“The enemy is retreating, leaving only a small rear guard. Advance and take the town. Remain there for further orders.”
That meant that they were within sight of rest and recuperation, and every man needed it badly. They were a tired and frazzled but determined lot. They were ravenously hungry, too, for they had not eaten for many, many hours.
Detachments of engineers were coming up directly behind them. The enemy artillery was grumbling now from an increasing distance, coming only in a scattered fire, the gunners evidently taking pot luck, without any well-defined idea of where the Americans might be.
“Advance!” The order rang out all down the line, and the men went forward on the last lap of the bitter battle for their first objective.
The Khaki-Clad Warriors Surged Into the Town for Hand-to-Hand Combat.
For half an hour there was some hard fighting, and then the Germans, what remained of them, threw up their hands as the khaki-clad warriors surged into the town for hand-to-hand combat.
It was a clean-cut victory, even though at heavy cost. Far to the north could be heard the grumbling rumble of the German guns, but even as the men listened they knew that the course was swinging eastward, ever eastward, to avoid the pitiless pincers that the strategy of Foch and Pershing were beginning to close relentlessly upon them, eastward toward the Rhine!
“Dig in!” And the most welcome news of the day, the promise of a night of needed rest, was responded to with alacrity. No chances were being taken with German trickery.
It was late afternoon and dusk was laying its cloak over the land when a brigadier arrived, briefly consulted with Captain McCallum, and then departed. In a moment he returned, however, and again spoke to the company commander. The latter turned abruptly and called the name of Tom Walton.