THE SCHOOL JANITOR
Just how it happened that the Salvation Army worker had ventured into that place of death none knew, and none stopped to inquire. Probably the man, in his eagerness to serve, did not realize where he was nor how he got there. Naturally he would have been denied permission to go forward during an engagement—that was no time nor place for a noncombatant. But he probably had not asked. He had made his way through a rain of lead and steel to a zone of comparative safety. And there he stood, as if bewildered, with his baskets of cheer on his arms.
And now a sudden change in the battle made the zone of comparative safety one of danger. For the range of the German guns became shorter. The muzzles were being depressed to seek out those intrepid Americans who had rushed over the first Hun trenches and were waiting to rush onward again. This must not be, thought the Huns, and so they sought them out to kill them. 146
So it was that as Bob spied the “fried holes” the dispenser of them gave a start as a bullet or a piece of shell flew close to his head. He was in grave danger now, and realized it. But he did not falter. He gave one backward glance, not with an idea of retreating, that is sure, but to see if there were any near him in that direction whom he might serve. Then he saw the prone lines ahead of him.
“Me for some of those!” yelled Bob, as he rose from his improvised trench.
“Lie still, you chump!” shouted Ned. “Do you want to be killed?”
“No more than you did when you got the wood from the busted truck,” was the answer. “But I’ve got to have some of those doughnuts!”
And Bob, never heeding the fact that he would be a shining target for the guns of the Germans, started to run toward the Salvation Army man.
Some of the officers, from where they were stationed among the troops, saw him.
“Come back! Come back! Who is he? What’s he doing? Is he going to desert in the face of the enemy?” were some of the commands and cries.
But it needed only a glance to show that Bob never had a notion of deserting. He ran toward the man with the baskets of doughnuts on his arms. Crisp, golden-brown doughnuts they were, 147 fresh from one of the traveling kitchens where, behind the lines, the Salvation Army lassies made them—a devoted service that will never be forgotten, but will rank with that of the Red Cross and be immortal.
And now, as might have been expected, the Germans saw the two figures—the only upright ones in that particular neighborhood. And the inevitable followed. They were fired at.
Both offered good marks, but Fate, Providence, or whatever you choose to call it, favored them, or else the Germans were wretched shots, which last, in a measure, is known to be true.
At any rate, Bob and the Salvation Army man met and Bob took charge of one of the baskets of doughnuts. That, too, was to be expected.
“Come on—run for it!” yelled the stout lad. “This place is getting hot!”
And indeed it was, for all about their feet were little spurts of earth, showing where the bullets were striking. And together they ran on toward the war-worn, weary figures of the men in the shallow trenches. Straight to where he had left his comrades Bob led the brave man, and they were received with a cheer.
Though it was desperately against all orders and discipline for Bob to do what he had done, not an officer rebuked him. And then the “fried holes” were quickly handed out to the fortunate 148 ones in that section of the line, the officers refusing any, so that the weary men might have some little refreshment.
“Halves only—each man only take a half!” cried Ned, when he saw how many men there were and how few—in spite of the two big baskets—the doughnuts were.
Bob looked a trifle crestfallen, but he agreed with a smile, and to his eternal credit be it said that when he broke the one doughnut he saved for himself, and it came apart in two unequal pieces, he gave the larger section to a comrade on his right.
“Bravo, Chunky!” said Jerry softly, as he observed.
And then, as if in horrible contrast to this peaceful scene, the battle began again.
“Forward!” came the orders, and the three chums, with their comrades, sprang from their shelter.
And as Bob left the shallow hole he had dug for himself to see what became of the Salvation Army man, he saw him roll gently over on his side, a little hole in his forehead showing where death had entered from one of the hundreds of bullets that were now sweeping down among the troops. But there was a smile on his lips.
And there died a very brave and gallant gentleman. 149
Burst and roar and rumble and thunder and shriek and yell and cry and sob succeeded, accompanied and overlapped one another. The battle was on again in all its horrid fury.
Forward rushed the troops, freshened by their rest, with more ammunition of death. Forward they rushed, driving the Germans back, out of the trenches improvised by the Huns. Forward they rushed while the American guns lifted the barrage to protect them, and the German cannon crashed out their answer.
On they went, stumbling, falling, getting up again some of them, never rising again many of them. Bloody and mud-stained, powder-grimed and sweat-marked, torn and panting, cut and bruised, with dry tongues that swelled in their blackened mouths. With eyes that saw nothing and everything—the sight of comrades torn to pieces beside them, the falling of beloved officers, the tearing of great holes in the ranks, and the closing of those holes by a living wall of others who offered themselves for the sacrifice.
Forward they rushed, shouting and firing, tossing hand grenades into the midst of the dust-gray bodies of the Huns that opposed them. Onward they leaped and ran and staggered and jumped, but always onward.
A yell on their left caught the ears of Jerry and his chums. 150
“Are we giving way?” asked Ned, grimly despairing.
“No! It’s the tanks! Look!” screamed Bob.
And the tanks it was. A score of them, great lumbering giants, impervious to everything save heavy guns, on they crawled, smashing concrete machine-gun nests as though they were but collections of vipers’ eggs in a field.
These tanks turned the tide of battle at that particular point. For the Germans were putting up a stiff resistance, and were about to launch a counter-attack, as was learned later.
But with the tanks to protect them, to splatter death from their armored machine guns, to spread terror and fear among the Huns, the day was saved.
On rushed the Americans, Ned, Bob, and Jerry among them, while all about them thundered the big guns, rattled the rifles, adding their din to the tat-a-tat-tat of the machine guns.
And then the Germans, unable to withstand this withering fire and being inadequately supported by their artillery, broke in confusion and ran—ran to escape the terrible death that awaited them from the avengers of a world dishonored by the Boches.
Wave after wave of storming troops now surged over the positions lately occupied in force by the Germans. Up the wooded slopes they 151 swept, taking possession of dominant heights so long desired. The objective was more than won, and the American position much improved.
The fury of the fighting began to die away. But it was still terrific in spots, for there were many machine-gun nests left behind when the Huns retreated, and the holders of them were told to die at their posts. Many did.
When Ned, Bob, Jerry, and some of their comrades, led by an officer, approached one of the dugouts there was no sign of life. It had been spouting death from a machine gun but a little while before, however.
“Look out!” some one shouted. “Maybe they’re playing possum!”
And so it was, for as the group advanced there was a burst of fire, and half a dozen men went down. Ned and Bob had a vision of Jerry crumpling up at the very entrance of the dugout, and their hearts seemed to stop beating.
“Drive ’em out! Kill the Boches! Wipe ’em up!” yelled the survivors.
With a fierce yell, Ned tossed into the open doorway a hand grenade. It exploded with terrific force, partly wrecking the place, and then in rushed he and his comrades, with gleaming bayonets.
“Kamerad! Kamerad!” came the cowardly appeal from the Germans. 152
And a moment later out of the dugout where the machine gun had been concealed came four German soldiers, all that was left alive of a company of twenty, and of these four two were badly wounded.
Ned and Bob, seeing that the place, the last of any opposition in that section, was captured, were about to turn back to see if Jerry was still alive, when a second look at one of the German prisoners caused Ned to cry:
“Nick Schmouder!”
“Ja!” came the answer, and then, in German, he asked:
“Who speaks my name?”
“Nick Schmouder!” said Ned again.
“Do you know this man?” asked an officer sharply.
“Yes,” answered Ned. “He used to be a janitor at Boxwood Hall, a school I attended.”
And the face of Nick Schmouder showed as much wonder as did that of Ned Slade.