“Why don’t you stop and get some hot chow?” said one of the sweaty cooks to our men.
“Aw! we ain’t got time,” answered Goodwin; “hard-tack is good enough when you’s are gettin’ after the Dutchies.”
“It’s a regular rabbit hunt,” said Sam Jenkins, “an’ we are out a-gunning and can’t stop, or the rabbit’ll get away.”
We were in sight of the red roofs of a village, when from a wooden hill there came the rat, tat, tat of machine-guns.
“They’ve got a nest there,” was the cry from our men. “Let’s rout ’em out!”
Twenty of our best marksmen took advantageous positions to pick off their men, while our light arms and machine-guns sprayed them with an intense fire.
It was but a little time before they had enough of it; and those who could do so got away, while others came out with uplifted hands crying “Kamerad!” They had been told that the Americans were savage, and would shoot them without mercy, and some of them believed it.
During our morning’s march, Muddy, who had been following closely at my heels, flew out after the Boches that were hustling to get away and, without a yelp or bark, ran so that we couldn’t see his tail for the dust. I did not see him again until afternoon, when he came crouching in apology with his tail at half-mast. I had whistled to call him back, but he either would not hear or would not heed. What did it mean?
As I was in command of the platoon I had other duties and could give little thought to a dog.
Twice later that afternoon we met with fitful opposition from the enemy, and it was late before we reached the village whose red-tiled houses, as we have before mentioned, we had seen in the distance.