Men walked silent, remembering the old dead.
—and now it is, an’ it’s a pity he ain’t here to see it—” “Well, but he’s restin’ easy where he is—me, I’m cold as hell an’ this dam’ drizzle is drainin’ down my neck——”
There was nothing but the mist and the rain, and a mean, cold little wind with a bite in it. North and south, from the edge of Holland to the Metz gateway, all the armies were marching. Ahead, just out of contact, went the German armies. The battalion passed a dense little wood of firs—Christmas-tree woods, the battalion called them. This clump showed unmistakably that it had been a camp; but there was no litter; the Boche who bivouacked there had left it neat and clean. Along the road in orderly piles were some hundreds of the round German helmets, and parked precisely in a cleared place, where horse-lines had been, was a battery of 105 field howitzers. The old Boche was jettisoning what he didn’t need. The battalion observed and was thoughtful.
“What about the ole Boche?—You think he was licked enough?” “No, I don’t. That stuff back there, they laid it down under orders, like they do everything. It’s stacked—it ain’t just thrown away. An’ look how they police up behind themselves—” “Yeh! Remember the other day, when we was advance-guard, we could see their rear-guard, sometimes—perfect order, an’ all that—not like a defeated outfit, at all!” “Sure! I hope to spit in yo’ mess-kit it ain’t! An’ those little towns back yonder, with the arches an’ the flags and the welcome returnin’ heroes stuff—none o’ that was for us—” “They ain’t licked enough. Look at this country—winter ploughin’ done—everything ship-shape—no shell-holes—no trenches—no barb’ wire—who in hell won this war, anyway?” “You said it. We oughter got up in here an’ showed the old Boche what it was like, to have a war in his own yard.” “Well, I’ve been in all of it, an’ pers’nally I was glad when the shootin’ stopped. I got me some sleep an’ a full belly, an’ a pair of new shoes—an’ some fireman’s underwear, too. An’ I was right proud not to be killed. I ain’t prepared to die—” “We know you ain’t, sergeant—we know—” “Aw, belay that—I mean, I was glad, myself, but we oughter gone on—oughter’ve finished it while we was at it. He wasn’t licked enough, an’ now he’s goin’ home like a peacock wit’ seven tails——!”
This was the consensus of opinion, delivered with consideration in the rain. The replacements, especially those who had joined up after the Armistice, in Belgium, were savagely regretful. The chaps who had come in after the Champagne, and been among those present at one fight, were bloodthirsty, but to a lesser degree. Only the veterans were entirely calm.
The rain fell, the road grew heavier. The battalion, soaked and miserable, plodded on. They passed through many villages, all alike; all ugly and without character. The houses were closed and shuttered. You saw few people, but you always had the feeling of eyes behind the shutters. One thick-bodied Boche, in uniform—an artilleryman, by his leather breeches—stood in the doorway of a house, smoking a porcelain pipe that hung to his knee. His face was set in a cast of hate. He stood and stared, and the battalion, passing, looked him over with respect.
One thick-bodied Boche.... His face in a cast of hate.
“Understand a bird like that.” “Yeh—he’s honest. Those dam’ Heinies in the billet last night, they made me sick. That fellow that talked English. Says he was glad his American frien’s, present by agreement in the Rheinlan’, to welcome—says that to me, an’ would the Herr Soldier like a good cup of coffee?” “Dam’ his remarks—how ’bout the coffee?” “Well, it tasted funny, but it was hot.” “Old guy at our billet gave us some cognac. Hot stuff! He didn’t let on, though.—You know those trick certif’cates a soldier’s family gets in Germany?—Colored picture like a Croi’ Guerre certif’cate, shows a fat, beer-drinkin’-Heinie angel standin’ over a dead Boche—signed Wilhelm I. R.—you know. Well, this bird had six of them in his front room, all framed on the wall. I gathered they was his sons. Four bumped off at Verdun in 1916. One very recent—Soissons, July.—Wonder if we met that fella? He stood there an’ looked at me while I was readin’ them, an’ he looked like a wolf. I don’t blame him—. But howcome he gave us the cognac—?” Later the battalion learned that the Boche had orders to be hospitable....
Toward noon the clouds lifted, and the rain slowed to a thin drizzle, although it did not stop. The battalion filed between hills toward a great valley, dimly seen. The hills towered over them, dark, menacing—“No wonder the ole Boche has such a mean disposition, livin’ in a country like this—” The battalion came into a town with paved streets and trolley-cars and tall factory chimneys that did not smoke. Platoon commanders said it was Remagen; those towers to the right would be the bridge. There was a bridge, a great steel structure of high black arches. The battalion filed upon it. Under it black water flowed swiftly, with surges and eddies dimpled by the rain. High rocky hills came down out of the mist on the farther side.