THE OBSERVATION POST
A little later the members of the party, preceded by a telephone man, were making their way with the utmost caution through a field of wheat. With a soft blue sky filled with fleecy clouds overhead, the waving grain close about them, and the pleasant scent which growing vegetation exhales, their situation suggested anything but warfare. Undismayed by the grumblings of the great guns and the whistling of the shells which soared overhead, larks flew unconcernedly about, and frequently their chatter or song was wafted over the balmy air.
Here and there ugly shell-holes were encountered, and very often the operator, fearing that the wires which led to the observation post might have been damaged, stopped to examine them. The situation was decidedly thrilling, and the aviator's son did not mind admitting, to himself at least, that his nerves were at a very keen tension.
To the east, hazy in the distance, a German observation balloon hovered in the air, swinging lazily in the gentle currents. It wasn't altogether pleasant to think that the observers in the basket might have their powerful glasses leveled on that particular spot in the wheat field across which they were now passing. And very likely, too, there were men posted at various observation stations who were keeping a watchful eye open for just the sort of thing they were now engaged upon.
It was quite natural, therefore, that whenever the boy heard the awesome scream of a shell a little louder than usual his heart beat faster.
Going this way and that and concealing their movements in every possible manner, the five reached a deep trench, which zig-zagged across a field absolutely bare of vegetation. One by one they leaped into it, and, in single file, continued steadily along.
"Don't forget to keep your heads down," cautioned Lieutenant D'Arraing.
"Never fear!" said Don. "We won't do anything to bring about an inglorious end to the expedition."
Presently the trench led upward over the slope of a hill, and when the top was reached turned sharply to the left. A few yards further on, around a bend, the boys discovered the observation post, roofed over with corrugated iron. Right beside it was a dugout.
"Here we are," spoke up Lieutenant D'Arraing. "And if I am not mistaken our being here won't be a very good thing for the Boches."
Not far away, close to the parapet of the trench, stood a row of bushes. With a wave of his hand, indicating these, the captain exclaimed:
"I think it will be safe for you, boys, to take a look from there."
While the operator by the entrance to the dugout was adjusting the telephone to the wire Don and Dunstan, both provided with field-glasses, cautiously moved forward, with the lieutenant by their side.
"Now we are ready for the fireworks!" muttered Don Hale, grimly.
He carefully pushed aside the bushes and saw stretching before him a steep slope, with a wide valley at the bottom and ranges of hills beyond, the summits cutting clearly against masses of white clouds. The wooded hills and bluish distance seen here and there between breaks made a very charming picture in the bright, clear sunlight; but it was not upon these features that the eyes of the aviator's son were intently fixed, for even with the unaided eye he could make out the lines of trenches, both French and German, running in a curiously irregular fashion across the near and far slopes. To the south a few faint grayish spots scattered here and there, inside the French lines, indicated what remained of a little hamlet. In the entire valley Don could not discover a single tree which had escaped the ravages of warfare.
"Do you see a spur on the hillside directly opposite?" asked Lieutenant D'Arraing, who, standing by the side of Don, was peering through a pair of field-glasses.
"Yes—yes," said Don eagerly.
"Take a look at it through your binocular."
"TAKE A LOOK AT IT."
The aviator's son placed the instrument to his eyes. The spur which the artillery officer had indicated instantly became strong and clear.
"Now swing your glass to the left," commanded the lieutenant, "and stop when you come to a little whitish patch almost hidden by trees."
"I have it," exclaimed Don.
"I think you will find in a few moments that our battery has it, too," commented the other, dryly. "You might not suspect it, but that insignificant little light spot is a part of the side of a building, and on that building has been erected——"
"The wireless plant," supplemented Don, eagerly.
By this time the telephone operator, with the receivers attached to his ears, was ready to transmit the captain's orders to the battery, while the senior officer in the observation post had his glasses leveled on the distance.
"How strange it is," reflected Don Hale, "that people some three miles away are moving unconcernedly about a certain building, totally unaware of the fact that within a moment or two they will be exposed to the most terrible danger!"
He lowered his binocular, for the captain was speaking.
"First piece," he commanded.
"First piece," echoed the telephone operator, speaking into the transmitter.
"Direction: wireless station; range five thousand yards."
The message was flashed over the wire, and a few moments later word came that the battery was in readiness.
"Fire!" commanded the captain.
That was an extraordinarily interesting moment to Don Hale.
The operator had scarcely ceased speaking when, from the hill to the rear, came the report of one of the howitzers, and as the projectile, describing a parabola, passed overhead, making the same screeching, screaming sound with which he had become so familiar, Don once more directed the glasses upon the wireless station.
Breathlessly, he waited.
"Ah-h-h-h!"
A long-drawn-out exclamation came from his lips.
A cloud of black smoke suddenly shot up in the distance, completely shutting from view the object upon which he had his eyes so intently fixed. A few seconds later came a faint, dull boom.
What had happened?
Don could not tell. But, with fascinated attention, the boy watched the swirling black mass rolling along the surface of the ground and spreading slowly upward and outward, until it suggested the rounded form of a huge tree.
"Confound it!—wasted!" growled the captain.
"Too short!" murmured the lieutenant.
"Plus fifty yards; augment by thirty minutes," called out the captain.
As the man at the telephone transmitted the order the lieutenant explained to the interested ambulanciers just what the captain's words meant.
"Plus means to increase the range and less to shorten it," he said; "augment tells the cannoneer that he must aim further to the right and 'diminish' means further to the left. The sighting apparatus of the gun is, of course, accurately graduated."
Another roar, and a second projectile was on its way.
Again an inky column, with lashing, tossing edges, spurted above the tree tops. And the aviator's son could instantly see that another shell had been wasted; for the bit of wall now gleamed brightly against a background of smoke.
The captain, lowering his glass, gave voluble expression to his annoyance and disgust; then, swinging around toward the telephonist, he commanded:
"The same elements, less thirty. Fire!"
"Same elements, less thirty," repeated the operator. "Fire!"
Boom!
The confining hills flung the thunderous echoes in all directions. The same whirr and scream overhead again—and for a third time Don Hale saw where the projectile had landed.
Still the wireless station had evidently not been touched.
"H'm—h'm!" murmured Captain Langlois. "Pas mal—pas mal; not bad—not bad! Same elements, less fifteen. Fire!"
And a few moments later the light spot flashed from view, completely obliterated by another enormous and sinister-looking cloud of smoke.
For a second time the intensely interested Don Hale was in doubt as to the result, yet in another moment he realized that the artillerymen had been successful; for the captain, with a grunt indicative of satisfaction, faced Lieutenant D'Arraing, declaring:
"Enfin, Monsieur le Lieutenant, c'est fait!"
"At last it is done!" murmured Don, translating the captain's words.
"And I guess he's about right," exclaimed Dunstan.
Sure enough—when the slowly-disappearing smoke had lifted the ambulanciers saw that the portion of the building they had looked upon before was no longer in sight, and both could very readily imagine that where it had stood there was nothing but unsightly piles of wreckage and a huge shell-hole.
"As I expected!" remarked Captain Langlois. "If that really was a wireless plant it won't be sending out any more electric waves."
"I should say not," said Don, a little soberly.
"Inscribe the elements," commanded the captain.
"Inscribe the elements," repeated the operator, speaking to the man at the battery end of the wire.
Don could not help reflecting upon the methodical and businesslike manner of the whole proceeding. There was nothing to indicate that either of the officers held any feeling of hate or vindictiveness toward the foe; their attitude was rather that of men who having had important work to do are glad of its successful accomplishment.
"Do you know what 'inscribe the elements' means?" asked the lieutenant, breaking in upon the boy's thoughts.
"I think I do, Monsieur le Lieutenant," replied Don. "The officer in command of the battery is to write on a chart the exact elements in order that they may have the information in case they should ever be required to fire at the same point again."
"Precisely so," said the other, with a smile.
The ambulanciers still kept their eyes upon the German trenches, as shells were now occasionally exploding here and there. After a short time, due to the steady increase in the bombardment, dark and light puffs of smoke, according to the character of the shell, were rising continually into view. Vaguely suggestive of the surf, ever tumbling in fleecy foam upon the beach, were these appearing and disappearing smoke clouds softened by atmosphere distance.
"The first part of our work is completed; now for the second!" remarked Lieutenant D'Arraing. "Far to the right, where you see that little leafless tree sticking up, we intend to get the range of the Boche trenches."
"But the French and German lines look mighty close right there," declared Don. "Isn't there danger of a shell falling short and perhaps striking too near our front?"
"Yes; but we don't expect such a thing to happen," put in the captain, smilingly.
"I'm mighty glad I don't have to give directions for the firing," said Dunstan.
"I think the French can be mighty glad of that, too," came from Don.
He chuckled faintly.
The captain was now giving the range to the telephone operator, who, in his turn, transmitted the order.
"Fire!" commanded the artillery officer.
Just as interestedly as before the ambulanciers waited to see the result of the shot.
The whistle of the projectile had been lost to the ear when a geyser of smoke rose considerably beyond and to the left of the tree.
"That won't do at all," grumbled Captain Langlois.
He and the lieutenant held a consultation, studying the map, and having come to a decision the gunners to the rear were presently informed of the necessary readjustments in the range.
A second shot went astray; so did a third. But each was just a little nearer the mark. The fourth struck to the right, but so close that the smoke floated in front of the solitary tree and partially obscured its form.
"As you see, mes Americaines, it is only a question of time when we get what we wish," commented Lieutenant D'Arraing.
"I reckon the Germans learned that long ago," said Don.
The fifth shot proved the artillery officer's confidence to be based upon good reasons; for when the smoke of the shell-burst began to clear away the powerful field-glasses revealed the fact that a considerable portion of a snake-like line of sand-bags running across the slope had completely disappeared.
"Which means, of course, a very disastrous occurrence—from their point of view!" exclaimed Dunstan, with a long breath.
"I don't like to think about it," declared Don.
The ambulanciers, not wishing to trespass too much upon the kindness and courtesy of the French officers, soon decided that it was time for them to leave. Accordingly, they expressed their warm thanks and appreciation of the opportunity which had been afforded them.
Very politely, both the captain and lieutenant declared that it had given them pleasure to extend the privilege.
"Now, cher amis, what are you going to do?" asked the lieutenant.
"I wonder if we couldn't visit the front-line trenches?" cried Don, with a sudden idea.
"I see no reason why you cannot. Red Cross men as a rule are accorded far more privileges than newspaper correspondents." Taking out a small pad from his pocket, Lieutenant D'Arraing scribbled a few lines, then, handing the sheet of paper to the aviator's son, added: "If you should happen to be stopped en route this will probably smooth the way."
Bidding good-bye to the obliging artillerymen, Don and Dunstan set out, headed toward a distant point where scarcely any firing was taking place. They very soon reached a boyau, or communication trench, which, curving and twisting in all manner of ways, led toward the firing-line, and into this they turned. Soldiers were going and coming, and many times the Americans received a pleasant word of greeting. Along that section of the front, as well as elsewhere, an astonishing number of transverse ditches had been dug, starting from about a mile behind the lines—indeed a veritable maze of passageways, so intricate and bewildering as to make it sometimes difficult to find one's way, cut across the earth, never running for many meters in the same direction. They were constructed in this manner so that the fragments of a shell exploding in the trench could travel only a very short distance, thus giving security to the poilus who occupied the adjoining sections.
Constant work, especially during rainy weather, was necessary in order to keep the ditches in repair. Supporting timbers often had to be added. Then, every now and again, enemy shells partially wrecked or destroyed considerable portions; and for the work of reconstruction or digging new trenches the services of soldiers housed in dugouts along the second or third lines were often called into requisition.
At many places all the labor was done under cover of darkness. Here the trenches were within easy view of the German observers, and had they discovered any signs of activity it would, of course, have meant a deluge of shells.
As the ambulanciers continued, very often hearing the ominous hum of bullets ripping past close overhead, they felt profoundly thankful for the protection the two feet of wall above their heads afforded.
At length, when Don and Dunstan arrived at the second line, or support trenches, an officer stepped from one of the crowded passageways, to command them peremptorily to halt. It is very likely, too, that he would just as peremptorily have ordered the two back but for Lieutenant D'Arraing's note.
"All right, mes Americaines," he said, after glancing over it. "You may proceed. The firing-line is only about one hundred yards from here. I presume you have never been so near the enemy before. Let me hope it is not your intention to pay them a visit."
"We couldn't be persuaded to," replied Don, with a smile.
"About how far apart are the trenches?" asked Dunstan, casually.
"In some places right along here only about twenty meters," was the startling answer.
"Great Cæsar! Only about sixty-five feet!" murmured Don.
The thought of being in such close proximity to the Germans thrilled and awed the aviator's son.
As the boys, after nodding a good-bye to the officer, tramped along the "duck walk," or slatted wooden flooring of the trench, they rather marveled at the seeming indifference of the silent soldiers whom they here and there encountered lounging idly about. None of them seemed to be paying the slightest attention to the projectiles. Turning into one of the front-line trenches, they found the blue-uniformed soldiers of France on the alert. Many of them were standing on a narrow little platform about a foot from the bottom of the excavation known as the "firing step." Some gazed earnestly through trench periscopes; others had their rifles resting across sand-bags or through openings in the breastworks. Still others held hand-grenades, ready to throw on the instant, while laid out within easy reach were rows of these deadly weapons.
The ambulanciers, slowly following the ramifications of the trench, discovered dugouts all along the rear wall, or parados, as it is called. These excavations were, of course, located to one side of the trenches and immediately below.
After traveling for some distance Don and Dunstan came upon another roofed-over observation post in which a young soldier was stationed. Beside him stood a mitrailleuse, its polished muzzle pointing straight ahead.
A curious uncanny silence hovered over the trench; no one was speaking; no one seemed to be paying any attention to the appearance of the Americans in their midst—all were playing the game of waiting with the utmost alertness. For that was the line which was guarding France from the invader; and probably graven in the heart of every soldier were the words made famous at Verdun:
"Ils ne passeront pas"—"They shall not pass."
"Sixty-five feet—sixty-five feet!" murmured Don, over and over again.
It scarcely seemed possible that only such a short distance beyond the parapet of the trench there were other grimly silent men standing side by side and perhaps having as their battle cry the slogan:
"On to Paris!"
"Isn't it wonderful to think, Dunstan, that we are really on the firing line!" said Don. "My, wouldn't I give a lot to look through one of these periscopes!"
Although the words were spoken almost in a whisper a soldier using one of the instruments overheard him.
"You may, mon garçon," he said, in an equally cautious tone.
"Merci, merci!—thank you!—thank you!" said Don.
Eagerly he placed his eye to the periscope.
What a thrill shot through the boy as the secrets of "No Man's Land" were revealed to him! Right in front of the trench stretched a maze of barbed wire entanglements, but every growing thing had been blasted, withered and shot to pieces. The trees that remained standing were gaunt, bare poles, and the ground all about looked as if some terrible convulsion of nature had upheaved and overturned it. Scarcely any of the forms bore a semblance to their original shape. Only a few yards away he could see the rim of a huge shell-crater, into the yawning depths of which a portion of the barbed wire had disappeared. Less than a hundred feet beyond stretched a yellow, muddy line of sand-bags, and right in front of these, extending out for some distance, were stakes driven into the ground and strung with innumerable wires.
"And not a sign of life!" murmured Don. "It just looks as if nothing ever did exist or could exist along this awful stretch of 'No Man's Land.'"
Dunstan now took his turn at the periscope, and presently having satisfied their curiosity the two thanked the obliging soldier and moved on.
During all this time the sharp cracking of rifles was continuous. Sometimes single bullets snapped over the top of the trench—sometimes a regular fusillade; then, at longer intervals, came the rapid-fire, vicious reports of a machine gun in action. Now and again a poilu sent a shot across the barren stretch of ground and a thin wisp of bluish smoke from the muzzle of his rifle floated lazily upward.
"They can't let Fritz do all the work," commented Don.
"Bonjour, Messieurs! On a tour of inspection, I suppose?" broke in a low voice.
An officer standing by the entrance to a dugout was regarding them smilingly.
"Yes," said Don, with an answering smile.
"Want to take a look inside?"
The officer pointed to the entrance.
"Very much indeed," declared Dunstan.
"All right. You're welcome. I'll go first; otherwise you might take a tumble."
He lowered himself into the opening and presently disappeared into the cavernous depths, and by the time Don had his feet on the rungs of the ladder an electric light, flashing up, dispelled the gloom.
The ambulanciers found that this particular dugout was about six feet square and scarcely high enough for a man to stand erect in.
"Perhaps you have been in finer apartments," said the officer, "but I must confess that this place has an irresistible attraction for me at times."
"I don't doubt it," laughed Dunstan. "How many men can sleep here?"
"Three or four, and the accommodations are not so bad except in rainy weather; then it's the most confounded place imaginable."
"It must be," said Don.
"Many a time I've seen the water in the trenches above a man's knees, and we have to work mighty hard pumping it out. We live in mud, eat in mud, sleep in mud, and look as if we were made of mud."
"Must be uncomfortable, sure enough!" commented Don.
"Uncomfortable isn't the word that hits it, mon garçon; it's perfect and unadulterated misery. However, there seems to be nothing which hasn't some good in it."
"Yes?" said Don questioningly.
"The floods put an end to the prowling of the trench rats for a time."
"Do you have many of them?"
"Well, I should say so! Nothing is safe from these thieving rascals. It's a positive wonder they don't try to get away with our steel helmets."
After a few moments' conversation the three clambered up the ladder and emerged into the open air. With the officer accompanying them, Don and Dunstan presently walked around a bend, and came upon a trench that started out at right angles to the firing-line and wound in a most irregular fashion across "No Man's Land."
"Hello!" exclaimed Don, in surprise. "Where does that go?"
"To the listening post," answered the military man.
"The listening post?"
"Yes, mon ami. And the end of it is so close to the enemy's trenches that the sentry who is stationed there—and one always is—can easily overhear the voices of the Boches. The sentry's duty is to listen and observe, and, as you can very well imagine, it is a pretty dangerous assignment."
"I'll wager it is," said Don. "I'd rather keep to the main street."
"Very naturally. A man in such an isolated position stands a good chance of being cut off from all help. Should the sentry discover a German patrol or anything else that looks at all suspicious he'd communicate the facts at once. Then, as a discourager to any German tricks, six hundred cartridges a minute could be sent crashing across 'No Man's Land.'"
"Is there an abri out there for the sentry?" asked Don.
"Well, rather!"
The aviator's son glanced toward the listening post with fascinated attention. The trench appeared so perfectly safe, with the walls rising on either side—and yet what peril lurked in every meter of the way!
"By the looks of things one might judge that the Germans could rush this trench and capture it," he remarked, reflectively.
"Yes; but the very instant they started the wires would flash the news back to the support trenches," said the officer, "and the reserves would come pouring out and stem it in short order. Surprise attacks do not cut much figure in this war."
"Crack—crack—crack!"—three rifle shots in quick succession.
A dull thud followed, as one of the bullets struck a sand-bag.
The soldier smiled.
"No occasion to worry, mes garçons," he continued.
"We're not doing any," grinned Don.
Not very long afterward the ambulanciers resumed their journey.
On and on they went, at a leisurely pace, always seeing the same sights and hearing the same sounds. Occasionally the twitter of birds came to their ears. They alone could dare to show themselves above the surface.
"This isn't like any war that was ever fought before," declared Dunstan, at length, in meditative tones.
And then, as the aviator's son was about to reply, a most frightful—a most deafening detonation burst upon their ears.
Almost instantly a second explosion followed. The earth seemed to reel and shake—the whole air to be filled with an awful vibration. The terrified ambulanciers, gasping—staggering—were almost thrown to the ground.