CHAPTER X
THE LAST LAP
Though the shadow of the trenches hung over them, Bob's latestacquisition put his bunkies in a decidedly lightsome mood. Afterbidding a pleasant good-bye to Gaston's keepers, and giving theredoubtable Gaston himself a fairly wide berth, the five Brotherswandered on through the village. It was not yet three o'clock, and theywere not due back to camp until four o'clock.
Dusk would see them under full pack again, and ready to take the roadto the firing line. The advance guard, composed of military police,were to start at least two hours ahead of the main detachment. Theywould not march in a body, but would straggle along by ones and twos,lest some lurking enemy along the road might learn from their numbersthat a new army was soon to be on its way to the front-line trenches.
"We'd best turn back to camp," Schnitzel at last suggested. "It'stwenty after three, and we must be almost a mile from headquarters. Iwant to fix up my pack before we start."
The exploring party had left their heavy packs and equipment in chargeof a comrade. They carried on their stroll only their haversackscontaining their supper and breakfast ration, two thick sandwichesapiece.
Until dugout shelters were reached the next morning, they would haveno more hot food. Nothing that required cooking would be given them onthis last march except hot coffee. Now, so close to the German lines,the cook wagons would be temporarily closed. Bits of food or sparksdropped in the road might also serve to inform the enemy that UncleSam's Boys were nearing the front.
About to retrace their steps, the five Khaki Boys were suddenly broughtto a sudden standstill by a loud cry from Ignace.
"Look you!" he exclaimed, pointing upward. "So is it the fight by theair!"
Instantly turning their eyes skyward, the group saw high above them anaeroplane cutting wild circles in the air. Around it little puffs ofwhite smoke were continually bursting. As each puff burst, a peculiar"plopping" could be heard, though dully.
The plane itself was up too high for the watchers to tell much aboutit. Besides, they were not familiar enough with the various types ofaeroplanes used by the Allies and the Huns to be able to distinguish towhich side it belonged.
"It must be a French or an English plane, and the Boches are pepperingit with anti-aircraft shells," surmised Bob, ever ready to theorize onwhatever chanced to meet his gaze.
"You're wrong, old man. It's a Boche plane, and the Allied guns areafter it."
Schnitzel's correction was uttered with a quiet positiveness thatbrought instant questions of, "How do you know?" "Who put you wise?""What makes you so sure of that?"
"Oh, I've been finding out all I could about anti-aircraft guns,batteries, shells and all that," Schnitzel answered. "I worked in agun plant, you know, before I enlisted. I've told you that. Machineguns were its specialty, but I learned a lot about other kinds of guns,too. I put in a request for Artillery when I enlisted, but I landed inInfantry instead. I was pretty sore about it at first, but I soon gotover it.
"Just the same," he went on, "I've still a hankering after the bigguns. I've been asking questions right and left ever since we cameover. Back in England at the rest camp I met a Tommy who'd been inartillery since the war began. He'd done his bit, and lost an eye, sohe was back to Blighty for good. He told me a lot of interesting stuffabout guns. He said the Allied anti-aircraft shells showed white smokewhen they exploded, and the Boche anti-shells showed black. So thereyou are. If what he said was so, and I'm sure it was, that's an Alliedbattery shelling a Boche plane."
Listening to Schnitzel's explanation, the eyes of the quintet,nevertheless, remained fixed on the swooping, circling black speckoverhead. Not for a moment did the concealed Allied battery cease itsattack on the enemy plane.
Though their necks began to ache and their eyes to smart, they couldnot draw their fascinated gaze from that gyrating black dot. Even asthey watched, it seemed to grow a trifle larger.
"It's coming down!" yelled Jimmy. "They got it! Hurray! I'll bet thisplane was trying to get a line on what was doing down here."
"It's dropping, sure as a gun!" shouted Bob. "Some drop! Oh, glory, Iwish it would flop right here!"
"It's coming down, down, down, all right!" sang out Roger. "We won'tsee it though. It'll probably land miles from here, on the other sideof those hills. That aviator didn't have much show as an observer."
In what seemed to them an incredibly short time, the doomed plane hadsped earthward, and out of sight behind the distant hills east of them.
"So is it, some Boche get kill pretty quick. He never more donothin'," commented Ignace with grim satisfaction.
"Not so you can notice it," airily agreed Bob. "If he wasn't croaked bythe anti, he'd hit the ground with a bump that would finish him. Well,show's over. We've seen a Boche plane shelled and a Hun aviator downed,now let's be on our way. If we never live to see another Fritziebirdman's wings clipped, we've seen one, anyhow."
"We're going to live to see a whole lot more welcome sights like that,"asserted Jimmy sturdily.
"Glad to hear it," grinned Bob. "Only the saints croak young. We have apretty fair show to keep on going, according to that."
Signally inspirited at witnessing the defeat of an enemy the fivebunkies set off for headquarters talking cheerily as they walked. Therethey found their comrades had already begun to assemble, preparatoryto the night march, which would begin as soon as sheltering twilightdescended. Group after group of soldiers, who had been resting duringthe afternoon, or roaming about the village, now reported, and stoodawaiting the order to "Fall in."
As time went on, conversation gradually died out among the men. Earlierexchange of good-humored badinage ceased, and comparative silencereplaced it, broken only by an occasional low murmur of voices.
With the first signs of twilight the tension began to tighten. Acurious hush pervaded the two detachments, as the heavily burdenedSammies stood about and watched the dusk grow and deepen. Strangelyenough, no distant rumble of artillery broke the spell. Though thevoices of the guns had boomed all day, now they were silent. It was anhour which those who survived the struggle they were about to enterwould long remember.
At last it came; the clarion notes of the bugle, blowing the order"Fall in." With calm, resolute faces each Khaki Boy found his place inthe long double line.
The order was passed along: "Right dress--right dress!" A shuffling offeet, a straightening of lines, and the Khaki Boys were ready for thenext command.
"Front!"
Every pair of boyish eyes looked unswervingly ahead.
"Report!"
Corporal after corporal accounted for his squad. There were no laggersor deserters in that heroic band. The time had come, and the Khaki Boyswere ready.
"Squads right--March!"
By rows of fours the soldier boys turned, then in the growing darknessthey swung off, rifles on their shoulders, stepping alertly, and withthe rhythm that long training had given them. On every face shone thequiet determination to do well. Every man was imbued with the resolveto give good account of himself. The Khaki Boys were out to "do anddare" for the honor of Uncle Sam and his Allies.