“Whar-whar’s de fight? Ah doan’ heah no shootin’!”
“See those Hun clouds?” enthused Don. “Well, that west wind comes straight from good old America and it’s making the boches hustle.”
“Lawsee! Ah reckon you-all’s done got ’em! Wha-whar’s dat bacon en’ dem aigs. Yo’ jes’ watch me git up one breakfas’ dat’ll fetch roun’ yo’ senses! Golly! Heah dat?”
They both heard. A rumbling noise coming rapidly nearer along the road. Wash thought it might be the Germans, but Don assured him that was impossible. The Americans were on the job now. There was further evidence of this at hand, for out of the dispelling mists came a yellow touring car closely followed by a gigantic khaki-colored lorry, or camion. Right back of that another and another, and more, and still more until the road was filled, farther than the eye could see, with the steadily moving line. Each big vehicle was filled with soldiers.
Don had seen a crest on the leading touring car. He knew this bunch of men, for it had been whispered from mouth to mouth at the Red Cross base hospital that the marines were on their way from westward training camps.
“Our engineers up there with General Carney showed the Huns what kind of stuff the Americans are made of,” one official had said. “Trust the marines for driving that down the Germans throats—when they get at it!”
That was it: when they got at it. But when were they to get at it? Was French official red tape in the way, or was it that the British and French generals feared to trust the untried Americans too far? Must a desperate need arise to make an actual test of the Americans?
The boys stood by their car, waving their hats at the men in passing, and many a wave of arms they got back. Many a good-natured jibe was exchanged between the lorries and the ambulance.
“Hurrah! Go to it, you blood drinkers!” shouted Don.
“That’s the stuff, buddy! It’s sauerkraut in Berlin for us before we’re done!”