The Brighton Boys in the Argonne Forest

by James R. Driscoll

“By glory, they be! Let’em went, Lieutenant; we don’t want to stop’em from goin’ right on home. Ain’t that where they’re headin’?”

“Yes, but with a good long way to go yet. Get down, man, unless you want to stop a mauser!”

The little valley below rapidly became filled with gray-green figures, most of them hurrying along. There was very little artillery; only now and then some light field pieces on wheels, that were pulled along by men. The weapons used in this forest defense were mostly machine guns and rifles. Officers were all along urging the retreating Huns to greater speed and the watchers on the hillside witnessed many cases of wanton brutality shown toward the wearied privates who, underfed and overworked, were often lacking in patriotic effort. There was instant obedience on the part of these thoroughly drilled and long-practiced troops, but they had begun to feel when they were overmatched in dash and energy; to know when they were being beaten at their own game. Had it not been for the officers, who were personally more responsible to the high command, the defense of the Argonne would have cost the Americans far fewer casualties.

Either there had been orders to ignore the little bunch of Americans on the hillside, or else in the endeavor to get back unscathed from the furious attack being made upon them, the existence of the squad in their midst had been forgotten. The Huns were making every attempt to hold the ground and, where that was impossible, to save themselves and their army impediments from capture. Back, back, ever back they were being forced, contesting every inch along the fighting line; when beaten and not forced to surrender rushing back in order to form new lines and points of defense. Every moment, up among the spruces, the lads, grown bolder as the first few hours of the morning went by and they were not attacked, gazed over the rocks and saw the narrow wooded valley filled and emptied and filled again with retreating men, ever passing on to the north, marching in loose formation, straggling, often with wounded among them, with heads and arms bandaged, but still in the ranks, and others borne on stretchers carried either by their comrades-in-arms or by men of a hospital corps. But there was never any stopping, never a turning back of those retreating until near the end, when the numbers very perceptibly began to thin.

Then quite suddenly there was a change. Down from the north, from the direction the retreat was taking, came a full platoon of men, exhibiting far more haste than had been shown by those withdrawing. Most of this platoon were on the run, lashed to greater effort by the sharp commands of their officers. They were a fresh contingent rushed into line in place of those units exhausted and depleted and reaching the head of the vale that sloped away to the north, as the Yank squad had done, they stopped at another command. With a precision of drill that resembled an exhibition contest, they almost leaped apart to given distances and stood with rifles and machine guns ready for action. Then, at still another command the under officers of each squad began to lead them to selected spots most suitable for defense, thus beginning to spread the force out widely. It was evident that the intention was to hold this part of the forest, as many other spots were being defended, against a further advance of the American divisions whose task it was to drive the Huns from the Argonne.

Again the word had been given to the khaki-clad squad to lie low. Herbert, at his hole in the rocks, saw exactly what was about to happen. The spreading out of the German platoon would surely tend to the occupancy of the ground held by the Yanks among the spruces and a clash was therefore certain, though with no greater numbers than the American squad had faced, before, unless others came on the scene.

It was Herbert’s intention to lie low, as before, until again discovered. Not one of these Germans now in the valley could have known of the existence of the Americans in their midst; in the shifting about those who had previously attacked the position on the hillside must have been moved elsewhere prior to the retreat, or else had all been captured in the new drive.

But Herbert’s well-laid plan to surprise the enemy went wrong, as plans often do, though this was due to no lack of foresight on his part. There was always the chance of information of the position of the Yanks being given. And now this very thing happened.

Don had an eye at one of the peep-holes. He was observing with swift comprehension all that was transpiring down the hill. Suddenly the lad saw that which no one else in the squad could have as fully understood. Hastening forward through the woods and up the hill came a man dressed in the uniform of an American officer and accompanied by two German lieutenants, the commanders of this platoon. At first it seemed as though this khaki-clad individual was but a prisoner, tamely submitting. Then, as he drew nearer, it could be observed that there was a white ribbon tied on either arm and one on his service cap, one mark of the spy by which his friends the Huns would know him. But Don saw more than this; he saw that this apparent American was short, heavy-set, swarthy; then he knew the fellow.