Not one of them ever forgot that motor-truck ride. They forged along over rough and rocky ground, through muddy and oozy ground, even through bits of swamp and, following the great, lumbering tank a hundred yards ahead, they plowed through once prosperous farmyards, along the street of a ruined and deserted village, seeing only a cat scamper into a lone cellar, through orchards, that had once blossomed and fruited, but with every tree now cut down by the dastardly Boches.
Finally, still following the iron monster that was now spitting flame, they crossed the empty trenches of their Allies, putting into use the grooved bridge planking on which their wheels ran as over a track, and then came to the first line trenches of the enemy. Whereupon things began to get interesting.
On either side was orderly pandemonium; a concentrated Hades with motive, its machinery of death carried out with precision, method, exactness of detail, except where some equally methodical work of the enemy overthrew the plans for a time.
Long lines of infantry in open formation were running forward, pitching headlong to lie flat and fire, then up again and breaking into trenches, shooting, stabbing with bayonets, throwing grenades and after being half lost to sight in the depths of the earth for a time, emerging again beyond, perhaps fewer in numbers, but still sweeping on.
Here and there were machine-gun squads struggling along to place their deadly weapons and then raking the retreating or the standing enemy with thousands of deadly missiles, sometimes themselves becoming the victims of a like annihilating effort or the bursting of a well-directed enemy shell.
Herbert rode with the driver; and before them and all around them the heavy sheet-iron sides and top of the armored truck protected them from small gun fire.
It was a risky thing to peep out of the gun holes in the armor to witness the battle, but this most of the boys did, the driver by the necessity of picking his way, and Herbert's eyes were at the four-inch aperture constantly.
Just behind him Private Joe Neely knelt at a side porthole, and next to him came young Pyle and Bill Neely, brother of the before-mentioned Joe. Cartright, Appenzeller, and Wood occupied the other side, back of the driver. Finley and Siebold lay on the straw in the center and hugged the water keg and the boxes of explosives and food to keep them from dancing around at too lively a rate on their comrades' feet.
The going was as rough as anything that a motor truck had probably ever tackled, especially a weighty vehicle of this kind. It was well that the car had an engine of great power, an unbreakable transmission and a driver that knew his business.