The Brighton Boys in the Trenches

by James R. Driscoll

There had seemed to be little else in that part of the world but mud, mud, mud! Yet the boys had been compelled to get out of the cars but little, even to ease the weight when stalled, for the motors were powerful and the trucks generally put up to give the best of service.

Herbert and some of his squad had ridden with Lieutenant Loring and the guide in the first lorry and they had forged somewhat in advance of the other cars, being stuck in the mud but seldom, and had plowed through puddles, holes and miry hollows with a certainty that was admirable. Considering the number in the car and Roy's presence and the fact that the men had all slept well before starting, there had been little said; often they had covered miles without a word being uttered.

Once two long, boxed-in autos, going very slowly, had been met. The officer guide had ordered a stop to exchange a few words with the chauffeur of the cars, but dimly seen by the occupants of the lorry. When the guide had commanded the advance again he had said something, in a low voice in French, to the lieutenant. Loring had leaned over toward Barry and Whitcomb and whispered the one word: "Wounded."

On and on and on they had traveled. Down into a valley, creeping across a narrow, low bridge of stone; then slowly up and up for a time; on the level once more, evidently following the side of a ridge, as the horizon on one side between a blank space of black earth and the gray sky seemed higher than the car. And then, from over to the left, startlingly sudden to every one of those hardy young Americans, had come the sound of firing, the crack and crackle of firearms, followed presently by the tearing, resonant fusillading of a machine-gun that, at a distance, reminds one of the rapid rolling of a barrel down hill over stony ground.

Again the guide had made a remark which Loring once more translated. "He says that's what he likes to hear. Do you? Well, I fancy we shall hear quite enough of it."

And then, half a mile farther on, during which time all had distinctly discerned the not very distant boom of cannon and once again the nearer firing of many guns, the French officer halted the car, waited until the others had come up and then informed Loring that from this on, for nearly a mile, they must proceed silently on foot.

The command had been issued; a rough formation had been made there in the rain and the muddy road; the men had been given extra loads of provisions to carry besides their army kits, and they had gone forward, not a sound being uttered. After a time rear sentries had received them, others had been passed, one facetious Irishman saying aloud to the lieutenant:

"This is worse than the East Side in a raid in the gamblin' houses, bedad! An' the weather ain't so bad in the dear ould U. S., even in March, but nivver ye moind! Jest go git thim Huns, me lad. Jest go git 'em! I wisht they'd be comin' my way now an' thin."

Poor fellow! They learned afterward that he had been transferred to the trenches later and that the "Huns" had come his way. No doubt many of the enemy had been sorry for it and others had not gone back, but neither had he. The first little American burying ground at the bottom of the ridge was as far as he and some of his fellows got. The platoon to which they had belonged still held the trench, though against odds.

At night, the darker the better, is the time when there is an exchange of troops in the trenches, when fresh contingents take the places of those too long tried by the terrible strain of standing guard against the enemy's surprises, drives, raids, gas attacks, barrages, bombing and shell fire.