The Brighton Boys in the Argonne Forest

by James R. Driscoll

Don, it must be remembered, was not a soldier; he had not been enlisted as a fighting man. His first experience on the front was as a saver of life, instead of one who was expected to kill, though in the latter capacity he had visited upon one spy and the murderer of his dear friend Billy Mearns a just revenge. Now with the Intelligence Division it had not been expected of him to enter battle, nor to use firearms, except in extreme cases. But for the last two days he had been allied with several extreme cases involving a most warlike undertaking and to play the soldier had been as much his part as that of any member of the squad with Herbert Whitcomb. The taking part in war, of shooting, under excitement, at the enemy line, or picking out figures in that line as special marks to hit seemed truly enough the office of a fighting man, but the act of deliberately shooting down an individual, especially when the victim was unaware of his peril, must appear to him who reasons more of an assassination than warfare. Justifiable homicide, it might indeed be, for there may be such a thing, even outside of the bounds of war, but in the deliberate act itself there cannot be utter disregard of its cold-blooded character.

To what extent these considerations entered Don Richards’ head are now uncertain; he has never given expression to the incident in full, but it may easily be inferred, judging from the boy’s humanity and right-mindedness, that for a little disinclination held him, perhaps only for the turn of a few seconds; then bold circumstance demanded action.

The three men came on up the hill, walking now more and more slowly and finally advancing with some caution. They were easily a hundred and fifty yards away when they halted, facing the spruces. And then the khaki-clad figure deliberately raised its arm and pointed out, with evident care, the precise position of the fortified squad of Americans.

It is possible that even then the spy would have got away with his ruse, so earnest had been Lieutenant Whitcomb’s orders to his men. Perhaps Don did not feel exactly bound by these orders; Herbert had frankly admitted that he was independent of the command, though bound by courtesy and necessity to generally act with the squad. Perhaps, under the stress of the moment, Don forgot orders, purposes, strategy. The spy, clad in the uniform of those against whom he was striving, condemned to death by his occupation, the most contemptible and often the most dangerous of enemies, stood there, openly giving information to his friends of that which he had in some way become possessed. It was a sight to make the justice-loving blood of any patriotic lad boil.

It is an axiom with the marksman, in warfare as well as in hunting dangerous game, to keep cool and bend all effort on the correct aiming of his weapon. Once before, in the flight of a spy, Don had lost sight of this important rule and his man had escaped. Another, at shorter range, though in the fury of a duel battle, had paid the penalty. And now bitter anger clouded the sighting of the rifle. Indeed, the boy hardly contemplated that he raised his gun, that he glanced along the barrel, or that he pulled the trigger at the supposed moment of seeing his front sights low. He knew, however, that at the crack of the weapon the white-ribboned cap of the spy flew into the air and that at the next instant the fellow was behind a tree, dodging thence to another, his companions with him.

The shot was a signal. Herbert had been disturbed by the act of the spy, as had others of the squad; then when Don fired, the jig was up and the Yanks, in their little natural fortress, became this time the aggressors.

“Get ’em, men! Get all three of them!” the lieutenant shouted and three guns spoke with flaming malice. Don fired again. Unable to see enough of the spy and conscious of his first error, he took quick, low, accurate aim at a fleeing officer and knew intuitively, as any expert marksman may call his shot on a target, that the bullet had hit the fellow between the shoulders. With something of a shudder at seeing the German go down the boy tried again to draw sight, but unsuccessfully; the fellow was quick, elusive and fortunate with his protecting trees. Herbert, master of the rifle, fired but once. The other Hun officer fell. Five or six shots went after the spy, but without avail, making him all the more wary. And at that the big mountaineer grew furious.

Jennings towered above his fellows, climbing upon the rocks and leaning far out from the spruce shadows. His marksmanship was superb; the spy was so far among the trees that the others, even Herbert and Gill stopped firing. But Jennings’ bullets cut a twig right over the khaki-clad fugitive’s head; then splintered the bark beside him as he dodged around a tree; then tore the cloth from his hip and seared the flesh. Again one shot ripped open his sleeve. But the fellow ran on until hidden behind several large trees growing close together.

Naturally the American squad had not been the only observers of this brief and exciting episode; a Hun squad of machine gunners, locating on the hillside a little to the north of the spruces and almost level with them, saw clearly whence the firing came, spied the mountaineer’s figure and immediately got busy.