Yet at the first call there was a clamorous throng of volunteers. Many of these volunteers admitted under pressure that they knew nothing of scout work and that they had not so much as qualified in marksmanship. But they craved a chance at the boche. And grouchily did they resent the swift weeding-out process that left their services uncalled for.
Cash Wyble was the first man accepted for the dangerous detail. And for the first time since the draft had caught him his burnt-leather face expanded into a grin that could not have been wider unless his flaring ears had been set back.
With two days’ rations and a goodly store of cartridges he fared forth that night into No Man’s Land. Dawn was not yet fully gray when the first crack of his rifle was wafted back to the trenches.
Then the artillery firing, which was part of the day’s work, set in. And its racket drowned the noise of any shooting that Cash might be at.
Forty-eight hours passed. At dawn of the third day Cash came back to camp. He was tired and horribly thirsty; but his lantern-jawed visage was one unmarred mask of bliss.
“Twelve,” he reported tersely to his captain. “At least,” he continued in greater detail, “twelve that I’m dead sure of. Nice big ones, too, some of ’em.”
“Nice big ones!” repeated the captain in admiring disgust. “You talk as if you’d been after wild turkeys!”
“A heap better’n wild-turkey shootin’!” grinned Cash. “An’ I got twelve that I’m sure of. There was one, though, I couldn’t get. A he-one, at that. He’s sure some German, that feller! He’s as crafty as they make ’em. I couldn’t ever come up to him or get a line on him. I’ll bet I throwed away thutty ca’tridges on jes’ that one Dutchy. An’ by an’ by he found out what I was arter. Then there was fun, Cap! Him and I did have one fine shootin’ match! But I was as good at hidin’ as he was. And there couldn’t neither one of us seem to git ’tother. Most of the rest of ’em was as easy to git as a settin’ hen. But not him. I’d ’a’ laid out there longer for a crack at him but I couldn’t find no water. If there’d been a spring or a water seep anywheres there I’d ’a’ stayed till doomsday but what I’d ’a’ got him. Soon’s I fill up with some water I’m goin’ back arter him. He’s well wuth it. I’ll bet that cuss don’t weigh an ounce under two hundred pound.”
Cash’s smug joy in his exploit and his keen anticipation of a return trip were dashed by the captain’s reminder that war is not a hunting jaunt; and that Wyble must return to his loathed trench duties until such time as it should seem wise to those above him to send him forth again.
Cash could not make head or tail out of such a command. After months of grinding routine he had at last found a form of recreation that not only dulled his sharply constant homesickness but that made up for all he had gone through. And now he was told he could go forth on such delightful excursions only when he might chance to be sent!