“Don’t be too sure of that,” cautioned Tom. “It’s still a long, long way to the Rhine.”
“Stop your chinning, you fellows,” warned Billy. “Here comes another rush. Stand fast.”
Down over the slightly sloping ground came a great wave that threatened to engulf the little band of army boys who were holding the position.
A hail of bullets and of hand grenades met the assailants and tore great gaps in their lines. Men by the score threw up their hands and fell, but their comrades pressed on over them in a fierce determination to wipe out once for all the American detachment that had been holding them so obstinately at that point of the long battle line on the edge of the forest.
“They’re gluttons for punishment,” panted Tom, as he pumped bullets into the oncoming ranks until his gun grew hot in his hands.
“It’ll be hand to hand this time,” gritted Frank between his teeth. “Bullets won’t stop them. We’ll have to give them the bayonet.”
“That’s what,” growled Bart, as his fingers tightened on his gun stock and his muscles tightened.
“I’m glad of it,” muttered Billy. “I’m tired of lying here and holding them back. I’m aching to get into the middle of that bunch and give them a taste of cold steel.”
“They’re twice as many as we are,” observed Frank, “but that’s just about right. One American ought to be able to handle two Huns and give them all that’s coming to them.”
On came the enemy until they were so close that the boys could see from the marks they bore that they belonged to the Prussian guards, the choice troops of the German army.