CHAPTER III
The Silent Call to Battle
AT nine o’clock that night the order came. Or rather, it better be said, that it was nine o’clock, the appointed hour, when the top sergeants silently formed their men, reported to lieutenants, who in turn relayed the statements to captains, who passed them to majors, and thus to the colonels and the brigadier generals.
Not a word as to their destination; as few spoken orders as possible; very few lights.
The very air seemed to tingle with the mystery of it as Tom and George and Ollie fell into their places in the first platoon of Company C.
Company after company strode away until entire regiments were on the move. It was ten-thirty when Company C entered the march.
So far as the boys could determine, their direction was northeast, which was calculated to bring them in direct contact with the entrenched Germans holding the southern leg of the St. Mihiel salient.
They had gone perhaps two miles, their own platoon somewhat separated now from the rest of the company as each unit took its own particular divergent route, when the lieutenant, Gaston by name, halted them for a moment while he consulted his wrist watch, and then, more guardedly, a map and the landscape thereabouts.
Those men would have gone anywhere for Gaston. He was one of those born leaders of men, but what was more, he was always willing to go where he would ask another man to take a risk. The men knew that, and as a result there was no finer morale in any platoon in the whole American army, which was saying a great deal.
“We’re a trifle behind schedule,” he announced in a quiet voice. “We’ll hustle up a bit as we go down this incline.”
And setting the pace himself, they dogtrotted for the next half mile. Then a second stop was made, and as the men under him watched his countenance by the brief glare of his pocket searchlight they knew that they had made up their lost time, and were now at the point where the program scheduled them to be at that particular moment.