       I. THE TRAMP BOY                      1

      II. WORKING ON THE FARM                9

     III. IMPENDING WAR CLOUDS              15

      IV. WITH THE COLORS                   22

       V. FROM CAMP TO TRANSPORT            31

      VI. IN BEAUTIFUL FRANCE               43

     VII. IN THE TRENCHES                   53

    VIII. “WHO COMES THERE?”                64

      IX. A CALL RETURNED                   73

       X. IN REST BILLET                    83

      XI. A SIX WEEKS’ HIKE THROUGH FRANCE  91

     XII. ON THE BATTLE LINES               99

    XIII. IN THE TIDE OF BATTLE            106

     XIV. THE CROIX DE GUERRE              114

      XV. ON LEAVE OF ABSENCE              120

     XVI. A STRANGE DESERTION              128

    XVII. ANOTHER DESERTER                 136

   XVIII. A RAID ON THE ENEMY              143

     XIX. THE GERMAN PEACE STORM           151

      XX. AN ADVENTURE OF ARMS             161

     XXI. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY        169

    XXII. HELD BY THE ENEMY                176

   XXIII. A HAZARD OF FORTUNE              183

    XXIV. LOOSE AMONG THE BOCHES           190

     XXV. AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER          198

    XXVI. A HOSPITAL CASE                  208

   XXVII. THE MIX-UP OF BATTLE             217

  XXVIII. A MYSTERY SOLVED                 224

    XXIX. THE SUPREME SACRIFICE            230

JED’S BOY

CHAPTER I THE TRAMP BOY

It was November, in the year 1914. The snow had come with the gloom of
twilight, and an angry wind whistled over the Western Massachusetts
hills.

I was then a lad, trying to fill his father’s place on the farm. I had
just finished milking when I heard Bill Jenkins, our hired man, call
out in rasping tones, “No, there’s no work for you here, I tell you!”

Turning, I saw at the barnyard gate the person to whom Bill had spoken.
He was a tall slim boy apparently near my own age, fourteen.

“What is it, Bill?” I said; “what does he want?”

“You run along with your milkin’ pail,” said Bill. “I’ll ’tend to him.
You don’t know nothin’ ’bout dealin’ with tramps.”

I repeated my question, and the boy answered, “I am looking for work.”

“An’ I told you there’s no work here for you,” said Bill roughly. “An’
if you can’t understand such plain words as them air, you’ll have to
get a dictionary.”

“Can’t I stay here over night?” persisted the boy. “I can pay for my
lodging. It’s getting dark, and these parts are strange to me.”

There was something in the high-pitched voice that told me the lad
was weak as well as cold, and the trembling tones appealed to me more
strongly than the request itself. There was, too, a peculiar accent in
them that excited my curiosity. So before Bill could again interfere I
answered,

“Yes, you can stay; and if there is no other bed, you can sleep with
me. I am sure mother will be willing.”

“You are soft and foolish. You don’t understand folks that go traipsing
’round the country,” growled Bill. But ignoring his protests I led the
way to the house, with the strange boy following.

When we reached the kitchen and the lights were brought, Bill, with a
surly air, carried the pail to the milk room. Mother coming in saw the
boy and asked, “Who is this, David?”

“A boy who wants to stay all night, Mother,” I replied, “and I have
invited him to sleep with me. Can he?”

“What’s your name?” asked mother, turning to the boy and looking him
over with an inquiring glance that meant more than words.

“Jonathan Nickerson--they call me Jot for short. That is not my whole
name, only a part of it. My father is ’way off, I don’t know just
where, and my mother is dead; I couldn’t agree with the folks she has
been staying with, so I must find work or go hungry.” As he spoke of
his mother, his voice grew husky as though he were keeping back the
tears.

There was a straightforwardness in his answer that pleased mother,
as I knew it would, for she liked direct answers to questions. This
may account for her keeping Bill Jenkins in her service most of the
time since the Civil War, where he had served as a drummer for three
months. He had appeared at her father’s door, ragged and disgusted with
military life, after the battle of Bull Run, from which he had beaten
his way with some of the rest of those who had got back to Washington.

Mother looked at the boy keenly from over her spectacles, but made no
remarks, while I summed him up, as follows: He was very dark, thin in
feature and in person, his eyes dark and bright, chin prominent; and
notwithstanding thin-patched clothes and apparent weakness, there was a
manner of independence and decision that cannot be expressed in words.

“Come here, Mother!” I said, turning to another room.

“What do you want now?” asked mother.

“Don’t turn him away in the cold and dark,” I pleaded. “Suppose I had
no place to sleep tonight, out in the wind and snow.”

“He looks clean, if he is patched and darned, and seems a decent boy,”
she said in an undertone, as though thinking aloud, and then added,
“Yes, David, he can sleep in the ell bedroom. It is cold there, but
there are plenty of good comforters, and I guess he can put up with it,
if we can; and as our Master said, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it to the
least--’” and she left the quotation unended.

Supper was ready, and mother said to the boy, “Yes, you can stay here
tonight, and if you have not had your supper, sit up to the table with
us.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied sturdily, “but I have no money to pay
for my supper--only enough to pay for my lodging--only twenty five
cents at that.

“I did not say anything about pay,” said mother; “you are welcome to
your supper.”

“Mother told me never to take anything without paying in some way for
it,” he protested; “and I am not very hungry.”

Mother gave him another searching look, as if to learn whether there
was any purpose back of his words, and then as though satisfied, said
with softening voice, “Never mind about that, my boy; if you are not
afraid of work, you may pay for your supper and breakfast too. There is
plenty to do here.”

When he asked for a place to wash, and had gone to the kitchen sink for
that purpose, mother remarked, “The pail is empty and the pump doesn’t
work; so you must go to the well for some water.”

When supper was ended, Jonathan asked, “May I try to fix your pump,
m’am?”

Mother hesitated, glanced at Bill, and then replied with a smile, “Yes,
you may try. At any rate you can’t make it any worse than it has been,
since Bill fussed with it.”

Jonathan went to work with his jackknife and such tools as were at
hand. He had not more than started, however, when Bill came in with an
armful of wood for the kitchen stove. Stopping at the pump he said in
his dictatorial tones, “You can’t do nothin’ with that pump! I’ve tried
it, an’ I tell you it’s past mending by any botch or boy. An’ I tell
Miss Stark it will be cheaper to buy a new one, by gosh! For I put in a
half a day tryin’ to fix it.”

Jonathan, without reply, kept on with his mending and, to our surprise,
after half an hour had the pump working.

“Where did you learn to fix pumps?” mother inquired in a pleased manner.

“Our pump got out of order once, and the man who fixed it explained its
working to me, and I have learned about them otherwise since.”

“That pump,” said the disgruntled Bill, “will be out of order again as
quick as scat, or I miss my guess.”

“You see,” said Jot, ignoring Bill, “that piece of leather is a valve
and must fit quite tight. When the air is pumped out, the water comes
up to fill the partial vacuum. All I have done is to limber and adjust
the valve so that it fits tighter.”

“My!” said mother trying the pump, “it works quite well, and it does
not matter where you learned it; you have earned your supper and
breakfast too, for we would have had to send to Chester for a man to
repair it, besides the inconvenience of waiting.”

The next morning mother asked Jot what pay he would want to do the
chores and other light work about the place. “I will work a month,” he
replied, “and you shall say how much I am worth.”

The answer pleased mother since it seemed to insure faithful service.

Thus it was that Jonathan Nickerson came to work on the Stark farm.

My father, Captain David Stark, had been a soldier in the Civil War. He
had enlisted when only sixteen years of age and, by military aptitude
and bravery, had won a captain’s commission, before he was twenty-one.

Over the mantel of our front room, secluded from light and flies except
when we had company, hung a sword which had been presented to him, so
its inscription read, by his admiring officers and men.

He had married my mother some years younger than he, quite late in
life, and I was their only child. He had died before I remembered much
about him.

One day Jot noticed the sword and read its inscription. He removed his
hat reverently and said: “I would like to be a brave soldier like him.
My mother’s only brother, Lieutenant Jedediah Hoskins, was killed while
leading a charge, just before the surrender at Appomattox. She was but
a little child when that occurred, but she had his back pay and other
property to help us, and often called me Jed’s Boy, hoping that I would
be like him.”

Jonathan, or Jot as we began to call him, was careful and handy; he
repaired locks, and even put in running order a disregarded mowing
machine that Bill, who didn’t like “new fangled farming,” declared was
good for nothing. We soon began to regard him as one of the family, and
mother liked him because, as she said, he was both honest and careful
and “had not a lazy bone in his body.”

Bill usually read the weekly newspaper in the evening, sometimes
commenting aloud on what he read. One evening while reading he looked
up exclaiming, “Gosh!”

“What is it, Bill,” I asked, “anybody dead?”

“Matter! The Germans are marching on Paris”, he answered, “and there
has been the all-firedest fightin’ you ever heard tell of.” Then Bill
read aloud the news of the first fighting in the Great World War.

“I believe,” he concluded excitedly, “that I shall have to go myself
and help lick them consarned Dutch.”

“I wouldn’t,” said mother with a gleam of fun in her eyes, for she
liked to tease Bill, “You might wear yourself out, as you did at Bull
Run, scampering back.”

“Well,” acknowledged Bill with a grimace, “I am getting old, and I like
farmin’ a consarned sight better than I do fightin’; but when I read
’bout them Germans tryin’ to run over everybody, it makes my dander
rise, darned if it don’t!” And Bill was not the only one of us who felt
that way.

Then we got Bill to tell us about his experience in the Bull Run
campaign. So he gave his version of that battle--even the running away,
which, however does not concern this narrative.

“Didn’t you think it a shame,” asked mother, “to run away?”

“Well,” admitted Bill, “as a matter of glory it was, but as we fightin’
fellers see it then, it looked like common sense, plagued if it didn’t!
A man will get sca’t at things he ain’t used to. Them fellers that run
wouldn’t do it again--if the other fellers didn’t. I wouldn’t wonder if
I would stand to the rack an’ take the fodder that was coming, myself,
if I was in another fight. And then my time was most eout, and I was
all the time thinkin’ ’twas best to go home on my legs instead of in a
box, when my time was up.”

“Were you scared, Bill?” I asked.

“Gosh, yes! the fust of it, my hair stood up so straight that I thought
it would take my hat off. But I had spunk to stand it, in spite of
being sca’t--’till the others run. D’ yo’ know that I think it takes
more courage f’r a sca’t man to stand fire, than it does for a brave
man.”

And I have since learned, from experience, that it is indeed a brave
man who, being frightened, still keeps his place in battle.

CHAPTER II WORKING ON THE FARM

The winter school had closed, and my spring work on the farm had begun.
Boys of my age in New England, at least farmer boys, did not, as a
rule, attend school in summer: it was thought that winter schooling
was enough. My mother, however, intended for me to graduate in the
high school later. Like most New England people, mother believed in
the potency of work as a needful part of a boy’s or girl’s education.
Work, she declared never hurt any one; while laziness and the feeling
that one is too good to work were the foundation of shiftlessness and
poverty. People must fight for anything worth having, and farming is a
fight with the soil to make it yield a living.

“Your father,” she would say, “was a farmer and a good one; he believed
as religiously in fighting the soil and keeping down the weeds, as he
believed in fighting the Confederates and putting down the Rebellion.
If you expect this farm to be yours, and to pay off the mortgage on
it,” she would add, “you have got to learn about the work, or the rocks
and weeds will get the best of you, and it will be of no use when you
get it. You will be selling it, and spending the money, and become a
shack of a man like some others who think they are too good to work.”

“But you have succeeded in working the farm,” I argued, “without
knowing the work practically.”

“Yes,” she admitted, “but I was brought up on this farm and have
learned what it will best raise. I know the business part; but if I
understood the farm better I wouldn’t have to stand Bill Jenkins’
dictation, when he wants to have his way instead of mine.”

“What makes you keep him,” I asked; “he growls about what you ought to
do, instead of taking your orders and obeying them.”

“He is faithful,” she replied, “and is to be trusted. If you can’t
trust a man, he is of no use to you anywhere.”

Although Jot had now been with us long enough to receive several
months’ pay, he still wore the same suit of clothes as when he came to
the Stark farm. I afterward learned it was because he had been paying
for his mother’s sickness and funeral. He was still reticent about his
father, and would give no account of himself, except a general one. He
talked, however, quite freely about his mother, and about his uncle
Jed, and was intensely patriotic.

“I would like to fight for this country, as my uncle did,” he would
sometimes say, “if I should ever be needed.”

We continued to read the news of the war as it came across the sea.
Our hearts were thrilled at even the meagre recital given in our
weekly paper, of that great adventure of arms, when like a lion the
great French general with his brave army, stood in the path of German
invasion and said, “They shall not pass!”

On the farm, meanwhile, Jot had been proving the correctness of
mother’s judgment that he would be worth more than his keep. Among
other traits brought out by acquaintance was one striking one. He was
passionately fond of animals, and had a control over them that was
seemingly the result of sympathy. In mowing time, when I would be tired
enough to be resting, he would often be playing with our two year old
colt, Jack; and he seldom came into the pasture without an apple or
some dainty for him. The colt was of Hambletonian stock, high spirited,
and when with Jot full of play.

One day, after we had been mowing hay, mother said, “Bill, there is a
shower coming up, and you had better give the boys a little rest.”

“Well, Miss Stark, I guess it will be a good plan, while we are
loafing, to give Jack a little training. He’s about the hardest scamp
of a colt I ever see.”

But as Bill in his former attempts to train Jack had lost his temper
and struck and kicked him, he found it hard to catch him.

“Let me try to catch him for you, Mr. Jenkins,” said Jot.

“What do you know about colts?” said Bill crossly.

“I got acquainted with him down in the pasture, and will try and catch
him for you, if you are willing.”

Jot’s respectful manner mollified Bill and he assented, saying:

“Well, go ahead with your sleight of hand with the critter; but I can
tell you, he is awful skeetish.”

Jot called the colt to him in coaxing tones, holding out his hand with
a lump of sugar, and Jack came circling around him with flowing mane
and streaming tail; dropping his tail, snuffed at Jot’s hand, let him
take hold of his fetterlock and, yielding to his caresses, allowed him
to slip the bridle over his head and to be led around.

But when Bill attempted to take the colt in charge, he couldn’t manage
him.

“Bill,” said mother, “Jonathan seems to understand him; hadn’t you
better let him try to break him; for I am afraid you’ll spoil him; so
please let him try.”

After he had led Jack around the yard for a while, Jot said to mother,
“I think that will do for this time, Mrs. Stark.” And then, with a
little more petting and another lump of sugar, sent the colt scampering
away.

“My!” said mother, “I didn’t think you could do it.”

In one of our visits to Chester we acquired a dog, or more truthfully,
a dog acquired us.

We had no dog on the place; for Bill hated dogs; said they killed
sheep, and had fleas, and declared, with some truth, that if a dog
didn’t kill sheep, he attracted those who did. But on this day as we
were coming from a store where we had been making purchases, a dog with
tin things tied to his tail came _ki-yi-ing_ piteously from a near-by
shed where some rowdy boys were congregated.

Jot coaxed the dog to him, got him in his arms, took off the tin cans
that had been pinched to his tail, and holding the creature in his
arms, said to the boys: “Who owns this dog?”

“No one owns him,” one of them answered; “he’s been hanging around here
for quite a while.”

We took the frightened creature to the wagon and, when half a mile
away, put him down to shift for himself. The dog would not be deserted
by his new-found friends, but followed the team and, at every attempt
to drive him away, would roll over on his back and implore in doggish
fashion, to go with us. So at last, when we arrived at home, the dog
was with us.

Bill, of course, strenuously objected to having the dog on the place;
but after much pleading I got mother to allow us to keep him, though
she also did not like dogs.

“I won’t have him underfoot,” she declared, “so you must keep him away
from the house--out at the barn;” to which we agreed.

We were delighted, for what boy does not love a dog?

Jot taught him several cunning tricks, among other things, to bring
home the cows at milking time. Because of his color we called him
“Muddy.”

I have told these simple things not alone to reveal Jonathan’s
compassionate nature, but because they were not without influence in
scenes of greater importance, in our later lives, as you shall see.

Jot worked faithfully on the farm, and with its healthy food and work,
had grown to be a strong though slight young man. He had attended
school several winters, learning rapidly.

Meanwhile the war was claiming more and more of our attention, and we
read about it with such interest that we had begun taking a daily
newspaper. When the news came of the sinking of the great passenger
ship, the _Lusitania_, with its hundreds of passengers, it seemed too
dreadful to believe. Though public indignation was at white heat over
this cruel deed, it was soon toned to soberness by thoughts of our own
possible war with this relentless military power.

Soon after the sinking of the _Lusitania_, a great personal sorrow
befell me in the loss of my mother. She passed away after only a few
days’ illness of heart failure. After her burial in the Stark private
burial plot, my Aunt Joe and her husband came to take charge of the
farm. Jonathan continued to work with us, but Bill left to work
elsewhere; for he declared he wouldn’t stand bossing from any one.

The farm did not seem like home to me after mother’s death, and I fell
into such melancholy at times, that Aunt Joe gave me what she called a
good talking to, saying, “I guess your mother is glad to have her boy
care for her; but it is just as natural to die, as it is to be born,
and it don’t do a speck of good to be blue when we lose our friends.”

To illustrate her philosophy, she then sat down and had a good cry with
me.

CHAPTER III IMPENDING WAR CLOUDS

It was October, 1916. The harvests were gathered, and the fall
ploughing was done; the frost was in the ground, and the hills were
ablaze with the scarlet and gold of Autumn.

I was debating with Jot whether I would attend school or not, that
winter.

“Of course,” answered Jot, “you will go to school just as if your
mother were here to tell you to go.”

To this good advice Uncle Jim assented by a decided nod of approval.
Now Uncle Jim, I had discovered, had a will of his own and very decided
opinions. As Aunt Joe said, “though mild as skim milk in his ways, he
is as sot as a rock.” And knowing this I thought it best to do as I was
advised.

I began my studies at once when the winter term opened, but was
discontented, and did not take so much interest in them as usual. When
I brought my books home to study, Jot read them eagerly, and asked me
many questions about the lessons. I think I learned more in trying to
answer his questions than I did by the study of them in the books;
for there is a difference between committing a lesson to memory, and
giving a sensible answer to questions to one in earnest to know about
them--for one is an act of memory, but the other requires thought and
reasoning.

Our interest in the war was growing in intensity day by day. Our
neighbors often came in of an evening to hear the news and discuss the
war, and among them there was a Mr. Larkin, who was a pacifist. He
was well informed and well read, for a farmer, and though in the main
patriotic had as Uncle Jim said, “a pacifist crook in his mind that
needed straightening.”

At one of the evening gatherings, after we had dwelt upon the
relentless cruelty of the German army in dealing with Belgium and
France, Larkin said:

“They had better stop this war at once; for war is so dreadful that it
should not have a place in any Christian country.”

“Well,” said Uncle Jim, in his slow and drawling tones, “I don’t much
admire war, but if any darned crowd should break into this house and
begin smashin’ things and threaten to kill the folks, am I a goin’ to
sit here like an idiot and see ’em do it without liftin’ my hand to
stop it? No, sir! I am goin’ to stop such works if I break their necks.”

“But don’t the Master say that we should return good for evil?” replied
Mr. Larkin, “and when smitten on the right cheek that we should turn
the left?”

“Well,” replied Uncle Jim slowly, “I suppose he did say so; an’ I
suppose if the majority of folks would do so, it would be better. But
it seems to me that I have read somethin’ about the Master’s getting
riled at some wretches that had turned the Temple into a sort of
pawnbroker’s shop, and then drivin’ them out with horse whips, because
they had made it a den of thieves. Now what do you suppose he would
have done, if he had been in Belgium, and had seen them Germans setting
fire to churches, and killin’ women and children?”

“That,” said Mr. Larkin, “only proves my assertion, that everybody
should set themselves against war; you speak, as though to keep the
peace with all your power, was degrading.”

“No, no,” said uncle; “you misunderstand me. What I mean is, that when
a bully hits you, you must hit him back so hard that he will never want
to hit you again. To do the contrary would be to encourage him. Such
folks would soon rule the world, if you did not make them take a back
seat.”

After Germany had violated her agreement with the United States not
to sink any more of our ships sailing the ocean on peaceful missions,
our President declared war, to “make the world safe for democracy.”
Then came the first call for volunteers, to fill up the ranks of the
National army. Men were quiet, but determined, in supporting the
President, and a deep undercurrent of war spirit prevailed in our
little community.

I had the war fever mighty bad. But uncle said: “Wait awhile an’ see
how that cat is a goin’ to jump--for ’taint best to be in a hurry about
important matters.”

There were some who differed about the wisdom of declaring war, and, of
course, our neighbor Larkin was among them.

“Don’t you think,” he said to Uncle Jim, “that it would have been
better if our President had not been so hasty?”

“No,” replied uncle decidedly, “I think that, instead of trying to keep
us out so hard, if we had ridged up our backs in the fust place, and
had begun to get a big army together, Germany would never have dared
to provoke us to war. We have a right to sail the seas wherever we
choose, on peaceful business--that was decided in the war of 1812--an’
no nation on earth has a right to say we shan’t.”

During all this talk and excitement Jot was mostly silent with a
constraint that I did not understand--though I had full faith in his
patriotism. At one time, before the declaration of war, it had been
proposed by my cousin Will Edwards that they should go to Canada and
enlist. But Jot had gravely replied: “I should like to fight under the
flag of this free nation, if she should ever need me; as my Uncle Jed
did in the Civil War.”

There was something, even in this remark, of reticence, as though there
were other ties that bound him of which he was inclined to make no
mention.

Soon after the declaration of war, a horse trader accompanied by Bill
Jenkins, and another man, came to the Stark farm to bargain for horses.
The prices they were willing to pay seemed large, and uncle sold one of
our extra horses. Then Bill said, “Why don’t you sell the colt, Jack?
He won’t be good for much for quite a while, an’ I guess you’ll need
the money before long on this place.”

I did not like the freedom of Bill’s remark and neither did I wish the
colt sold. “Well,” said the trader, “it will be no harm to look him
over.” So we went down to the pasture where Jack had been let loose for
his spring feed.

Our colt was now full grown and broken to saddle, but not to harness.
Muddy, the dog, and Jack were great friends. The dog slept in the same
stall with the colt and they often frolicked together in the pasture.
When we reached the pasture the colt and dog were on a frolic--the
colt jumping and wheeling and prancing, while Muddy jumped, barked and
capered in front of him.

Turning to my uncle the trader said: “I will give you two hundred
dollars for that colt. He isn’t worth it; but I know just where I can
sell him.”

My uncle refused to sell, and the man handing uncle his business card,
said: “Well, when you get ready to sell, let me know.”

After he had started away I turned to speak to Jot, but found he had
disappeared. Later I came upon him behind the barn talking to the man
who had accompanied the horse trader, and I overheard him using some
words strange to me--seemingly in some foreign language--at any rate
not common English. As I came upon them they parted, and when I asked
Jot what they were talking about he made no definite reply, but said,
“I am so glad they didn’t sell Jack.”

His evasion made me angry, and I turned away to go to the house. Jot
called after me, but I refused to speak or turn back; and that night we
went to bed without a good-night greeting as was usual with us.

The first thing, after I awoke, I went to Jot’s room, but he was gone.
Then I went down to breakfast, expecting to find him at the table; but
he was not there.

“Where is Jot?” I asked Uncle Jim.

With provoking deliberation he removed his pipe from his lips saying
“Gone.”

“Where has he gone?” I asked impatiently.

“Don’t know--suspect he has gone to enlist--said something about it.”
And that was all I could learn--though I half suspected that uncle was
keeping something back,--something he didn’t think it good for me to
know.

After this I became more dissatisfied than ever, but still continued my
work on the farm, expecting to have a letter from Jot. But no tidings
of him came.

I constantly pestered Uncle Jim, who was made my guardian, to let me
enlist. But he put me off by saying: “Time enough--wait awhile.”

Later on, uncle said to me, “I guess we shall have to sell Jack after
all; I have been offered a good price for him by Colonel Walker. The
interest on the mortgage is coming due this month, and I am a little
short of money.”

So Jack was sold, and that made me still more discontented, and not
long after I “broke out,” as Aunt Joe called it, by saying, “Uncle, I
want to enlist. If I don’t enlist they will, like as not, draft me.
Just think of a Stark being drafted! I am bigger than Jot, and just as
good for a soldier. They will take me, and I am lonesome without Jot.”

Uncle Jim had finished his breakfast, pushed back from the table, and
began smoking his pipe as was his custom after the morning meal.

I knew by his long deliberate puffs that he was thinking it over. Then
with shorter puffs, he finished his smoke and I knew he had reached a
decision.

“What d’ye think, Josephine? David won’t be good for anything at school
or on the farm now; and it is natural for the Starks to want to serve
their country when there is a war on hand. Like’s not, if we don’t give
our consent he will go without it, and that would be worse for him and
us too. What do you think?”

“But, Jim,” said my aunt dolefully, “We are in Sister Emily’s place.
Would she consent if she were here?”

I felt that I had won over Uncle Jim, for when he said, “Well,
Josephine, we will talk it over,” I knew that his mind was made up.

So the next morning at breakfast--uncle slowly and deliberately said,
“Your aunt and I have been considering about giving our consent to
your enlistment.” And then, after a long pause, “If you are still of
the same mind, you may go. I understand that there will be a draft
here--and you might have to go finally anyway--an’ to be _made_ to do
a thing isn’t pleasant, as you say, for a Stark.” So it was settled. I
was to go.

CHAPTER IV WITH THE COLORS

A few weeks later I had enlisted in the Infantry and, with other
recruits, among whom was Sam Jenkins, arrived at one of the training
camps.

Its size astonished me. It was a city of barracks. Broad streets
designated by letters, with each barrack numbered, stretched out in
endless succession, covering hundreds of acres and miles in length and
breadth.

On being assigned to barracks, we drew our “property,” including
uniform, blankets, sweaters, and other equipments, usually issued to a
“rookie,” besides a rifle and its belongings.

I had supposed that the life of a soldier in camp was one of
comparative leisure, but there is where I made a mistake--a delusion
common to the uninitiated. Our duties, or work, seemed unending. There
was a rule to fit every hour of the day.

Reveille calls the rookie out of bed. Then after putting on his uniform
he takes a position near the line and, at the first sergeant’s command
of “Fall in” takes his place and assumes the first position of a
soldier--which means, heels on the same line, toes turning outward,
chest out, body thrown forward, thumbs at the seams of his trousers,
legs straight, but not stiff, and the weight of the body resting
lightly upon the soles of his feet.

After reveille, he makes his bed, puts everything in order, then washes
for breakfast, or as it is called “Mess,” after which he puts his
equipments in order for drill. His rifle belts and uniform must be neat
and clean as possible, or he gets a reprimand. Then comes “sick call”;
then “drill call”; at which call he is expected to put everything in
exact order in his quarters, then take his place in ranks for two
hours’ drill.

Then comes another “Mess” call, which means fall in for dinner. After
dinner there is a short rest, then comes drill call again, after which
there is another short rest, during which he is expected to bathe,
shave, and make himself neat, and ready for retreat--which is the dress
occasion of the day. The next call is “Taps” when lights must be out.

This is, however, but simply an outline of the routine that one must
follow during each day.

I, however, liked the military drill and, as Sam declared, learned it
as though it was something that I was made for. But there were many
petty exactions, which looked to me, as it doubtless has to every
other raw soldier since the beginning, needlessly fussy; and the drill
sergeant was exasperating. But there is a difference in men. Some, when
invested with brief authority, have always been bullies.

But it was when I went on my first “hike” with full pack, that I
thought I was killed. If there has ever been an invention, since the
beginning of soldiering, that has made a soldier boy regret his wealth
of possessions, it is this first regular “hike.”

It was a beautiful day in July when I fell into line with others, some
seasoned vessels of war--but mostly not. I had admired the pack while I
was learning the minutiæ of making one, for it certainly is a wonderful
invention, and the first half mile I kept up a martial air, with my
sweat-provoking and back-aching pack galling me. Then I began to want
a rest--and didn’t get it! The sweat ran down my face and saturated
me with a sticky moisture. I fully agreed with Sam when he said, in
undertone, “Isn’t it a grunter?” I certainly never knew the sweetest
word in English until, at last, came the order, “Halt!” When I got
through that “practice march,” I recognized that carrying a nine-pound
rifle on my shoulder, and a heavy pack--however admirable the
invention--was not amusing.

It was, however, not many weeks before my sturdy farmer-boy shoulders
became more accustomed to the pack. Poor Sam, however, who was short
and fat, for a long time persisted in his first opinion, that it was a
“grunter”! He said he had heard Civil War soldiers tell of throwing
away their blankets and overcoats on a march and now understood the
reason of it!

Some weeks later, when I had learned the drill, and had even been
complimented by a non-commissioned superior who declared that I took to
soldiering “like a duck to water,” I thought there might be something
in inherited qualities.

One thing, common to all new soldiers, was that I suddenly found
myself unexpectedly fond of home, and couldn’t hear from the folks
often enough. Home never seemed to my mind quite so lovely, as now that
I was away from it. I was, as may be inferred, not a little homesick.

I have forgotten to say, in its proper place, that Muddy had
accompanied me from home to camp, and was hailed by my comrades as
a companion worthy of the khaki with which nature had clothed him.
He was soon adopted as the Company Mascot; and to a homesick boy his
companionship cannot be over-estimated.

On coming to the Cantonment I had endeavored, from the first, to find
Jot; but not a thing could I learn about him. To find any one in this
big city was, as Sam said, “like looking for a collar button in a
pasture.” It was more difficult to find a person in this great city of
barracks perhaps, than in an ordinary city, because of the uniformity
of its buildings and the sameness of its uniforms.

One day I had left Muddy in charge of the mess sergeant and had gone
to the Y. M. C. A. to write to Uncle Jim and Aunt Joe, when the door
opened, and Muddy, like a whirlwind of hair and tail, came yelping and
jumping upon me.

I looked up to scold him, for dogs were not allowed there, when “Jot”
stood smiling down upon me. He threw his arms around me with a big hug,
and slap on the back, which I returned with interest, notwithstanding
my cool New England habit of reserve.

During all this time, Muddy had been yelping and wagging both body and
tail with doggish delight and approval, at having brought his friends
together, until the superintendent reminded us of the rules.

Then I inquired of Jot, “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t find you,” he replied, “it was Muddy.”

“Yes; but how did you find my barracks and company?”

“It was Muddy, I tell you;” he said. “I was on my way to the
quartermaster’s office, when I heard a yelping and he flew like a mad
dog out of one of the barracks; and yelped and whined and dragging me
by my trouser leg as much as to say, ‘Come this way!’ And I understood
enough of his dog talk to know that you were somewhere around here. So
I followed him.”

It was not until we were on the way to the quartermaster’s that I
noticed, that he wore the chevrons of a “Top Sergeant” (first sergeant)
and learned that his quarters were only a short distance from mine.

How it was that Muddy knew that Jot was in the street is one of the
mysteries of the dog intellect--or instinct;--for the incident is true.

Afterwards, I told Jot of the sale of Jack to Colonel Walker, and that
I believed he was in the same encampment. But Jot said he had learned
that he was in one of the more Southern camps--perhaps Camp Green, in
North Carolina.

“Why was it,” I queried, “that you did not tell Uncle Jim or me where
you were going?”

To this he replied, “Though your uncle did not tell me not to let you
know that I was going to enlist, he intimated very plainly that he did
not want you to know. He said, ‘If David knows where you have gone,
there’ll be no living with him; and he will follow you as sure as you
stand there.’” I was quite angry with uncle at first, but when Jot
said, “I think he did what he thought was best,” I saw, in part, an
excuse for him.

Among other things that I learned, during my soldier experience,
was one, that trouble is often brewing when we feel the safest. Now
it was about to overtake me and my dog. I was showing off Muddy’s
accomplishments one day to some dog admirers, when an officer came up
and inquired: “Whose dog is that?”

“He is mine!” I proudly replied, “isn’t he a dandy, Mister?”

“You must address officers by their title, he said stiffly, and salute
them.”

I had been so engaged, that I had not observed before, that he was an
officer. I at once stood at attention and saluted.

He glanced at me seemingly through and through and then, as though
satisfied, said, returning the salute,

“About that dog--just keep him out of sight and there will be no
trouble;” and then as Muddy came fawning on him, patted him and passed
on.

“That,” said one of the men, “is a West Pointer. He is as full of rules
and orders as a book on tactics.”

“I guess he likes a dog, himself,” said Sergeant Bill, “or he would
have ordered you to put him out of camp; for he is one of them highbrow
officers that live by rule. Them West Pointers are a bundle of rules
and regulations and eat blue books and general orders and such things
instead of grub.”

It was shortly after the foregoing incident, that an order appeared in
substance, as follows:

“After the 10th inst. all dogs, not licensed, will not be allowed in
barracks, squad rooms, or mess halls.”

But as Muddy had a home license and wore a collar showing it, I was not
concerned until, shortly after, there appeared the following:

“After this date, all dogs, whether licensed or not, will be turned
over to the camp police.” To which some wag had added, “and thereafter
will be included among the missing.” This was thought to be “rough” on
those who had adopted dogs as mascots, and there were several companies
that had, but as the mess sergeant said: “What can we do about it?”

I had been on guard at post one, in front of the commandant’s office,
and in my distress, at the thought of losing my dog, determined on the
hazardous expedient of interviewing the commandant, to get permission
to keep Muddy.

So, brushing up my uniform and looking my neatest, I went to the office
of that dread personage.

I passed the guard, got into the office, and when the commandant had
turned from his desk where he was engaged in writing, I stood at
attention and saluted. Then I saw that it was the same officer I have
before mentioned as being a West Point man, but whom I did not know was
the commandant.

“State your errand briefly,” he said coldly.

I was nervously stating my errand when in rushed Muddy, as though to
argue his own case. I picked him up for fear of what further damage he
might do, and as a matter of habit with me, held in my arms.

“What is your name?” he inquired in a tone of severity that boded ill
for my request.

I told him, and, in answer to other questions following, said my father
was an officer during the Civil War in a Massachusetts regiment. I saw
his face change from severity to interest, as he said pleasantly,

“Was your father Captain Stark of the --th Massachusetts?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “Did you know him there?”

“I am afraid not,” he replied, smiling for the first time; “but my
father did,” and added, “They were friends.” After a pause he added, “I
must grant this request to the son of my father’s friend.”

I do not know whether this incident had anything to do with a promotion
which I soon after received as corporal; but I am sure it did not
hinder it. And I was prouder of that promotion than any that I ever
received--unless a decoration received long after from the French can
be called one.

I found, however, that the duties of even this small office carried
with it not a little responsibility.

Possibly I magnify the office when I say that to be a good corporal, in
charge of new men, required some rare qualities. He should be icy calm,
have dignity like a judge and eyes like a gimlet, and good humor in
profusion; or he won’t get much work out of his men. I was on a detail
shortly after my promotion, hauling provisions for the Regimental Ware
House, and I couldn’t turn my head without losing a man.

When I told Jot about it he smiled and replied: “You did well not to
send men after those you lost, or you would have lost more men.” And I
knew by that remark, that he had once been a corporal.

CHAPTER V FROM CAMP TO TRANSPORT

Shortly after the incidents narrated in the foregoing chapter, I, with
several others, among them Jot and Sam, was granted a leave of absence
of fifteen days to visit our homes. This, we believed, meant that we
were soon to be sent to France where, from the first, we desired to be.

When we reached the little village near our homes, we were curiously
viewed by the people, who up to that time had seen little of the
present day soldiers in khaki. We were hospitably treated by our
people, and those who knew us gathered around to ask questions, as is
the habit of New England folks.

On our arrival home, it is needless to say, we were greeted with
hearty enthusiasm. Neighbors flocked in to see us, and Aunt Josie
expressed her interest and love, after the usual manner of New England
self-contained matrons, by a big dinner. Even Muddy was treated with
affection and, for the first time in his home experience, was not
considered as being “under foot” and in the way.

“How straight you are!” said Aunt Joe. “I declare I think you have
grown an inch, and you were a big hulking fellow when you went away
from here.” Six months of military discipline had certainly left its
impress upon all of us. Jot had filled out in chest and shoulders and,
though not so tall and “bulking” as I, as Aunt Joe called it, was a
fine-looking soldierly youth, lithe and active. Even Sam’s rather
rotund form, was reduced to soldierly proportions.

“Gosh!” said his father anxiously, “you ain’t got any belly hardly at
all. Hev’ they been starvin’ you?”

“No, Dad, we have all we want to eat in camp, and we have the wust kind
of appetite after one o’ them drills. I guess you don’t know what they
do to a feller down here to take the fat off him and the kinks out of
him?”

“Yes, I do, Sam,” responded his father; “guess I’ve been trained a lot
myself.”

“Did y’ ever go through the settin’ up drill?” asked Sam.

“Yes, Sam, I have set up nights a lot, but I never had to drill it. I
got sort of used to it when I was courtin’.”

“I guess, Dad, you don’t understand; now I will give the orders and
drill you.” And then Sam put his father through enough of the physical
exercise to show him what he meant and until Uncle Jim smiled to see
him puff.

The months of drill had certainly improved us physically. The
difference between slouching country boys and soldierly youth, was
written all over each of us.

Muddy, too, had his receptions; and even Bill Jenkins who was again
working on the farm, said: “Well, he’s a pretty good dog, and will do
well enough now that he’s been trained.”

My aunt was a proud woman when she took Jot and me to church with her,
and introduced us to the new minister. The old church where my mother
and father had worshipped was filled, and we were greeted on every
side by friendly people, especially by the teachers and members of the
Sunday School to which Jot and I had been constant attendants when at
home.

One of the young ladies of the class was Miss Emily Grant, of whom, in
former times, I had been an ardent, though shy admirer. She introduced
both Jot and me to a visiting friend, Miss Rose Rich, whom she had
brought home with her from a Massachusetts boarding school.

Jot, usually so reticent, showed his approval of her, by saying: “Isn’t
she fine? Her father is a doctor and she is going to take up Red Cross
work.”

The friendliness of the two was observable to others besides myself.
Miss Grant said to me, “Rose seems much taken with your friend.”

“He is the smartest noncommissioned officer,” I replied, “in the
training camp. He’s top sergeant, and that means something, I can tell
you.”

I told Uncle Jim about Colonel Burbank and what he said about my
father. And Uncle Jim said, “Seems to me I heard your father mention
him. I wonder if it was him that your father brought from between the
lines badly wounded durin’ the Winchester fight? Shouldn’t wonder if it
was.”

But I had never heard about it.

When Jot and I had visited, for the last time, the familiar scenes
of the farm, and he had petted and talked to the horses and cows, we
left our home for the camp again. A boy never realizes what a home
means to him until he is leaving it, possibly forever; for I had a dim
perception of what was possibly before me.

Several friends, besides my aunt and uncle, were at the station to bid
us good-bye. Among them were Emily Grant and Rose Rich.

With the usual leave takings and waving of handkerchiefs from friends,
the engine puffed, the train clanked out from the station, and we were
off.

Back at camp we entered upon another course of training in company,
regimental and battalion drill, with bayonet exercises, machine-gun
fire, and the digging of trenches, as a preliminary to participation in
modern warfare.

An old Civil War veteran, who had viewed our preparations, said to me,
“If Grant had had these machine guns and other arms, he could have made
the Rebs howl and ended the war in short order. Why, there is as great
a difference between the equipments of this new army and our old Union
Army as there is between a stage coach and an express train.”

Jot had been transferred to our regiment, at his request, and became
first sergeant of a company. At one of our meetings at the Y. M. C. A.
he said to me, “Don’t say anything about it, but I think that we are
likely to break camp soon and go to France.”

“What makes you think so?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “they have been making shipping lists for the
regiment; and then the furloughs they have been giving, and other
little things make me think so.”

I soon found that a rumor of the same purport was all around camp. Like
most youngsters, I was hungry for a change; so when the top sergeant
ordered us to be ready to move within a few hours, I was glad at the
prospect of the change to some other place. Yet I thought of submarines
and other scarey unpleasant possibilities, that night, before I slept.

The order came at last--it was on Sunday--for an army has no days more
sacred than duty. Though we were not supposed to know where we were
going, we all guessed--the Yankee birthright--and guessed France. Our
outfit consisted of two suits of _Olive Drab_, canvas leggins, two
woolen shirts, woolen underwear and stockings, two pairs of garrison
shoes, a Mackinaw short overcoat, a belt, three blankets, and a
comforter, all of which were carried in our packs. On top of the pack
roll was the haversack, containing our kits, which consisted of a
long handled aluminum fold pan with removable cover, in which were a
knife and fork and spoon; two oblong cases for meat, hard bread, sugar
and coffee. The ammunition belt was hung to this pack, and a canteen
nesting in the cup hung from it. There was also a barrack bag belonging
to our outfits, but this was carried by motor truck to the station.

This I remember to my sorrow, as did others in similar cases, for I
did not see it again until our arrival in France, though it contained
goodies from home, and chocolates. Others did not see their cigarettes
and tobacco again until long after.

At dark, with our packs strapped upon our backs, we moved to the
station and were embarked on board of ordinary passenger cars--a
noncommissioned officer at the doors of each car to see that none went
out and that no one not belonging there went in. Each commissioned
officer had a list that showed the place of each man and saw that he
_stayed_ there.

The next morning we found our train at a big New York terminal, and had
our breakfast--of sandwiches and hot coffee that had been prepared for
us the day before.

From there we were embarked on a ferry boat. Our company was on the
top deck where we could see the tugs, steamers and ferry boats, busily
moving on the stream, as we swung up the broad Hudson to the piers
where several big transports lay.

Sailing lists of every man’s name in order of formation had been made
in duplicate, one for our officers and another in the hands of the
embarking officer. So he knew just how many of us there were, and had
already designated a berth for each man.

The railroad transport officer met us with the inquiry: “Is Company
---- of ---- Regiment on this boat?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Colonel Burbank?”

“Here, sir!”

“Good. Disembark at once, sir. Your transport sails in half an hour.
Form your men on the dock opposite the freight clerk.”

“Yes, sir!”

“A loading detail of ten men!”

“Yes, sir!”

We disembark; but before the first company could be formed a
transportation officer without saying by your leave marched us on
board. He is the supreme officer on the dock--no matter if the general
commanding be present the officer is the boss.

Along the deck we went in column and on board the huge transport.

“Your sailing list, sir!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you formed in order of list?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! Load the company, Mr. Blank.”

The clerk, with a lieutenant by his side with a duplicate list, calls
out, “First Sergeant Smith.”

“Here, sir.”

The sergeant is handed a ticket, goes up the gangplank where he meets
another sailor who sends him below; there he meets another sailor who
sends him still further below, and so on until he is at the bottom of
the ship where the bilge water smells. The others follow until the ship
is stowed with a human freight of three thousand five hundred men.

Every man has his bunk of collapsible iron tubing which stand in tiers
three high, with a passage way between. Later on, the top sergeant gets
a second class room. No dogs allowed; but I smuggled Muddy in under my
big coat.

We were all on board by night, and slept in our new quarters, but were
surprised to awake in the morning and find our ship still at the dock.
We were allowed to go ashore for exercise on the dock, and the ship
routine began. Our canteens were ordered to be filled but not to be
used except in an emergency.

Before daylight, next morning, we swung out into the river and down
into the broadening harbor, to the sea. We were all allowed on deck.
As I stood viewing the scene on every side, of brilliantly lighted
cities and towns, Jot came up, touched me on the shoulder and, with a
sweep of his hand, said, “Don’t it put you in mind of that verse in
the Bible,--‘Gazar and her towns and villages, unto the river of Egypt
and the great sea and the border thereof?’” Then, as we waved an adieu
to the Statue of Liberty he added, “We are the vanguard of the army
to make good the meaning of that Statue that France has prophetically
placed there. We go to deliver France and the world.”

The land began to fade as daylight brightened. The broad sea spread
out before us and with it a possible broader vista of life’s great
drama and of the freedom of men as yet unborn, whose destinies we were
perhaps carrying across the sea.

The naval officers were in supreme command of all on board and we
soldiers were put to ship routine at once.

“It looks to me,” said Sergeant Nickerson, “like a huge job to feed all
of us in this one dining room.”

“But it isn’t our business,” I replied, “so long as we get the grub.”

“But it may be everybody’s business if they don’t get it; and that’s
what I am thinking about.” The difficulty was solved in this way. The
men were marched to the room, and ate standing in line or at long
tables. As fast as one batch was fed, another took its place. By the
time breakfast was over, lunch began. It was a sort of endless chain
made up of men, moving on schedule time.

Men began to growl--growling is a soldier’s safety valve, and his
privilege ever since soldiering first began.

“Sure,” said Pat Quinn, “it’s ating tactics we are being drilled in.
Ye’s open ye’s mouths so many toimes and then swallow--one toime and
three motions!”

“What are you growling about?” said Private Shaw. “There’ll likely be
another motion on this ship soon, so that you can’t swallow at all!”

So with rough jokes and gibes we ate our first breakfast on board ship.
Then ship drill began. Each man was assigned to a boat or raft, and we
learned the ship calls. When the bugle sounded “Assembly” every man
was to go on deck and take his place at his boat or raft. At “Abandon
Ship,” the boats and rafts were supposed to be got into the water.
“Quarters” meant every man below, to his bunk.

We go through the motions--only--of getting the boats and rafts over
the side of the ship. When our instructor said that a raft was safer
than a boat, but that we were never to climb onto one, but hang on with
both hands, we were skeptical about it.

“He wants to keep a boat for himself,” said Sam. “That is what he is
preaching it for.”

We knew, however, that the safety of all on board might depend upon our
efficiency at this drill.

With boat drill--mornings and afternoons--scrubbing decks, eating, and
seasickness, our time was pretty fully occupied. I was dreadfully sick
for a time, and did not care whether a submarine sunk us or not, but
got over it before long. It was very close below decks, where we were
mostly confined, and a hardship to those accustomed to the free air.

Our company was so fortunate as to be detailed as extra deck watch,
and a group of us were on duty at all hours, day and night. It was
an autocratic job--we were “_It_.” We could refuse to take orders or
answer questions from even the colonel! Our post for this duty was a
little box of a pen where, with fine binoculars, we kept watch for
submarines. I liked the duty; it was a change and much like guard duty.

Before entering the danger zone we got detailed instructions against
lights. Every match and flashlight on the ship had to be given up, and
all hatches were closed at twilight. Even illuminated wrist watches
were forbidden on deck at night.

One day a submarine was actually sighted. I was on duty in the watch
box with several of my company, when I saw something sticking out of
the water like a small flag staff.

“Submarine!” I yelled excitedly. Just then “bang!” went the forward
deck gun and the periscope disappeared. Soon it was seen again at
another quarter and another gun banged at it. Sam took up his rifle to
shoot at it, but was restrained, though he declared he could put a
bullet through it. Then “bang” went another of our guns, and we were
told that she was sunk, but I doubted it.

“Shucks!” growled Sam, “how can we shoot a Boche if we have to wait for
orders? He will get away from us, before we can get them!”

There was no excitement, though a young lieutenant rushed around
saying, “Be calm, men! be calm!” But some of us thought he was not
living up to his own orders.

Soon after this Colonel Burbank sent for me to come to his cabin. After
several kind inquiries about my folks, especially my father, he said,
casually, “Sergeant Nickerson, I learn, has lived at your home? What do
you know about him or his people?”

I told him all that I knew about him, and said, among other things,
that he had told my mother that Nickerson was only a part of his name.
And I interspersed with this information not a little praise of Jot, to
camouflage the fact that I didn’t actually know much about him.

The purpose of these inquiries the colonel did not, of course, reveal.
I was not a little surprised, however, when he said: “He looks like
a German officer I once knew. I infer, from what you have told me,
that he does not talk much about himself or his business. It’s a very
soldierly quality!”

As I went to my quarters below decks this remark was buzzing in my head
like a bumble bee in a haying field. As the colonel had not instructed
me to the contrary, I informed Jot, when I again saw him, about the
colonel’s remarks--all except the last one, about the German officer.

Jot stood for a moment, as though in thought, and then said, “It will
do no harm to tell you that I can speak a little German which I learned
from my father and his people. The first words I ever spoke were
German; but mother didn’t like it.” Here he stopped as though he had
already said too much, then, putting his hands affectionately on my
shoulders, added, “Does it really make any difference to you, David,
who my father was, when you know me so well?” And I knew that it would
be useless to ask him further questions on that subject.

We soon began to meet ships and fishing craft, mine sweepers, and
tankers, which showed that we were nearing the coast. Next came a point
of land like a cloud on the horizon, and then the top of a lighthouse
appeared.

Was it France or England? It was France.

We learned that we were the first American transport to land at this
port.

Entering a narrow channel which widened out into a broad harbor, we
were safe in France!

“No one lands until ordered to do so by the commander of the port,” was
the next order.

It was not until the next day that the colonel, and some other officers
were ordered ashore to see the port commodore; then, after some more
waiting, we were told to get ready for landing. Shortly after, we saw
the lighters coming up on which we were to disembark.

CHAPTER VI IN BEAUTIFUL FRANCE

Our first view of the land we had come to rescue was not prepossessing.
Some men were standing on the sidewalks, as we marched through the
narrow street ankle deep in mud.

“Are we in France, or in the mud?” facetiously queried one soldier. As
we marched through the narrow streets there was much cheering--not like
American cheers, long drawn out, but sharp and not all together. There
were some personal allusions in English.

“I give you a kees;” said a girl. “You big fine Americans!”

The salutations were as unlike our home calls as were the city and its
buildings. The buildings were crowded together as though land were
scarce, they were of stone with carvings and copper ornaments, which
even the soldier would notice, they were so fine.

We wanted to break loose and see France and talk to the people, but
discipline held us in line. To men who had been confined for three
weeks in narrow, stifling ship quarters, the air was invigorating.

We reached the station on schedule time, and were embarked on third
class cars, a squad of eight men to a compartment. No dogs were
allowed, but I got Muddy in all the same, the guard taking pains not to
see him.

To Americans, accustomed to our large coaches, these little box-like
cars seemed like toys.

“Sho!” said Sam, “do they intend to give us one apiece? They are like
baby carriages!”

They were, however, fairly comfortable, but after jolting along for
several hours, when the train stopped, naturally every one wanted to
get out. Our officers had a full-sized man’s job to get them back again
on time.

Peter Beaudett, a French Canadian Yankee, protested, “I was saying
something to a fine leetle girl; she speak de French to me.”

Then we steamed on again, and after some hours we stopped at a station
for hot coffee, then rode all night.

“I didn’t suppose,” said Sam Jenkins, “that France was big enough for
so much travel.”

At last we stopped, and were told that we had reached our destination.

We had reached the “Base Station,” or “Rest Camp,” and went into
quarters. They consisted of low, one-story, portable barracks, lightly
built with dirt floors, white oiled cotton cloth for windows, and
with wooden cots similar to those in our home barracks. Though not as
luxurious by a big sight, they were comfortable. It was one of several
similar camps on the outskirts of an inland historic city.

We took our ease for a few days, slept, ate, and visited the town when
we could get a pass. None was allowed out of our well-guarded camp
without one, and all must return at 9.30 P. M. or be punished. Then we
began the routine of drill again, with French officers to teach us the
new methods of fighting, such as bomb throwing and trench duty.

At retreat one afternoon we were informed that we were to be reviewed
the next day. So after mess we shaved, bathed, brushed up our
equipments and uniforms with unusual care, and with a French regiment
for escort, marched and countermarched, with the stars and stripes
flying and bands playing; and then marched some more!

The contrast between the French escort and our men was great. The
French were different in many ways, some of them impossible to express
in words. They were of inferior stature, many of them being not over
five feet, two inches, and by contrast our men seemed giants. Their
step was quick and brisk, while the strides of the Americans was a
long, swinging stride, the step of men accustomed to hills and rough
land, not that of good roads and pavements.

We were greeted heartily by the crowds of people gathered on the
sidewalks and at the windows of the buildings. Cries of “vive les
Amerique!” and other calls, that I did not comprehend, were heard.
Flowers were thrown at us. But there were no long-drawn-out cheers such
as we were accustomed to hear at home on similar occasions. After much
marching and parading there came the order:

“Halt! Right dress! Front! Present arms!”

We were being reviewed by that great French soldier who, when the
German hordes were marching on Paris, threw himself like a lion in
their path and turned the current of the battle, General Pétain.

Some of us had read of him and looked with intense interest at this
soldier of France. He was an erect martial figure, a little stout; with
eyes keen, steady and penetrating, a white mustache, all the whiter
by contrast with the darkening tan that told of long service in the
field. No one could mistake him for other than a soldier; he bore that
undefinable stamp of long service, discipline, and command of men.

Then we passed in review with our wagon trains, cannon, and machine
guns, the people cheering in their way, and showering us with wreaths
and flowers.

Even our mules, because they were American, came in for a share of
attention. One fractious animal, that on account of bad conduct had
been taken from a baggage wagon, drew attention by standing on his
front feet and waving his hind legs and tail in the upper air, as
though trying to make holes in the sky, and paint his displeasure with
his tail. He was saluted with applause and laughter.

One thing was preeminently seen, we American soldiers held the hearts
and minds of all. Later in camp we came to know more of our hosts.

The enlisted man has this advantage of his officers in learning to
speak a language. He is not kept from trying to speak, by fear of
making mistakes. He blunders on, and at last makes himself understood,
though he makes fearful mistakes.

I was not long in the camp before I was hailed by a _poilu_ who spoke
the “American language.” He greeted me by saying, “How is little old
New York?” He told me that he had lived there, but had come back when
the war started to fight for his country.

One day while I was writing a letter to the home folks, with Muddy
lying by my side, Jot, accompanied by a woman, the English-speaking
poilu, and with a little girl in his arms, came to me saying:

“Dave, I want to show the dog to this baby and its mother.” So Muddy
was put through his cunning tricks, and was played with and petted to
his doggish heart’s delight.

At this time I was in my eighteenth year--broad shouldered, and five
feet eleven and one-half inches in height. My uniform emphasized my
stalwart form, now filled out and straightened by military training.
Though I was never considered a big man at home, I felt myself, by the
side of the smaller French soldiers, somewhat of a giant.

I stood up and saluted the little sad-faced woman and the “poilu”, and
heard, or rather saw that she had asked some question about me.

“What is it she is saying?” I inquired.

“She wants to know,” replied the poilu, “if I knew the blond giant in
America. Our people don’t know what a big country America is. They
think it mostly New York city. You Americans are taller than our people
but,” he added proudly, “my countrymen are big in courage and spirit.”

I remarked upon the large number of women who wore long crepe veils,
when he replied, “Yes; there are many in mourning for their dead. This
little woman had already lost two sons in this war, and has just now
got word that her only remaining son had been killed in battle.”

“She is not crying,” I said.

“No,” he replied. “Her loss is too deep for tears, and she is consoled
by knowing that she has given them to France.”

“Express to her my sympathy,” I said, and Jot added, “Tell her that we
are very sorry indeed for her.”

Then seeing that she had made some reply, we asked what she had said.

“She said: ‘God gave them to me, and I have given them to France.’”

While this conversation was going on, a man came up and stood
apparently intent on watching the child and dog, and seeming to give no
attention to our talk. Then touching Jot on the shoulder and drawing
him out of hearing, he began to talk to him, as though trying to get
his consent to some proposal, and then moved away with him towards
the colonel’s quarters in a nearby château. He looked to me like the
same man I had seen talking to Jot at home when the horse trader
visited us. I wondered at this, for Jot was not given to making chance
acquaintances. Then I saw them disappear in the large house where the
colonel had his quarters.

After undergoing intensive training for several weeks, we were thought
fit to receive more practical and strenuous duties and practice, by
being moved to real war trenches within reach of the guns of the enemy.

We in the ranks knew that something was up. The Eagle (colonel) had
summoned our Skipper (captain), a clerk had copied a list of names that
had been given him, and now all the officers were in with the eagle.
The supply sergeant was already nailing up boxes, and the mess sergeant
had been heard to say:

“I can’t see how the oven can be moved again”--all of which were signs
to any soldier that our regiment was about to “pull out.”

We were all on tiptoe when the order came.

Every man whose shoes did not fit him got a chance to change them. Then
a list of promotions was published and, to my surprise and pleasure, I
was promoted to be a sergeant in place of one reduced. I was assigned
to a loading detail by the top, and with nineteen men went to the
quartermaster’s depot with an auto, and loaded up with ten days’
traveling rations, and hauled them to the depot. By ten o’clock the
barrack bags came down, seven days’ rations were put in a freight car,
and three laid out on the platform.

All was ready, and after dark the companies marched down to the station
to entrain. I fell in line in my place on the platform with the rest.
Then the mess sergeant and cooks dealt out enough “chow” (rations) for
the corporals, so that each man had for his squad a can of beans, two
cans of Willy (corn beef), and four packages of hard bread, and a can
of jam.

“It has got to last you three days,” cautioned the mess sergeant; “so
go easy on it.”

The top came along and checked every squad as it embarked. The officers
shook hands with the railroad transportation officer and, together with
the French interpreter, climbed aboard.

They were little box cars, and painted on the outside “32 hommes, 8
cheveaux.” There were portable benches at each end and a good lot of
straw.

“Sure,” said Pat who was in my car, “it is comfortable enough for a
pig.”

“Aw!” rejoined Shaw, “Cheveaux means horses, you wild Irishman!”

[Illustration: “AW!” REJOINED SHAW, “CHEVEAUX MEANS HORSES, YOU WILD
IRISHMAN!”--Page 50.]

Then we settled into the car; rifles in place, kits hung up on the
sides, a lantern swung in the center. We were, despite all the
growling, very comfortable. There was a seat for every man. All voted
that it beat third class cars.

We reached a coffee station, and lined up outside the car in double
ranks, and each man got a cup full of French coffee. Then came an all
night ride. The men took off their boots and, with a haversack for a
pillow, slept snug as bugs in a rug.

I slept, sitting up, with my back against the door, querying to myself
if the buck private’s job was not easier than that of a sergeant. And I
thought, possibly the skipper himself did not have so easy a time as I
had sometimes thought.

The scenery was beautiful. We followed the course of a river. On the
banks were old castles, beautiful châteaus, villages with red topped
roofs, and always stone bridges.

“Say, boys!” exclaimed Sam, “we would have to pay big money for this
sight seeing excursion, before the war.”

It was getting so interesting that we forgot to eat.

“Where are we going, Sergeant?”

“Don’t know.”

“How long will it take to get there?” inquired another inquisitive
Yankee.

“Don’t know,” I replied, “there are three days’ rations on board, and
seven in a freight car.”

“Don’t the skipper or eagle know?”

“Guess not; we are travelling on confidential orders; perhaps the eagle
does know.”

So on through France we travelled, to heaven knows where!

At last we halted at a small station. An officer met us and inquired
for the commanding officer. The train pulled in to a high platform,
where we unloaded. We had reached the limits of our railroad travel. It
was dark, and we were tired and hungry, with prospects of cold grub for
supper.

We were assigned to billets by an American officer--stables, barns,
stores and lofts. Some big galvanized cans of hot coffee were sent us
by the officer of an American regiment already established.

“Thanks!” I heard the colonel say. “I hope to return the compliment
some time.”

“You can return the coffee out of your ration tomorrow; it is the rule
here to help each other.”

The most expressive part of our location was that for the first time,
we were within sound of guns. We heard a dull boom! boom! and at times
thought we heard the sharper sound of rifles. We were near the front at
last, and were to get practical experiences in the trenches, further to
fit us for the grim duties of soldiering.

CHAPTER VII IN THE TRENCHES

I, with others, was billeted in a house and barn tenanted by a little
French woman with a brood of several young children, whose husband
was fighting for France. Others were billeted, by the town major, in
warehouses, lofts, and other places.

After a few days’ rest in our billets, we were marched to the trenches.

The American front in France at this time, so far as there was any
front, was in Lorraine. In reality there was no American front,
because our army had not had the training to hold one. While we had
received the drill of ordinary soldiering, we lacked experience in the
prevailing war methods then in use.

While my regiment is marching forward to take up trench duties in front
of the enemy’s lines, let us take a look at what constitutes that part
of a modern army known as an infantry regiment; for infantry is the
body and mainstay of an army.

The old Civil War regiments were made up of ten companies of 152
officers and men; more often less. The modern company has 256 officers
and men; and the regiments made up by these twelve companies, has
103 officers and 3,652 men. The officers of the modern company,
while on a war footing are: One captain, three first lieutenants, two
second lieutenants, one first sergeant, one mess sergeant, one supply
sergeant, twelve sergeants, thirty-three corporals, four mechanics,
four cooks, two buglers, and 192 privates. One of the first lieutenants
is the captain’s assistant; the others each command one of its four
platoons of men.

The transportation equipment of a regiment is more elaborate than is
generally known. It consists of twenty-two combat wagons, sixteen
rolling kitchens for cooking food, twenty-two baggage and ration
wagons, sixteen ration carts, fifteen water carts, three medical carts,
twenty-four machine-gun carts, fifty-nine riding horses, eight riding
mules, three hundred and thirty-two draft mules, two motorcycles with
side cars, one motor car and forty-two bicycles.

Arrived at the trenches we were taught, among other things, to
“camouflage” as the French call it, which means to disguise, or
conceal. This has become an art in modern warfare, because cavalry is
no longer the eyes of an army as in former times, and airplanes reveal
what is not carefully hidden.

For illustration: an artilleryman of heavy guns now seldom sees the
object he is to fire upon. The directions for firing are given by
signals from air-craft. These locate the enemy’s line of battle,
trenches, machine gun and artillery emplacements, magazines or the
“dugout” of some general to be fired upon.

Hence, to disguise or _camouflage_ them is important. Heavy artillery
firing is not by sighting, but by directions given them by mathematical
calculation. The guns, even, are streaked with paint to resemble the
surrounding country, so that they may be more effectually concealed.

The concealment of artillery magazine stations, or other important
stations, has been brought to great perfection. Sometimes a road
leading to them is roofed by canvas and painted to resemble the
surrounding scenery of rocks or foliage.

The war trench is a ditch six feet or more in depth, with a fire step
that brings a soldier to the height needful for firing upon an enemy.
On the top of this trench, along the front edge of it, are laid bags
filled with sand, so disposed as to give loopholes through which a
rifle can be fired without requiring the soldier to expose his head.
This trench is not built on a straight line, but zigzag like the teeth
of an enormous saw, so that its machine-guns and riflemen can fire down
and parallel along the trench. At every twenty feet or more, there is
a barricade built across the trenches, so that if any enemy should get
possession of one part of it, he can not, by artillery, machine-guns or
rifles, fire down the whole length upon the men there; for this would
be tremendously destructive.

In front and about ten feet from the trench is a barricade of barbed
wire. This is made by setting stakes very firmly in the ground so deep
and solid that they can not be easily removed, and twisting barbed
wire around them. It is impossible to pass through this entanglement
without first destroying it by artillery fire, or cutting it; and this
is costly to life.

There are, in addition to this trench, three other rear trenches.
These are joined with the front trench by connecting trenches, through
which the soldier can pass with comparative safety.

In these rear trenches are first aid and food stations; and in a
dugout, safety sheltered and concealed in the rear, is the general who
directs the fighting. To his dugout, or station, are connected wires or
telephones and telegraph, so that he can conduct the fight, and receive
intelligence of everything taking place on the battle line. Though he
is in comparative safety his is a hard position; for he can not leave
it without losing some point of importance, in the work of direction.

The science of war, in its details, has vastly changed since the Civil
War, though the principles that govern its larger movements are the
same, modified somewhat by the new machinery used in fighting.

It was October, 1917, when we had landed in France; it was now
February, 1918, cold, bleak, and dreary. Rain, snow and sleet had made
soldiering uncomfortable anywhere; and the trenches were no exception
to this rule--but rather an exaggeration of it.

It has sometimes seemed to me, that in my army life the most
inconvenient times were always selected for its most disagreeable
duties. This rule held good for our introduction to life in the
trenches. It was a cold day. Snow covered the ground--at least that
portion of it not trampled into the chalky mud, which, partially
thawed, stuck to our feet like poultices. Marching, however, with heavy
packs soon warmed us, and we were glad to arrive at our destination.

The sector to which we were assigned for duty had been occupied by
some French troops, who were just moving out. They did not cheer
us--for cheers are out of place in some parts of soldiering, especially
where it may give information to the enemy. But they welcomed us with
brightening eyes, and nods, and smiles of approval, as we filed into
the trenches; and looked--so it seemed to me--not a little enviously at
our well-filled packs with the heavy blankets of our outfit.

We found the trenches which had been constructed for the _poilu_, a
little shallow for taller Americans. And as we had been warned not to
show our heads above the parapets, we had to crouch when moving through
them.

We were told that some of these trenches occupied by the French had
board flooring; but ours did not, except in spots.

“By Shorge,” said Peter Beaudett, “do they think we are feesh?”

“An’ sure,” said Pat Quinn in a hoarse whisper, “no dacent fish would
live here--it’s mud turtles that we are!”

“Hush up,” commanded the top sergeant, in a hoarse whisper, “no noise;
keep your ears and eyes open, but shut your mouths.”

Silence followed; but as we threw off our packs, and were told to make
ourselves comfortable, it seemed a little sarcastic.

“If we mustn’t talk,” said Sam, in a low tone, “I suppose they can’t
hinder us from keeping up a lot of thinking, can they?”

“An’ how can a man think,” muttered Pat, “with all this half-frozen mud
on his fate and moind?”

We had settled down, in the mud, as one of the sergeants said to
me with a wink, and with Yankee ingenuity were making ourselves as
comfortable as we could. Private Shaw made a stove by punching holes in
a metal bucket, and kindling a fire therein (which Corporal Sutherland
said was “a kind of lightning bug heater”). He sat with it between his
legs, trying to warm himself. Peter Beaudett, with his blanket wrapped
around him, was saying all sorts of funny things in a low tone, about
soldiering, and the irrepressible Quinn, with Irish combativeness, was
making contrary replies.

“What made me get into this mud,” grumbled Peter, “when I had a good
home and such beeg lot of comforts that I didn’t know that I had any?”

“An’ why,” said Quinn “didn’t ye’s stay tied to your mither’s apron
string, so ye’s could crawl under the bed whin it thundered?”

In spite of all this by-play of growling and seeming grumpiness, the
men were not dissatisfied at being face to face with their enemy, or at
least in the trenches opposite them.

The opposing lines, meanwhile, were so silent that our men, peering
cautiously through the “gun holes” as Sam called the spaces left
between the sand bags piled on top in front, were curious to see the
Boche, and could be hardly restrained from firing a shot to “stir them
up.” This feeling also was seen in those of higher rank; for is it not
natural for Americans to want to “see something doing”?

The French, who were acting as our instructors, and who had had
experience in these same trenches, cautioned us against this. They
said that there was a tacit agreement between the contestants, not to
needlessly stir up a fight.

There was a well of water just to our right, midway between the
opposing trenches where, by tacit consent, two men at a time were
allowed to resort; near it was an apple tree whose limbs enticed one,
provokingly, as good for firewood.

The next night following these occurrences was one of watchful waiting.
I was sergeant of the guard; but nothing of importance occurred during
the night, except that the weather moderated, and the rain came
pouring down in torrents and then turned to sleet. But when it came
my turn off, it was not too rainy for sound, dreamless sleep--and, as
soldiering goes, it was not so very uncomfortable to strong athletic
youngsters with hot blood in their veins; as grew apparent to us, by
contrast, later.

With the coming of morning, American restlessness and the desire to see
things moving became more apparent in our ranks, and even among our
officers.

“Phat the divil are we here for a’ tall?” said Pat Quinn. “Is it to be
sitting with our thumbs in our mouths like the little Jack Horner?”

It had ceased to rain. The sun had come out, and the clouds cleared
away sufficiently for us to catch glimpses of blue in the sky; and
American blood and impatience began to stir.

When two German soldiers without arms were seen at the well mentioned,
taking a wash and getting water, they were not at first molested,
though it could be seen that Yankee fingers were itching to take a shot.

After finishing washing, one of the Boches began cutting some branches
from the tree. That was too much for Private Shaw, who stuck his rifle
between the sand bags and _crack!_ went a shot at the Boches who,
dropping wood and water, scampered in unheroic haste for their holes.

“Who did that?” inquired the tall lieutenant of our platoon. “Who fired
that shot?”

“It was me, sir,” answered Shaw. “I wanted some of that wood myself!”

“Well,” said the lieutenant good-naturedly, “you stand a mighty poor
chance to get any of it now.” And just as he spoke and straightened up
a little, _ping!_ came a bullet that passed through the officer’s hat.

“The imperdence of the divil!” said Pat; “sure, Lieutenant, are ye
hurted?”

The lieutenant was mad, and walked away growling under his breath
without reply.

In a few moments, bang! bang! bang! bang! went our light guns; and then
came replies from the enemy that boded ill for quiet times, for the
Boche guns, speaking from their hiding places, seemed likely to reach
us in our burrows.

One great eight-inch shot struck near our parapet, exploding with a
crashing roar, breaking a broad path through the barbed-wire barricade
and leaving a hole big enough to bury a whole platoon.

“Faith, is that phat they call a Jack Johnson?” said Quinn, “or is it a
little light-weight fellow?”

Our French officer was understood to say that it was the latter. Peter
Beaudett, during the firing, had been struck by a small piece of spent
shell, which knocked him over while barely breaking the skin of his
jaws. He “rustled” as Shaw declared “like a hen with its head cut off;”
then, finding that he was not killed, though two of his teeth had been
knocked out, he angrily shook his fist towards the enemy, crying out:
“Py tam! I no like your doctor pulls my teeth; I fight you now, by tam!”

We had got our lesson, that two can play at a dangerous game; and after
this the opposing lines settled down for a while, to comparative peace
and quiet.

Such was our introduction to trench warfare, on the front line, which
finally grew in intensity and became exciting and dangerous enough
to satisfy the most enterprising Yankee. Even this first experience,
however, had convinced us that there were worse discomforts than rain,
snow, or mud.

Shortly after this, it was my duty to take a turn with a squad on the
listening post. I had with me a young German-American named Kepler,
whose father had been a soldier with my father during the Civil War,
and whose loyalty and patriotism were unquestioned. He was quiet,
phlegmatic, and resolute; absolutely to be depended upon, and, better
still, spoke and understood the German language.

Silently creeping through the excavation leading under our barbed wire
barricade and, leading to the front of the German trenches, we reached
our station. Here we listened for possible movements of the enemy, but
all was quiet and we had, as Sam said, who was another of our party,
“nothing to report, but a big lot of silence and chills.”

A listening post, here let me explain, runs underground, in most cases,
beneath the barbed wire barricade which protects the trench from
sudden invasion, such as mining to blow up our trenches; and sometimes
conversation and orders could be heard, which gave valuable information.

Of course the Germans, on their part, also had listening posts
constantly near us whose whereabouts were, however, not known, though
sometimes guessed at.

The duties of those on listening posts had not only a spice of danger,
but an appeal to the natural curiosity of a New Englander. Therefore,
with all its “cramped-up-itiveness,” as Sam called it, it was not
without its fascination for our boys.

When, after a tour of four days’ duty on the front-line trench, we were
relieved and marched to our rest billets in the rear, we found it more
than agreeable.

As Sutherland stood up at his full six-foot height, he said, looking
around and taking a full breath, “Say, isn’t this a big country!”

“Shure,” agreed Pat, “ye’s can get a white man’s braith and niver a
fear of getting a bullet to vintelite your head, or a piece of shell to
knock out your dintistry.”

At which Peter Beaudett rubbed his jaw and ejaculated, “Ugh!”

With all the badinage and by-play of rough jokes, the men were more
serious when coming from the trenches than when, with some forebodings,
they had taken up its duties.

My! how I enjoyed “chow” that night when mess call sounded! And the
dreamless sleep that followed, with clean straw and with a blanket
spread over it for a bed!

CHAPTER VIII “WHO COMES THERE?”

One of the first things I did on going into rest billet was to send
word to Jonathan by Muddy.

Our friendship had grown stronger since entering the army, and we had
kept it up by frequent intercourse; both by meetings and by exchange of
notes back and forth by Muddy. When I put a note in his collar and told
him to carry it to Jot, he seemed to understand what he must do; and
these notes except, in one or two instances, reached their destination.

There were some jokes about the “Muddy mail,” but most of our comrades
thought it was wonderfully intelligent that the dog understood when
told to carry it.

There had never been any serious misunderstanding between Jot and me.
Ever since coming to France, however, there had been vague insinuations
that Jot was of German parentage and sympathies. There was nothing that
I knew that warranted such a belief; but since I had learned that he
spoke their language, these whispers of suspicion had increased until
they affected me with just a little inner questioning. What was the
reason for his being always so reticent about his father?

I did not, however, for a moment distrust his patriotism or loyalty to
our country. The general distrust and hatred of everything German was
common among all classes. It was but the natural result of the wicked
and cruel policy of the German government and army, since entering upon
this dreadful war, which now seemed to menace civilization and free
government, so dear to Americans.

When Jot came to see me, as requested by my note through the “Muddy
mail,” I told him of these rumors, and said: “Would it not be better to
tell about your family, and stop these sinister rumors, for good?”

“You have confidence in me, haven’t you, Davie?” Jot replied.

“Yes,” I asserted, “I think I would trust you sooner than myself, in
any important matter. But wouldn’t it be better for me to know the
truth, so that I can contradict these insinuations?”

After a moment’s thought, he replied: “Well, possibly it would. But
it is to satisfy you rather than them, that I will say, my father was
born in the United States. He was, in that sense, an American. I have a
half-brother three years older than I, who is said to resemble me, but
we never agreed. And there was a misunderstanding between my father and
mother that was never healed. It was by her request, almost her last
one, that I have taken my present name. That’s all I can tell you, and
that is all there is of consequence to know.”

This had to satisfy me, and with it I hoped to contradict any further
insinuations that I might hear.

Soon after this we were on duty again in the front trenches, and were
at first careful not to stir up needless fighting.

The duties of a soldier call for constant caution and alertness; and
yet he must have a care-free cheerfulness with it all. He must not
borrow either sorrow or trouble. It requires time to nourish either
fear or worry, and the philosophy that does not cultivate them is the
one that produces the most comfort for a soldier. So, during our stay
at the rest billets, we ate and joked and enjoyed more than those
who live in the calm of life. And now, when with a certain confident
jauntiness we again took our places in the trenches we were full of
confidence and courage; and it proved the wisdom of frequent rests in
this nerve-straining duty.

We were, however, not only getting acquainted with our duties and its
dangers, but were making acquaintance with its other discomforts.

We were admonished by our officers to keep clean and cheerful. But I
could not see that we needed the advice more than those who gave it;
for I came upon our captain with his shirt off curiously investigating
the seams of it for certain familiar invaders that were a plague to
most of us. It was shiveringly cold and damp, but these pests were no
respecters of rank. Cooties, as Tommy Atkins calls them, can not be put
out or down with a frown, or even by a general order from headquarters.

“They and the rats are,” said Sutherland, “a providential war creation
intended to keep soldiers so busy as to forget, with scratching and
frequent investigation, all smaller troubles.” However, he used
sulphurous words, common from time immemorial to soldiers, because our
French predecessors had left these pestiferous enemies behind them for
us to fight.

“By Shorge,” said Peter Beaudett, “I dinks dey carries enough de
cooties away to keep dem busy! But de rats! one got’a hold of the ear
of me the las’ night!”

Sutherland, who was something of a reader, declared that he had never
before understood why it was that in “Tristam Shandy,” so much emphasis
was put by Uncle Toby in his assertion that “The army swore terribly in
Flanders;” but that the reason was now revealed: for it surely was the
cooties, that caused this profanity!

No one can understand the discomforts of trench life when simply
depicted in words. No one can describe a trench by word or picture;
he can not introduce any one there by illustration, he must be there
himself, or he can not understand its real discomforts. They did not
seem fit places for civilized men, those who used combs, brushes, soap
and napkins, had clean hands and faces. We were ghosts of the cave men.

Trench life, however, had its phases of good. It drew men together with
a sense of companionship with danger and death, that they had not known
before. While a needful reserve was kept up between officers and men,
there was greater cordiality and a greater feeling of intimacy,--less
harshness.

For some weeks there had been a season of peacefulness between the
lines. The weather had become warmer and more springlike, with
occasionally a sunny day. Then there came a change. We had become
accustomed to trench duties and not a little tired at its sameness.

It was while I was on this duty that the change came. I, with others,
was on detail at a listening post one night, and while intently
listening, young Kepler said in a whisper: “Did you hear that,
Sergeant?”

“I heard a growl,” I whispered, “as though some one was speaking.”

“I think they are going to attack, somewhere,” he said. “There, did you
hear that?”

“No, what is it?”

“Some one giving orders,” he replied. “I can’t hear distinctly, but I
am sure it means an attack.”

We sent back word to the trenches, and they in turn sent back word to
the commandant in his dugout, that there was an unusual stir on the
German front opposite us; though we could tell nothing more definite at
that time.

It was not long before we learned the meaning of what we had heard at
the listening post.

A tremendous explosion of artillery, about two o’clock, broke the
stillness of the damp gray morning. Gas shells came whistling over us.
We put on our gas masks, and were thankful that the shells were mostly
going over us instead of striking near. Our heads with these masks
looked queer, and laughter-provoking.

“This means an attack,” was passed down the lines.

“I don’t think they know any more about it than we do,” some one
growled.

“It’s meself,” said Pat Quinn, “that wishes it would come along
dacently soon, if it’s coming.”

This expressed the feeling often felt among soldiers,--to know the
worst and have it over with quickly.

“They fire all along the line,” said our lieutenant, “so that we can
not tell where the real attack is coming.”

The continuous whistling of gas shells and the sickening fumes that
partially reached us, the explosions over and near us, and our answers
in like kind made it even then seem like a hell on earth.

Then the enemy seemed to get a more perfect aim, and their shells swept
away our wire barricades clean to the ground, as though they were
cobwebs, until not even a post was left standing.

Our men, cowered under the earth embankments, waiting, waiting, with
high-strung, impatient and nervous suspense, until, at last, they were
warned that the attack was at hand.

Then our artillery quickened in sharp explosions, while the _rat,
tat, tat_ of the machine-guns, like a stick being drawn over a slat
fence, filled the air with a demoniac clamor impossible to describe.
The air was full of hoarsely shrieking shells and shot that made the
air vibrate, and the ground rock, as though the demons themselves had
broken loose!

Then the nerves that were shaken stiffened, and we were ready for the
attack.

The Boche came on in two waves, one behind the other, and were met by
the deadly, coolly-directed machine-gun fire and the well-aimed rifles
of our sharpshooters. Still they came on, got possession of one small
part of our entrenchment between two traverses, and tried to drive our
men down the trenches by enfilading them with machine-gun fire. But
they were driven back again with losses in dead, wounded, and prisoners.

The dark clouds that had hung over the scene during the fight cleared.
The sun came out and as it neared the horizon, like a great disk of
blood, the dark smoke drifted away, revealing the scene in our front.
There a score of mortally wounded and dead lay.

When we took stock of our losses, we found them slight. One of our
first lieutenants was wounded, two privates killed, and five wounded,
two of them but slightly, and two missing.

I was so fortunate as to receive praise from my captain for what he
called my “coolness and courage.” But, I must confess the truth, I was
at first woefully frightened but tried not to show it.

I have since learned that though big gun fire makes an alarming sound,
it also makes a good many holes in the air without touching a head; and
that the most fatal effects in battle are more often from well-aimed
machine-gun fire and rifles.

After a battle, when the enemy has been successfully met, there comes
a feeling of exaltation among its defenders. The French officers were
generous in praise of us, while our captain said, “You made a good
fight, and I am proud of every one of you.”

Colonel Burbank also was generous in his praise. “It is your baptism
of fire as soldiers that you will never forget, and can remember with
pride,” he stated.

When I remembered my trembling knees and the sick feeling at the pit
of my stomach, I doubted if any of the praise belonged to me, but
concluded not to mention it.

Peter Beaudett, who was wounded severely in the arm and had first aid,
said, with a wink at Quinn, as though he had good fortune instead of a
wound, “By gar! It means to me a bed and much clean sheets.”

“Shure,” replied our ever disputing Quinn, “and it may mane a doctor’s
saw,” and then seeing by his wounded comrade’s face that his remark was
cutting deeper than he intended, added more softly, “a pretty Red Cross
nurse and a vacation. An’ I almost wish it was meself that was in your
place.”

Our lieutenant was more severely wounded than was at first thought and
we learned that it was the opinion of the surgeons that it would be a
long time, if ever, before he was able to resume his duties with the
company.

Here let me, unwillingly, record the fact that Muddy did not prove
to be a hero. When the racket began, he tucked his tail between his
legs and with a whine and an apologetic look at me over his shoulder,
scampered off in a most unheroic manner.

“This means promotion to some one,” said our men, when it was known
that our first lieutenant, Reese, was not likely to resume duty on
account of the severity of his wounds.

In spite of hardships and battle, to which, however, we were becoming
reconciled, we professed ourselves enthusiastically ready for another
“bout” with the Boches, and didn’t care who knew it!

I was very proud, for my friend Jonathan gained the good opinion of his
officers and men, by his soldierly coolness and courage.

“Say,” said Sutherland confidentially, “them German chaps don’t take a
back seat in fighting, I guess.”

“It is no use to dispute the fact that they are brave men,” I answered.

“Aw!” said Pat, “of course, or they wouldn’t be holdin’ on here in
France by their teeth like so many divils. An’ I haven’t a doubt that
ould Satan himsilf is a brave one too.”

Thus ended our first real fight in France, the memory of which gave
us courage for the fighting before us. One of the results was seen
a few weeks after, when First Sergeant Nickerson was promoted to be
second lieutenant of my company, in place of Lieutenant Reese, who was
mustered out of the service with honors on account of wounds. I was
also promoted to be a second sergeant, and no one but myself knew how
undeserved was my advancement; though there came a time soon when I
thought I deserved it better.

CHAPTER IX A CALL RETURNED

“See here!” said our burly top sergeant, “the Boches have made a call
on us, and it seems to me it is up to us to return it, as is usual in
polite society.”

“I wouldn’t be so sorry,” growled Sutherland, with a grin, “if I never
saw them again.”

“An’ sure, as my mither used to say about the O’Flyns,” said Quinn,
“their room is bether than their company.”

But individual preferences do not count in the army. Everything, even
human nature, must yield to discipline. The making of a soldier is
not the matter of a day, or one of personal preference; it is one of
progressive training; and a part of that training is to put in practice
that which has been learned in theory.

For illustration: we had been taught, in theory, the importance of
personal cleanliness for the preservation of health; but in the squalor
of trench life, we were apt to disregard it. Especial care in washing
of the feet was enjoined, to prevent trench feet which is not only a
painful infliction but one that unfits a soldier for marching or other
duty.

“An’ why,” said Quinn, “don’t they put off bein’ so particular until we
have more toime?”

“Because,” said Sutherland, “the time to do a thing in the army is when
it is the most inconvenient.”

“I belave yees,” said Pat. “They expect us to shave and kape nate as
though we were going to a dance, or to call on the prisident, instid of
standing on a fire step in a muddy trench, with rats running over us
and cooties for steady visitors.”

Though others complained of rats, I was not inconvenienced by them;
for Muddy, who was a good ratter, slept cuddled up by me. Woe to one
that was seen within his range by night or day. Though it was at first
feared that he might bark, he seemed to understand that the trench was
not a place for noise.

There was a rumor that we were soon to go “over the top” to make a
morning call on the Boches. Where or how an army rumor starts no one
knows. But if there was ever a place where rumor first had birth, it
must have been in a camp of soldiers.

“You can hear anything here but the truth,” said Quinn, “and a
botherin’ soight of that.”

No matter where this rumor originated it was largely believed. Most of
the men could not see the use of being so polite as to return enemy
calls and, I confess, that I regarded even the thought of it with some
qualms. I wanted to be brave and hated myself for not welcoming the
chance to be in the lists of valor; but I didn’t!

“It’s bad weather,” said Sutherland jocosely, “and a mighty
inconvenient time to be killed.” And that was the way I felt about
it. But a soldier is not consulted about his likings or conveniences
in doing anything; for he is but a part of a machine that is working
for a great purpose, and which must be fed on human discomfort and,
possibly, on human blood and life.

When the order came for us to take a special bath and put on clean
clothing, the order that in modern warfare precedes a fight, we thought
it of the same piece with previous exactions for cleanliness and “fuss
scraping,” as Sam called it. I soon learned, however, that it was a
precaution taken as a preventive of blood poison and infection in case
of being wounded.

There had been a rehearsal in the part which we were to take in the
attack. Every man was assigned his place and instructed as to what
he must do and how to do it. It was like the rehearsal of a stage
piece. To each man was issued an extra gas helmet,--making two in all.
These were examined by professionals to see that they were in order;
and we were drilled in quickly adjusting them in case of need. Our
identification disks, which are carried by each soldier, were carefully
fastened to our persons, to identify those severely wounded or killed.

Our aviators, like great gulls, flying above the German lines, had been
searching out their machine-gun emplacements, magazines and artillery;
and we knew by all these signs that our trial of arms was near.

At twelve o’clock at night men were sent out to cut broad paths through
the barbed wire barricades for the passage of our troops. At about half
past one our guns opened fire on the enemy to destroy the rest of their
wire entanglements; and, although I knew that the cannonade was a
friendly one, it seemed to lift the roots of my hair from my scalp, at
the thought that one of them might accidentally kill me.

I couldn’t make myself feel brave when I thought of taking part in the
impending attack; though I had schooled myself to stolid determination
to get killed, rather than to let my comrades know that I was scared.
Pride is often a good substitute for courage.

With all my fears and dread, my mind was clear, possibly because of the
stimulant of danger. But I saw too many unpleasant possibilities. A
vivid imagination is sometimes an inconvenient possession for a soldier.

All at last was ready. Short ladders had been placed all along the
parapet, and rude stairways made of stakes were prepared, so that the
men could quickly go over the top of the trenches. An hour before the
coming attack we were moved to the front trench while others filled the
connecting trenches, ready to follow us over the top.

It was in the gray hours of morning,--about four o’clock I should
judge,--while the guns were still belching over us, that the shrill
whistle of command sounded for advance. And up and over we went!

To my surprise, I was less frightened than when contemplating the
danger. My mind worked with peculiar clearness as we went forward at
quick time towards the enemy under their heavy fire from machine-guns
and rifles.

I saw men fall as though they had stumbled over a stone. One hundred
and fifty yards is not a great distance, but it is a long way to
travel under fire, at least it seemed a long way to me.

As we neared the hostile trenches their entire front lit up with red
flame from machine-guns and rifles.

Humming bullets, fierce screams, hoarse attempts at cheers, guttural
shouts, the clatter of machine-guns, all blended in one demoniac roar
as we piled over into the enemy’s trench. The foe at first resisted,
but at last yielded before the impetuous assault of our bayonets and
fell back through their communicating trenches. I saw one sticking out
his head from behind a traverse as much as to say, “I am at home.”
Another big German, swinging his rifle by the barrel for a club,
confronted me. I fended with my rifle barrel, lunged, and down he went!

Then a confused mingling of men and sounds impossible to describe
succeeded. I was struck by some projectile and found myself wondering
what had happened to me. Then came the shrill whistle for retirement. I
struggled up and, but for a little faintness and an aching place under
my vest, was myself again.

While comrades were climbing out of the trench, and I was about to
follow, my foot struck a prostrate form. It stirred slightly. I was
excitedly anxious to get back to our lines, but could not leave a
wounded comrade in the hands of the enemy. Picking up the man I threw
him over my shoulder, climbed painfully over the parapet and across the
shell-pitted ground. But on reaching our trench, my memory lapsed, and
down I sank with my burden.

My first thought on recovering was of Jot. I had caught but one
transient glimpse of him during the fight.

“Where’s Jot?” I asked. Then, seeing that they didn’t understand I
added, “Lieutenant Nickerson, I mean?”

No reply was given.

“Can you walk?” some one asked.

“I guess I can,” I answered; “I came over here with a man over my
shoulder. I can walk.”

“I think,” said Sutherland, “that I had better carry you pig-a-back;
these trenches are too narrow for a stretcher. There’s a bullet hole in
the breast of your coat. You are shot.”

“Nonsense!” I said, “I can walk; but I have an awful sore spot under my
vest pocket; something knocked the breath out of me for a spell.”

Arriving at the first aid station, with Sutherland’s help, my upper
clothing was stripped off and out fell a bullet! It had struck my
watch, broken the crystal, smashed the works, and left a big dent in
the case, almost half as deep as a thimble. It was directly over my
heart. The watch had saved my life. It had been my father’s watch,
presented to him by his company in the Civil War.

“Carry him to the Clearing Station,” I heard some one say.

In attempting to get up from my seat after the examination, I fell
again. I fancied that I heard the Surgeon say, “Collapse!” Then, once
more, everything faded, and next I found myself in a white still place
with many cots. It was a hospital.

“What’s the matter, doctor?” I inquired; “what’s happened to me?”

“Bad collapse; need rest. I wonder you did not drop dead, carrying a
man on your shoulder across No Man’s Land after that hurt.”

One unpleasant fact was evident to me, and that was, I was in the
clutches of a surgeon. I always did hate doctors.

I got up, looked in a little mirror to smooth my hair, and started back
to see a pale face looking out at me. I turned to go out of the door,
but was confronted by a blue-eyed Red Cross nurse and a burly attendant.

“Let me alone,” I protested, “I want to see how my friend, Lieutenant
Nickerson, got out of the fight.”

The nurse pointed, as a reply, to a near-by cot where a still form lay.
“What’s the matter!” I exclaimed, striding to the cot. “Who is it?”

I needed no answer, it was Jot.

“What’s the matter?” I again cried. “Is he dead?”

“No,” said the surgeon; “only stunned; concussion of the brain from a
heavy blow. He will be all right with proper attention, after a while.”

“How did he get here?”

“Why, don’t you know?” he answered. “They said that _you_ brought him
across No Man’s Land almost on a run.”

Thus it was I came to know that the comrade I had brought back into our
trench was my friend, Jot.

I stayed in the hospital for several days, during which time they fed
me on light stuff, as though I were an infant, instead of a full-sized
doughboy, and I was losing strength. I wouldn’t have stayed there
contentedly that long, but to assure myself of Jot’s recovery. Then I
kicked.

“There is nothing the matter with me, doctor, except I am faint with
hunger. I shall starve unless you give me something man’s size to eat!”

“Give him something hearty,--an egg on toast,” ordered the doctor, “and
keep him quiet.”

Then I knew I was in for “low diet” some more.

“Lieutenant Nickerson wants to see you,” said the nurse. So I went to
his cot.

“What is it, Jot? Are you better?”

“Head’s a little sore, but otherwise fit as a fiddle!”

“Well, look out,” I said, “or the doctor will starve you.”

Jot smiled, and then said, “I want to thank you for saving my life. You
have always managed to stand between me and trouble from the first; and
now you have got between me and death, Davie.”

“Why,” I replied, “I didn’t even know it was you, until after I got
here. I was in a hurry when I slung you over my shoulder. Your face was
downward. So you needn’t thank me for it; but I am as thankful as you
that I did it. I fixed that big Boche that was swinging his rifle for a
club, though.” Then I told him about it.

“You always were good and brave, Davie.”

“There is where you are out, this time, Jot,” I said. “Don’t tell any
one; but I was awful scared before we started for the Boche trench. I
would have run away had I dared. I suppose courage is a cumulative
thing, mine had to be given time to accumulate.”

Jot lay back and laughed.

“You needn’t laugh,” I said. “It is true as gospel, and I am ashamed to
let you know, I was a dreadful coward; but it is true!”

After feeding on thin soup and a single egg on toast for breakfast, for
a week, I bribed the nurse to give me a beefsteak and some potatoes
and, on that forbidden diet, grew so strong that I got my discharge
from the hospital in a day or two.

I am sincerely convinced that the most of my faintness was from
underfeeding,--sheer hunger. But that theorist of a doctor would not
believe it and thought his low diet and medicines had helped me to a
rapid recovery.

I was glad to get back to my company again, and to receive the rough
but hearty congratulations of my comrades.

“You still look pale,” said Sutherland. “Are you feeling all right now?”

“Yes,” I replied. “You’d look as pale as I do if they had fed you on
air. When’s mess?”

I saw the boys grin, for I had the reputation of being a good feeder;
but I was surely glad to get back to plain, hearty army rations again.

So it was that I again took up my duties with a heartiness that, before
going “over the top,” I had been a trifle lacking in.

I learned that on counting noses three of our company were killed and
seven wounded.

We talked about that skirmish so much that the woman who owned the barn
where we had our billet complained, because her cow couldn’t sleep. And
after all the talk, there was not much of an understanding about the
fight; for a soldier does not see much that is taking place in battle a
great way from his nose. What we afterwards saw dwarfed this first call
on the Boches; but a first experience leaves a deep impression.

CHAPTER X IN REST BILLET

After our first call on the Boches, we enjoyed the rest and
recuperation of our billets.

“This cow barn,” said Corporal Sutherland, “seems like a good thing
after being in the trenches; don’t it?”

“An’ faith it does,” said Quinn; “but a fine tooth comb would improve
it.”

“Pat,” said Dean, facetiously, “is related to that countryman of his
who found fault because he was to be hanged.”

No sky is perfect without a few clouds; but we had an overshadowing one
because we did not get letters from home. There had been complaint ever
since the American Expeditionary Force first landed in France, that our
letters did not reach us as quickly as they should.

Some mail had just come in, however, and the boys were gladdened by the
news.

“Just got some letters from home,” said Corporal Sutherland, “and I
am mighty glad to get them, though they are so old they are like last
year’s birds’ nests.”

“What’s the matter with our mail service?” queried Shaw. “The poilus
get their letters regularly, I am told.”

“The poilus manage their mail better, because it is distributed by
women who are in sympathy with their boys; so their letters don’t have
to wait until they are cold and dead with old age,” said Sutherland.
“They reach them warm from the hearts of those who write them; and I
believe that is what gives the blue devils, as the Boches call them,
courage to fight so well.”

I was fortunate to get some letters from home and a box of goodies,
among which was some spruce gum and a quart can of maple sugar right
from the hills of Chester. You may infer that I enjoyed these good
things after so lately having come from the hospital!

The little French woman, in whose barn we were billeted, was the wife
of a French soldier. She had three children ranging in ages from three
to seven years. Our men petted the kiddies and shared their rations
with them.

I shared my goodies with the children much to their delight. I was very
fond of little four-year-old Marie, who was as pretty as a picture and
loved sweet things. One day I was having a great frolic with her. Her
face was smeared with chocolate and maple sugar, and a circle of dirt,
mingled with the sticky sweets, formed a halo around her pretty mouth.
She was in high glee over the possession of peppermints and a doughnut,
which was almost as hard as the chocolate.

I was dancing her in my arms, and she was piping like a little canary
in attempting to express her delight, when I encountered a French
soldier who, to my embarrassment, hugged me and kissed me on either
cheek. This is to the French the same as a hearty handshake with us.

“I am so glad,” he said in broken English, “to see you. The madame
has told me in her letters how good you Americans have all been to my
children and to her.”

He told me that he had lived in New York for a time before he was
married, and loved my country and its good people. He was on a short
leave of absence to see his family. He said he had been a little
jealous, when his wife had told him about the kindness of the Americans
who were billeted at his home.

One day while I was sitting on a bench by my quarters, holding the
little girl and talking to her father, a slim black-eyed young man came
up, and abruptly said, “Good morning, sirs!”

I looked distrustfully at him, for we had been warned against
English-speaking German spies, and then opened my eyes with
astonishment, for he looked as much like my friend, Jot, as one English
sparrow looks like another.

“Who are you?” I inquired. “What do you want?”

“I am on important business,” he responded politely, “for the army.”

“What do you mean by that?” I said. “Are you an American?”

“I was born in America,” he replied with indescribable dignity, “and
have lived there a good part of my life. But I was educated on this
side.”

Then I remembered what Jot had told me about his half-brother’s
resemblance to himself and I distrusted him all the more.

“Where’s your uniform?” I asked. “Why are you in citizen’s dress?”

For answer he pointed to a loosely hanging sleeve.

I turned my head to speak to my French friend, but found him gone; and
then, turning back again, found the man I had been talking to had also
vanished. I could not understand how he had disappeared so quickly, and
this added to my suspicion that he was not straight.

When I again saw the French soldier, Maurice, I said, “Where did
you go so quickly? You were standing near me and in an instant had
disappeared.”

He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “It would not be, as your people
say, ‘just the thing,’ to listen to your conversation with another
gentleman.”

Knowing something of a Frenchman’s idea of politeness that seemed to
explain his sudden leaving.

As soon as I got a chance from my duties, I started to see Jot. He
had been discharged from the hospital, I had learned, but I had not
seen him since he came back on duty. Passing the guard I stood before
Lieutenant Nickerson and saluted as stiffly as possible, and waited
until addressed by my superior officer. Jot returned the salute and,
coming up to me, put his hands on my shoulder, saying, “No formalities,
Davie, now that we are by ourselves. What is it that makes you look
so confoundedly troubled? Have the rations given out, or what is the
matter?”

Then I told him about the man who so much resembled him.

He stood for a moment as though meditating what to say, and then
replied, “It’s all right, David; I have seen him, too.”

“Is he your half-brother with whom you told me you could not agree?”

“We may not have been able to agree, but it does not follow that he is
not straight and a patriot, does it? We may be in agreement in a large
way, if not in little ones?”

I felt, knowing Jot’s habitual reserve, that it would be of no use to
question him further, and as he had not really told me anything, I was
much confused and uncertain what it all meant.

“Well, Lieutenant,” I said stiffly, “I feel it my duty to report these
facts to Colonel Burbank.”

“That’s not military,” he said. “You must report them first to your
captain, and he will report them to the colonel.”

“Oh, confound the red tape!” I said. “Can’t I report to the colonel in
some way, without passing it around the red-tape ring?”

“Yes,” responded Jot, somewhat to my surprise, “the colonel was saying
that he would like to see that watch of yours, that the Boche spoiled
and told me to send you to his quarters some time.”

Then he came to me once more, and, grasping my hand, with a look of
love on his high-bred face, said, “Do what your New England conscience
dictates and God be with you, Davie. I wish I could see more of you.
But whatever happens, remember that I am always your friend.”

Reaching Colonel Burbank’s quarters, I sent word by the orderly that I
was present to take his orders, if he wished to give any, and, also had
something important to communicate.

On reaching Colonel Burbank, I clicked my heels, saluted, and waited to
be addressed by my colonel.

“What is it, Sergeant Stark? What do you wish to communicate?”

“I took the liberty of coming here because I was told that you wished
to see me.”

“That will keep,” he replied and repeated his inquiry. Then I briefly
told him what I have here narrated.

To my surprise he said, “I have seen the man this morning. It was right
for you to report the matter, and I am glad that you did not report it
in the usual way. You will not mention to any one what you have heard
or know of this affair,” he commanded, “or it might do harm.”

Then he gravely said, as though to dismiss further talk about it, “I
have learned about your gallant conduct during the raid on the enemy
trench, and am pleased with you, and congratulate you.”

Just then Muddy rushed in like a miniature cyclone, circled around me,
barking, as much as to say, “I have found you!” and then jumped into
the colonel’s lap.

“He comes here once in a while,” explained the colonel, “and this is
the way he salutes.”

Then rising, he came to me and said: “I would like to see that watch.”

“It isn’t a watch any more,” I said; “it’s a ruin.”

And I took it out and handed it to him.

“So I see,” he said, examining an inscription on the inner case,
and then reading aloud, “‘Presented to Captain David Stark by his
comrades and admirers.’ Yes,” he added, musingly, “it is the same that
my father, with others, gave to him after the battle of Winchester,
during the Shenandoah Campaign under General Sheridan. Do you know that
Captain Stark saved my father’s life?”

Then he turned away as though to examine the inscription under better
light, but I saw a tear in his eye, and I was proud of my father.

As I turned to go, he added, “I have heard my father tell about making
the presentation of that watch, and am pleased to see it; I am sure he
will be glad as I am, that his friend’s son has proved himself worthy
to wear it, and that it has saved his life. Now as a favor to me--will
you allow me to have the watch repaired for you?”

I felt a lump rise in my throat. The eagle was asking a favor of me!

I did not get a chance, and did not much care to tell, how little I
really deserved all that my colonel said; and how scared I had been
before the fight. But I thought of a saying of mother’s: “How much
praise is often given to those who do not deserve it.” I determined,
however, to try to live up to the reputation that chance had given me.

Afterwards, telling Jot about the Colonel’s compliments, I said: “As
Bill Jenkins used to say, ‘I felt as mean as pussley.’”

“That’s just like you!” said Jot. “Don’t you remember about your
leaving some bunches of grass unmowed where there were bumblebees,
and getting Bill Jenkins to get into them by telling him that you had
left them as fancy spots? Bill said, ‘Confound your fancy spots!’ and
pitched into them, and got all stung up. And you lay awake that night
laughing and repenting by turns? The difference between you and some
other cowards is that you are mostly scared before a fight and they are
scared when in a fight.”

“What is the reason,” I said, “that I am so scared before a fight?”

“A vivid imagination,” replied Jot; “and borrowing troubles before they
come.”

CHAPTER XI A SIX WEEKS’ HIKE THROUGH FRANCE