CHAPTER VII
The Battle in the Wood
WEARIED as they were with the long hours of fighting, preceded by a night of the most nerve-racking vigil and anticipation, those lads went across that intervening space and into the very jaws of death as though it was their customary exercise before breakfast each morning—went singing, shouting and cheering, oblivious to danger, seeing only a duty to perform in the quickest possible way.
For a full minute after the Americans began their fearless dash, Heinie and Fritz were so utterly dumbfounded by the utter audaciousness of the assault that, except for the steady descent of the heavy shells which were falling harmlessly many yards away, firing practically ceased. Consternation seemed to seize the German snipers and crews which manned the hidden machine guns. The assault was so boldly carried out, the attack was so swift and vicious, that before they could recover themselves the Americans were upon them, and mortal man-to-man combat was on.
Those who could get away in safety began to run, but the two groups which had been divided to escape the artillery fire had carried on a simultaneously converging movement, and most of those who occupied the miniature forest were caught in a trap and compelled to fight.
Tom had gotten only a dozen yards into the wood when he stumbled and fell. As he fell he rolled down a short incline and into the very heart of a machine gun nest. Apparently the five Huns there were more startled than he was, but he did not wait to inquire. With a quick backward somersault he hurtled himself out of the place, and as he came to his feet he threw a grenade. It struck upon the machine gun itself, and exploded with a force that made his teeth shake, but it did the work and saved his life, at the same time eliminating five more menaces to the peace of the world and human happiness.
Off to the left a machine gun of the enemy was playing a vicious tattoo. Tom saw it mow down four of his comrades, and realized that situated as it was it was there to do a great deal more damage if it was not captured and its crew taken prisoners or killed. He felt as though he, too, had been hit, and then, from tree to tree, began worming his way along the ground.
He had just reloaded his rifle, in which the bayonet was fixed, but he had thrown his last grenade. He stopped for a moment by a comrade who would never again need his. Tenderly he clutched the explosive to him and continued on his way.
He was almost to the spot, and realized, too, that he had gotten away from all the rest, who were bearing off in a diagonal direction, when he saw something darting along the ground just ahead of him. At first, in the semi-darkness of the wood, he thought it was nothing but a shadow, perhaps only a delusion of his eye or brain, but as he paused it moved again, scarcely discernible as its own color mingled with that of the ground.
But Tom knew that it was a German—and seemingly an officer—who was trying to get away while the getting was good. He determined that the German had not yet seen him, and cautiously took up the trail, especially as it was in the general direction toward the machine gun nest. He might have shot the man then, but the shot would have revealed his own whereabouts and probably save the machine gun crew, as well as cost him his own life.
Watching every move that his quarry made, Tom stalked him as noiselessly as an American woodsman would follow a wary animal’s trail. He noticed as the Boche went along on the ground, he seemed to draw himself forward with only the right arm, the other hanging limp at his side. A little further on Tom found the faint pathway spotted with blood. He crept closer. As he did so he inadvertently stuck one of his own hands into a smouldering pile of leaves which had been set afire by a bomb or shell, and the exclamation that escaped him made it impossible longer to keep his presence there unknown.