Ration parties ... always sweated mightily and anticipated exciting incidents....

The platoon left the wood and angled down to the Torcy road. A string of shells howled overhead, 88s by the sound of them, and broke on the road. The lieutenant halted and watched: “Dam’ unusual, shellin’ here this time of night—must know it’s a relief—” It was the conviction of all that the Boche knew everything, down to the movements of the lowest corporal.—“I think we’ll cut a corner, and take a chance of gettin’ through the line over yonder—” He led away from the road, through the trampled wheat to his right, away from the shelling. This was really No Man’s Land, for the line curved back from the wood, and thrust out again along the line of another crest, also wooded. Such intervals were watched by day and patrolled by night, and ration parties, carrying details, and other wretches who had to traverse them always sweated mightily and anticipated exciting incidents. It was full of smells and mysterious horrors in the starlight, that wheat. Once the platoon came upon a pig, feeding unspeakably.... The woods ahead grew plain; the men walked gingerly, straining their eyes at the shadows.... “Eighth machine-gun in there—take it easy, you—risky business, this—wish to God I’d—” The platoon stopped, frozen, as they heard the charging handle of a Hotchkiss snick back. A small, sharp voice barked: “Halt—who’ there?”—“Platoon of the 49th—can we get through here?” “My God, I dam’ near gave you a clip! What the hell, comin’ up here—don’t you know you ain’t supposed to come bustin’ around a machine-gun position you—” “All right—all right!—shellin’ the road down there”—and the platoon scuttled past the Hotchkiss gun, while its crew reviled them. Machine-gunners are a touchy lot, prone to shoot first and inquire afterward; the platoon gave thanks for a man who didn’t scare.

They turned left now, and went swiftly through the woods northwest of Lucy. They passed a place where the midnight harassing fire had caught a ration party; a shell had hit a pushcart loaded with loaves of the round French war bread which was the main item of the ration on this front; bread was scattered over an acre or so, and a frenzied sergeant was routing his ration party out of several holes and trying to collect it again. Otherwise, an outfit up in the Bois de Belleau wouldn’t eat for another twenty-four hours. The platoon was amused. They took the road to La Voie du Chatelle, stepping out. They’d be well behind the usual shelling, if the Boche was on schedule. Far enough back to talk now, and relax their hunched shoulders.

Down the road they heard a trampling, and the wind brought a smell of unwashed men. “Hi! Relief of Frogs comin’ in—!” “Yeh—Frogs. They smell like camels. We smell like goats.” “Hope this relief carries a bath wit’ it! Me, I’ve got blue mould all up my back.” “Well, next time we come in, we’ll put showers in that goddam place. Been there long enough to, already—” “How long we been there?—Le’s see—this is the 5th of July, ain’t it?—” “Je’s, I don’t keep count of no days! I can’t remember when we was anywhere else—” This was in a tone so mournful that the file’s neighbors laughed. “What you doin’ in this war, anyway? Dam’ replacement, jus’ joined up after Hill 142—” “Man,” said the file very earnestly, “I’ll tell you. So help me Gawd, I wuz dodgin’ the draft!”

The French column came up and passed. Its horizon-blue uniform was invisible in the dark, but the stars glinted a little on its helmets and bayonets. “V’la! Yanquis! B’soir, Americains!” “Dam’ right, Frenchie! Bon chance, huh?” They went on without lagging, well closed up. A man’s feet dragged going in; there are no such things on a battle-field as fresh troops, for you always approach by forced marches, infinitely weary—“but comin’ out—boy, we make knots!—” They reached La Voie du Chatelle, where Regimental was, and there the old Boche always shelled. It was a little farm, pretty well knocked to pieces now, but Regimental was reported to prefer it to a change; they had the Boche’s system down so that they could count on him. His shelling always fell into method when he had long enough, and the superior man could, by watching him a few days, avoid unpleasantness. La Voie du Chatelle, as the world knew, received his attention from 11.45 to 12.10 every night. Then he laid off until 3, when his day-shift came on. You could set your watch by it. The platoon went cheerfully past.

A full kilometre farther they hiked, at a furious pace. Then the lieutenant considered that they might catch a rest; they had come a long way and were in a safe spot. Ten minutes’ rest out of every hour was the rule when possible. He passed the word: “Fall out to the right of the road,” and sat down himself, a little way off, feeling for his chewing-tobacco. You didn’t smoke on the front at night—lights were not safe. And chewin’ was next best. Then he observed that the platoon was not falling out. They stood in groups on the road, and an angry mutter reached him. “What th’ell?—Goin’ out, an’ then he wants to rest!” “Yeh, ‘fall out on the right of the road,’ he says, the goddam fool—” The lieutenant knew his men, as you know men you live in hell with. He got up, chuckling.—“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it—come on, you birds!” and he set them a killing step, at which no man complained.

The dawn was coming when they rendezvoused with the battalion in Bois Gros-Jean—beans for breakfast, and hot coffee, and tins of jam! That afternoon they had off their clothes for the first time in three weeks or so, and swam in the Marne at a place called Croutte. And at formation they heard this order published:

VI Armée

État-Major

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