General Omar Bundy was tall and spare and was chiefly distinguishable by a rather prominent mustache. He was a capable officer and a man prone to prompt decision, as he was to prove.
Hard upon the orders to move forward, the marines vaulted into camions, or French motor trucks. These vehicles found great favor in their eyes. The springs are so staunch and stiff, the hard seats are so dependable, and their capacity is so blindly ignored when they are loaded that the soldiers had many a laugh.
Although they had had no supper, there was quite a lot of singing as the troops embarked.
All night long the trucks bumped over the traffic-torn roads. When dawn peeped above the purple horizon they pulled into a little French village and the men jumped from the tracks. They were hungry and thirsty.
Up to this time the men had not thought much about their destination, but as the roar of the guns at the front became louder and louder they began to realize that there was serious work ahead. In spite of their growing thirst and the emptiness in their stomachs, however, there was not a murmur of protest in the ranks.
A division cannot be moved over one road and expect to reach its destination in proper formation—and there were two divisions moving here. All the roads leading to the destination must be utilized, and even then some parts of the division will be dumped many kilometers from their destination.
So the troops hiked and hiked till the roads beneath them rose in dusty protest at the ceaseless tramp, tramp.
In the afternoon the regiment to which Hal and Chester were attached struck through a deep wood. The trees were magnificent. All the underbrush had been cleared out. It was replaced by shells. Acres on acres were piled high with shells of every calibre. Most of them were made in America, and the troops cheered as they recognized the trade marks.
Around the edges of this stupendous mountain of death there was a feverish activity, a subdued excitement that boded ill. American and French ammunition trains came tearing, galloping, whirling in dust-clouds ahead of smoking exhausts—into that trembling woods. With seeming recklessness shells were tossed into the wagons and camions, which departed with fresh haste.
A flood of giant trucks streamed into the woods, dumped their loads of ammunition and whirled away for more. The marines tightened their belts and decided to stick around. There was something doing!