The opposing lines, meanwhile, were so silent that our men, peering cautiously through the “gun holes” as Sam called the spaces left between the sand bags piled on top in front, were curious to see the Boche, and could be hardly restrained from firing a shot to “stir them up.” This feeling also was seen in those of higher rank; for is it not natural for Americans to want to “see something doing”?
The French, who were acting as our instructors, and who had had experience in these same trenches, cautioned us against this. They said that there was a tacit agreement between the contestants, not to needlessly stir up a fight.
There was a well of water just to our right, midway between the opposing trenches where, by tacit consent, two men at a time were allowed to resort; near it was an apple tree whose limbs enticed one, provokingly, as good for firewood.
The next night following these occurrences was one of watchful waiting. I was sergeant of the guard; but nothing of importance occurred during the night, except that the weather moderated, and the rain came pouring down in torrents and then turned to sleet. But when it came my turn off, it was not too rainy for sound, dreamless sleep—and, as soldiering goes, it was not so very uncomfortable to strong athletic youngsters with hot blood in their veins; as grew apparent to us, by contrast, later.
With the coming of morning, American restlessness and the desire to see things moving became more apparent in our ranks, and even among our officers.
“Phat the divil are we here for a’ tall?” said Pat Quinn. “Is it to be sitting with our thumbs in our mouths like the little Jack Horner?”
It had ceased to rain. The sun had come out, and the clouds cleared away sufficiently for us to catch glimpses of blue in the sky; and American blood and impatience began to stir.
When two German soldiers without arms were seen at the well mentioned, taking a wash and getting water, they were not at first molested, though it could be seen that Yankee fingers were itching to take a shot.
After finishing washing, one of the Boches began cutting some branches from the tree. That was too much for Private Shaw, who stuck his rifle between the sand bags and crack! went a shot at the Boches who, dropping wood and water, scampered in unheroic haste for their holes.
“Who did that?” inquired the tall lieutenant of our platoon. “Who fired that shot?”