Red wrath boiled hot in the soul of Cash Wyble. Experience had taught him the costly folly of venting such rage on a commissioned officer. So he hunted up Top Sergeant Mahan of his own company and laid his griefs before that patient veteran.
Top Sergeant Mahan—formerly of the Regular Army—listened with true sympathy to the complaint; and listened with open enthusiasm to the tale of the two days of forest skulking. But he could offer no help in the matter of returning to the battue.
“The cap’n was right,” declared Mahan. “They wanted to throw a little lesson into those boche snipers and make them ease up on their heckling. And you gave them a man’s-size dose of their own physic. There’s not one sniper out there to-day, to ten who were on deck three days ago. You’ve done your job. And you’ve done it good and plenty. But it’s done—for a while anyhow. You weren’t brought over here to spend your time in prowling around No Man’s Land on a still hunt for stray Germans. That isn’t Uncle Sam’s way. Don’t go grouching over it, man! You’ll be remembered, all right. And if they get pesky again you’ll be the first one sent out to abate them. You can count on it. Till then, go ahead with your regular work and forget the sniper job.”
“But, Sarge!” pleaded Cash, “you don’t git the idee. You don’t git it at all. Those Germans will be shyer’n scat, now that I’ve flushed ’em. An’ the longer the news has a chance to git round among ’em, the shyer they’re due to git. Why, even if I was to go out thar straight off it ain’t likely I’d be able to pot one where I potted three before. It’s the same difference as it is between the first flushin’ of a wild-turkey bunch an’ the second. An’ if I’ve got to wait long there’ll be no downin’ any of ’em. Tell that to the Cap. Make him see if he wants them cusses he better let me git ’em while they’re still gittable.”
In vain did Top Sergeant Mahan go over and over the same ground, trying to make Cash see that the company captain and those above him were not out for a record in the matter of ambushed Germans.
Wyble had struck one idea he could understand, and he would not give it up.
“But, Sarge,” he urged desperately, “I’m no durn good here foolin’ around with drill an’ relief an’ diggin’ an’ all that. Any mudback can do them things if you folks is sot on havin’ ’em done. But there ain’t another man in all this outfit who can shoot like I can; or has the knack of ‘layin’ out’; or of stalkin’. Pop got the trick of it from gran’ther. An’ gran’ther got if off th’ Injuns in th’ old days. If you folks is out to git Germans I’m the feller to git ’em fer you. Nice big ones. If you’re here jes’ to play sojer, any poor fool c’n play it fer you as good as me.”
“I’ve just told you,” began the sergeant, “that we——”
“’Nuther thing!” suggested Cash brightly. “These Germans must have villages somew’eres. All folks do. Even Injuns. Some place where they live when they ain’t on the warpath. Get leave an’ rations an’ ca’tridges for me—for a week, or maybe two—an’ I’ll gar’ntee to scout till I find one of them villages. The Dutchies won’t be expectin’ me. An’ I c’n likely pot a whole mess of ’em before they c’n git to cover.
“Say!” he went on eagerly, a bit of general information flashing into his memory. “Did you know Germans was a kind of Confed’? The fightin’ Germans, I mean. Well, they are. The hull twelve I got was dressed in gray Confed’ uniform, same as pop used to wear. I got his old uniform to home. Lord, but pop would sure lay into me if he knowed I was pepperin’ his old side partners like that! I’d figered that all Germans was dressed like the ones back home. But they’ve got reg’lar uniforms. Confed’ uniforms, at that. I wonder does our gin’ral know about it?”