“That looks good,” said our captain. “Possibly we can halt there for the night, unless we have to fight for it.”
As we approached the village there burst forth from in front and on both sides of us the chatter of machine-guns and rifle fire, as if to say, “Stand off! we are here!”
Some of us took shelter behind a rise in the land and fired upon them, while others circled around the village. Then their fire began gradually to die away.
“Gee!” said Goodwin, “you’s can just bet your bottom dollar they’s litin’ out.”
“No chance to bag your rabbits, Sam,” said Sutherland sarcastically. “They won’t stop to say good-bye.” And they didn’t.
We had opened a hot fire and then by making sudden rushes and throwing ourselves on our faces and firing had driven them out. It was an old method, used by the regulars in fighting Indians; but it answered.
“I have no respect for the Boches any more,” said Sam, “except as runners.” But therein he was wrong. They were fighting a rear-guard fight, and were not only acting in a prudent way, but also under orders.
A few people, old men, women, and children, who had been sheltering themselves as best they could in cellars and behind thick walls, came out and greeted us with French enthusiasm.
It was quite embarrassing for Sutherland when one sweet-faced old woman threw her arms around his neck in a fervent embrace. He was awkward in receiving her hug, but at last recovering from surprise, he patted her and told her not to cry. When one attempted to hug and kiss the doughty Sam Jenkins, instead of bravely standing fire he turned and ran.
Peter Beaudett, more educated in French ways than the rest of us, returned, as Pat Quinn afterwards declared, “blarney for blarney,” and kissed one of the younger women effusively. I thought it a shame that we had not been educated up to the point of receiving such grateful demonstrations as they were meant. But, New England people check, rather than give way to, their emotions. Do they gain, or lose by it?