The Brighton Boys at St. Mihiel

by James R. Driscoll

Suddenly, as though from out the sky, there was a veritable avalanche of fire and shell. Projectiles exploded everywhere, annihilating men in the terrible force of their concussion, laying others low with the deadly rain of bullets and jagged chunks of shrapnel.

Tom with a sinking heart saw Ollie go down like a log, but a couple of moments later he was on his knees, adjusting his helmet and putting more ammunition into his rifle. Hours afterward Tom learned that Ollie’s helmet had saved him, a piece of iron having been driven against it with such force as to knock him down and for the moment stun him.

But even as Ollie at the time was getting to his feet, Tom felt something hit him in the chest with a tremendous blow, and he went staggering backward, feeling for the wound. His blouse was torn, almost over the heart, and as he regained his breath he felt cautiously inside, certain he would withdraw his hand covered with blood. Instead he felt something hard and flat, with a sharp dent nearly in the middle. He drew it forth. It was a piece of metal plate nearly circular in shape and fully three inches in diameter. It was the piece of German shrapnel he had dropped into his blouse pocket hours before while in the trench, and undoubtedly it had saved his life.

But it was only an inwardly muttered word of gratitude that Tom had time for then, though he had seen his chum and himself almost miraculously escape death within the same minute. There was no living in the terrific downpour of shells with which the Germans desperately were trying to halt the American advance. To go backward was almost like admitting defeat, and no man had even a thought of that. There was but one course open, and that immediately was ordered by Major Sweeney, in charge of that particular part of the line.

Of the five hundred men who had been hurled at that particular position, at least ten per cent had been killed off or wounded in that fiery concentration of Hun artillery. There was no time to move the wounded then; it was a case of get the uninjured out as soon and as safely as possible. In the stress of bitter battle conservation of fighting strength, man-power, often becomes the biggest consideration.

Therefore the units were divided into two groups, one to strike eastward and the other westward, to flank the wood in a northward movement and at the same time to advance more rapidly than German air scouts could trace and report their position to the artillery that was blasting away at them.

Tom and George Harper were in a squad chosen immediately to go forward as scouts on the enemy’s eastern wing to endeavor to ascertain the exact strength there, and, if possible, to learn the location of the machine gun nests from which the Boche were adding to the havoc wrought by their artillery further back. Their work was most hazardous. Only the most cautious advance could obscure their movements from dozens of snipers hidden in the thick foliage of the trees. Most of the tanks either had been crippled by the shell fire or had been ordered to a safer distance back, and only the best strategy could bring the infantry into a position where it could storm and take the woods.

Under the leadership of a sergeant the scouts crept forward. They attempted to make a detour, but there was no cover of darkness to obscure them; there was but a scattering growth of scraggly weeds and upturned rocks, and when but a short distance on their mission a fusilade of bullets that tore up the ground directly before them gave them ample notice that they were not unnoticed—in fact were about to be the especial targets of German marksmanship.

Tom tumbled into the shell hole nearest him, and he saw Harper do the same only a few feet away. But as Tom rolled himself into his place of safety he landed upon something cushiony and soft. His landing also was accompanied by an angry grunt. It came from directly beneath him. In a flash Tom had turned and at the same time maneuvered himself to his hands and knees. He was directly astraddle a fat German.

The American lad took in the situation in a glance. The Boche was bleeding from a wound in the left hand, but otherwise, so far as Tom could see, he was uninjured. But if he had deliberately flopped into that hole to avoid further fighting and surrender himself in safety to the advancing American troops, at least he had not forgotten the characteristic treachery of his training, for apparently he felt it would be a good piece of work first to deprive the United States of one more fighting man.