by Anonymous
CHAPTER V
THE DISPATCH-RIDER
"Do you suppose," said Horace, after the veteran had gone, "that they'dlet me join in the fight? It may begin any time, some one said."
"You wouldn't be any use," the hunchback answered, shaking his head."What could you do?"
"I could try the cavalry, I ride pretty well," suggested the boy. "Iused to live on a ranch when I was a kid."
His companion smiled indulgently.
"What do you know of bugle calls? What practice have you had with asaber? How much do you know about cavalry maneuvers? Why, boy, you'dbungle up a cavalry charge so badly that the kindest thing they coulddo would be to tie your hands together and let the horse do all thework."
Horace looked crestfallen but he knew his comrade was in the right.
"I'd like to be in the artillery, too," he said, "but I don't knowanything about guns, and that's a fact. But the infantry?"
"You'd be no better there," Croquier answered frankly. "You couldn'teven pack your kit. You don't understand the orders. You've neverdrilled. You don't know the first thing about it. With continuous workeight hours a day, it takes at least two years to make a real soldier.You don't know how to use a single weapon. You couldn't fix a bayonet.You don't know the workings of a Lebel rifle, which, by the way, is theonly repeating rifle used in modern armies."
"What are all the rest?"
"Magazine rifles."
"What's the difference?"
This time Croquier was at fault. He called to a soldier who wasstrolling near by, smoking his pipe.
"As a matter of fact," the soldier said, when the question was put tohim, "all magazine rifles are repeaters, though they are not called so.The Lebel is an old type and has a tube fitted in the rifle under thebarrel, the cartridge being fed onto the carrier by a spiral spring andplunger, the advancing bolt carrying the cartridge into the chamber."
"And the other armies, what gun have they got?"
"Germans and Belgians have a Mauser, Austrians use a Mannlicher--andthe British have a short Lee-Enfield. All of them have magazines underthe bolt way for containing cartridges and can be loaded with a clip,which is quicker."
"Which is the best?"
"The Lee-Enfield, by far, so the experts say," the rifleman answered,"because it's shorter, easier to handle, and carries ten cartridges inits magazine against the Mauser's five. But," and he patted his rifleaffectionately, "I like my Lebel better than any of them, maybe becauseI'm used to it. The Mannlicher, though, is very accurate. It's a goodweapon for sniping."
"This lad," the hunchback remarked, "wants to jump right into thefighting-line without joining the army or ever having handled a gun."
"You'd get shot for nothing, boy," the soldier replied, halting as hestrode off. "One trained soldier is worth fifty raw civilians. Thegreenhorn wastes ammunition, eats food, and is no manner of good. He'ssick half the time. When there's an advance he wants to lead the wayand runs into the fire of his own artillery. When there's a retreat,he starts a panic. When he's on sentry-duty he hears a suspicious noiseabout once in every three minutes. When he's told to do something hedoesn't like, he tries to argue about it. If you want to be a soldier,boy, join it in the right way and learn your soldiering like a man.Then, if a war comes, you can do your duty until you're killed; or, ifyou're invalided home crippled, or blinded, or with a serious woundwhich will prevent you from further fighting, you can thank your starsthat you were born lucky."
"And I did so want to fight!" said Horace mournfully, as theinfantryman moved away.
"You may have the chance," remarked the hunchback, a curious glint inhis eyes. "How long do you think the war will last?"
"A month or two?" hazarded the boy.
"I shouldn't be surprised if it lasted a year or two," came the reply,"that is, unless the Germans smash our lines before we have a chance tostiffen them."
"Well," said Horace, "if it lasts a year or two, I can learn!"
"Yes," said Croquier, "we'll all learn."
That afternoon, the officer sent for Horace and his companion.
"Namur has fallen!" he said, as soon as they were alone.
Croquier's jaw fell.
"Already, sir!" he said. "I thought it wouldn't hold out very long."
"Yes," said the officer, "Von Buelow seems to have learned from Liege.You were there, were you not?"
"I was, sir," the hunchback answered; "we lived just a mile from FortEmbourg."
"Did you see any of the fighting?"
"Only the bombardment."
"Or hear any details?"
"Yes, sir," Croquier replied, "mainly from the wounded. I was inhiding, though, and the lad, here, heard more than I did."
Thus prompted, Horace told all that he knew of the story of the attackon Liege, of the fearful loss of life in the massed attacks and of thevalor of the defense, as he had been told by the wounded officers andmen nursed by Aunt Abigail.
"They never gave us a chance like that," the officer sighed. "Namur hadno defense. Von Buelow's too wise a fox of warcraft to waste men whenguns will do the trick. It seems he brought his 42-centimeter guns intoposition five miles from Namur about sundown yesterday. All the rangeshad been tested out by the bombardments during the two days before withthe lighter guns.
"Last night the real bombardment commenced. The shells were directedinto the trenches, first, where General Michel and his men were eagerlyawaiting the chance to mow down Germans as Leman did at Liege. Theynever saw a German. The hail of death on those trenches was so furiousthat no troops could live through it. There was no resistance. Theguns of the forts could not reply, they were outranged. There was nopossibility of a counter-attack, for scouts reported the Germans inforce. For ten hours a scythe of shells swept the defenses. Not a manlifted his head above the parapet but was killed. The trenches wereleveled flat. Few officers survived.
"By morning," the officer continued, "the Belgians could stand thetornado of slaughter no longer. The decimated troops fled from thetrenches, leaving a gap between Forts Cognelee and Marchovelette. TheGermans then turned their fire on the forts. Fort Maizeret received1200 shells, at the speed of twenty to the minute, but was only able toreply with ten rounds. In that sixty minutes, the fort was reduced toa mass of crumpled masonry and a few shreds of armor-steel. Others ofthe forts, on which the 42-centimeters were turned, were blown to atomswith less than half a dozen shells. By ten o'clock this morning, fiveof the forts were silenced and the German infantry poured through thegap.
"We sent a cavalry brigade, mainly of Chasseurs d'Afrique, and twoTurco and Zouave regiments up to stiffen General Michel's defense, butthey arrived too late to be of any use to the Belgian infantry. Itwould have been madness for Michel to have faced that fire any longer.
"Before the war, we had expected," the officer continued, "that theforts of Namur would hold the enemy back for three weeks. After Liege,we hoped that they would hold out three days. They did not hold outthree hours. Apparently there is nothing made by the hands of man thatcan resist the incredible destructiveness of those huge high-explosiveshells. Our point of defense will have to be at Charleroi. Our airmenreport a gap between the armies of Von Buelow and Wuertemberg. You said,this morning, that you had seen troops in between. It is excessivelyimportant. Tell me again, exactly, and with all the detail that you canremember."
Croquier repeated his information of the morning, Horace supplementingfrom time to time. When he had finished, the officer tapped his fingersmeditatively on the table.
"You're sure you can't tell me where they came from, who commands them,or what regiments they are?"
Croquier was silent.
"I'm not sure," said Horace, after racking his brain, "but I think thewoman whose boy was killed, said that Saxons had done it."
"Saxons, h'm! Well, that's a slight clew. I hope you're wrong, becausethe Saxons are about the best troops in the German Army, pretty cleanfighters, too, as a rule. I hope you're wrong," he repeated; "we're ina despera
te position and we need three days' time."
Little, however, did the officer, with all his special information,suspect the nearness of the impending blow. Even at the time that hewas speaking, a detachment of German hussars had crossed the Meuse nearNamur, ridden through Charleroi and trotted on towards the Sambre. Atfirst they were mistaken for British hussars, to whose uniform theirswas similar. Soon, however, they were recognized and driven back, withthe loss of a few killed and wounded. Simultaneously, an artilleryengagement began between the armies of Lanrezac and Von Kluck at thebridges above and below Charleroi.
In the afternoon, that part of Langle de Cary's army to which Horaceand Croquier had irregularly attached themselves moved north. The twofugitives followed, not because they were wanted, but Croquier hadbeen told to stay and Horace, although he had been told to go backwith the refugees, had not been served with a point-blank militaryorder. He decided to chance it, not being punishable for disobedienceas a soldier. The boy was wild to see a battle, if there should beone, but Croquier forbade his attaching himself to any infantryregiment. He, himself, had made friends with one of the gunners of a"Soixante-Quinze" and the battery was delighted with being chosen asthe escort of the "captive Kaiser." The battery-commander took the boyunder his protection, feeling that this was better than setting himadrift and took on himself the responsibility of seeing that the ladshould be sent on to Paris that night.
"But I won't see the fight, back here with the artillery," persistedHorace.
A gunner looked round at him with his mouth twisted on one side.
"I hope you're right, my boy," he said. "I'm thinking we'll see toomuch of it."
"I don't want to see a lot of battles," reiterated the lad, "I justwant to see one!"
As though his words had conjured it up, with startling suddenness,rifle-fire broke out near by. It sounded like the crackling of dry woodin an immense bon-fire. Horace looked up eagerly and listened for theheavy booming of the artillery. None was to be heard.
"Don't they use big shells, except on forts?" he asked.
"They'll come before long," the gunner answered. "Something's going tohappen. I feel it in the air."
Infantry regiments swung by, marching north, with the quick, Frenchstep.
Though late in the afternoon, the sun was hot, the air sultry. The menwere tired, grim, and silent. The faces were young, but every man hadwhite eyebrows and either a gray beard or a gray stubbly chin. It tooka moment's thought to realize that this was the effect of dust and nota regiment of old men. So thick was the dust that even the red of thebreeches was absolutely hidden as the men marched on.
From over the hill, a machine-gun began its continuous death-bark.
"That means close action," said the hunchback. "They must be on us."
Horace felt his desire to see a battle slipping away quite rapidly.
"Probably action against cavalry," Croquier continued. "I hope so.We're considerably too close for an infantry attack to be comfortable."
Then, with majestic grandeur, the heavy artillery began to speak. As itopened, the crackling of the rifle-fire spread all round the horizonand the machine-guns yapped from a hundred points ahead. But, overall, the great guns boomed. It was as though, in the middle of a fightbetween terriers, two lions had sprung into the arena and deafened allother noise with their roars.
"Clear for action!"
At the words of the battery commander, every man of the crew of the"Soixante-Quinze" sprang to his post. The gun-numbers, who had beenclustered about the "captive Kaiser," reached their places with asingle spring.
"Attention!"
_French Official Photograph._
FRENCH INFANTRY ADVANCING.]
_From "Illustrirte Zeitung."_
GERMAN INFANTRY ADVANCING.]
Horace watched the deft movements of the artillerists, as they madesure that the sighting-gear was in place and that the training andelevating levers were working smoothly.
"You wanted to see fighting, Horace," said Croquier, pointing with hisfinger, "well, look!"
In the dull, hot afternoon haze, the boy saw black figures which seemedno larger than ants run up the hillside, far, far ahead and thensuddenly disappear as they threw themselves down. Jets of up-thrownearth showed where the shells were striking, and a rising cloud ofdust, like to that raised by a tooth-harrow being dragged over plowedland on a dry day, told, to accustomed eyes, the terrible tragedy ofthe curtain of leaden hail.
"Gun-layers--forward!" came the sharp command.
A pause.
"That twisted willow, two points this side of the church-steeple."
"We see it."
"Use that!"
The commander gave the elevation and the range.
The guns were laid, the breeches returning smoothly to rest with theirburden of death.
"All ready, sir."
"First round!"
Fear lay heavy on Horace, but an overmastering desire to watch themodern gladiatorial arena, drove him to look.
The firing number bent down to seize the lanyard.
"Fire!"
His experience at Beaufays had taught the boy to put his fingers tohis ears, but it was the first time he had heard a .75, the famous"Soixante-Quinze" which the French believed--and rightly--to be thebest field-gun in the world. It cracked deafeningly, stridently. Theflame which darted out of the muzzle was long and thin and seemed tolick the air as though envious of the shell's flight. The smell ofthe powder was acrid and bitter, somewhat like the taste of an unripepersimmon, Horace thought.
"One thousand, five hundred!" the battery commander called.
And Number One of the gun crew repeated:
"One thousand, five hundred."
"Fire!"
The men worked as in a frenzy, loading, extracting, and loading again.
The shells, twelve to a minute, poured out of the flame-belching muzzleof the gun.
The gun-crew fell back to mechanical automatic speed, muscle and sinewmoving with the precision of things of steel. Cartridge-cases litteredthe ground in irregular piles, smoking for a minute where they fell.
"Cease firing!"
The gunners drew their hands over their foreheads, black with dust andsweat.
"Hot work!" said one.
On the hillside, far away, the little dots who were men jumped up torun ahead and then fell to earth once more. Some never rose again.
"Is the enemy on this side of the hill?" Horace asked.
"No," answered Croquier, "on the other side."
"Then the Germans can't see us?"
"No."
"Why, then, do our fellows go ahead in short bursts? If they're not insight of the Germans, what difference does it make if they stand up orlie down?"
"The difference between being shot and not being shot," replied thehunchback. "A modern rifle, using smokeless powder, will send abullet 700 yards with an almost flat trajectory, that is to say, thebullet does not have to curve upwards much in order to reach its mark.Therefore every man standing up, within the distance of 700 yards, whois in line with that bullet, can be hit by it. A man, lying down, canonly be hit by a bullet which is dropping to earth, so that the zone ofdanger is low. For example, a man standing at 1000 yards range is in adanger zone 65 yards wide, within which he will be shot; if lying down,the danger zone is reduced to 13 yards, or, in other words, he is fivetimes as likely to be shot when standing up, irrespective of the factwhether the enemy can see him or not."
The sonorous tumult of the battle increased steadily. The dome of thesky beat like the parchment of an angry drum. High-explosive shelland shrapnel was bursting overhead, filling the air with splintersof shell and bullets. Now and again a clang on the gun-shield of the"Soixante-Quinze" told of some fragment that would have brought deathto the gun-crew in default of such protection.
Horace, crouched down behind the gun-shield, watched a tall thistle,swaying in the breeze a couple of arm's-lengths away, and foundhimself wondering what would happen to hi
m if he were lying there.
He never saw the answer to his question. Suddenly, the thistle was nomore to be seen, probably cut athwart by a splinter of shell.
In the heat of that August afternoon, Horace shivered. He was notprecisely afraid, his experience in the woods near Embourg had freedhim of fear, but death seemed very near. If this were battle, he hadseen enough.
"Ah!" muttered a gunner, "they're falling back."
The wooded hill became alive with columns of infantry. They broke outof the woods, some still holding their formations under the orders oftheir officers, others scattered and disorganized. The roar of theartillery took on a wilder howl, as the high-explosive shells gaveplace to a larger proportion of the shriller-voiced shrapnel.
"They think they have us on the run," remarked the gunner.
"They have!" said Croquier gravely.
The infantry drew nearer, passing on the road just below the gunposition, stricken, beaten, war-dulled--and dismayed. It does not takemany minutes of fighting in the open against machine-guns to breakthe spirit and numb the hope of victory. A machine-gun spitting 600bullets to the minute, swaying its muzzle from side to side like a jetof murder, is the material embodiment of the very spirit of slaughter.These men had seen it and terror had taken up its dwelling in theireyes. Panic and discipline struggled for the mastery.
But, as always, blood tells. The guns belched death behind them andcarnage rode, shrieking, on the blast, but their officers were there,cool and masterful. On the very verge of disgraceful rout, the Frenchsteadied to the words of command from leaders whom they not onlyadmired and respected, but loved.
In spite of the magnificent evidence of courage, Horace groaned.
"We're licked!"
Tattered remnants of troops, wounded, half-delirious, many withoutrifle or pack, surged back. The torrent of smitten humanity filled theroad. The weaker were pushed into the ditch. Not a man but had blearedeyes looking wildly out of sweat-rimmed sockets. The way was litteredwith mess-tins, cartridge belts, kepis and broken rifles. But training,only a little less strong than the instinct of life itself, came totheir aid. The sight of an officer brought the hand to the forehead insalute, and the gesture brought back the sense of control. Even as theregiments fled, they reformed.
Horace bit his parched lips.
"Are we going to stay here and be killed?" he cried.
The hunchback, his iron will unmoved by the imminent peril, answered ina perfectly even tone,
"None of the guns have moved."
Harsh and wild, the air overhead screamed like a living thing. Mendropped on every side. The road of flight was a shambles.
"Won't they even try to save the guns?" gasped the boy, battling withpanic.
"Second round!" remarked the battery commander, as calmly as though onmaneuvers.
"A man!" declared Croquier admiringly, under his breath.
"But everything's lost!" gasped Horace.
"Is it?" said the hunchback.
"In echelon!" came the order, followed by correction and range for eachgun.
"Eight hundred and fifty!"
"... and fifty!"
"Fire!"
The battery had scarcely fired, the first shell was but half-way onits mission of revenge, when, as though at a signal, a dozen otherbatteries replied.
A cloud of men in iron-gray uniforms topped the hill, met theconcentrated fire of those batteries of seventy-fives and melted into agray carpet on the earth which would never stir again.
Sweeping up through the scattered and broken troops, as jaunty andfull of fight as though they had not been marching for hours and hadnot encountered the debris of a defeat, came the French reserves. Theycheered as they passed the battery.
"Back us up!" they cried.
"Third round," said the battery commander.
The guns roared again, and under their fire, the Germans broke andfled, deserting some of their guns. As they wavered and gave way, theFrench cavalry, who had been waiting their chance, charged down andcleared the hillside of the last invader.
"Cease firing!" came the order.
The gunners threw themselves down on the grass to rest.
Then, from the rear, came a new sound, a whip-like crackle, of littlesharp explosions, rapidly coming nearer.
"That's a queer machine-gun," said one of the gunners, listening.
"It's not a gun," put in Horace, whose composure had begun to returnwhen the cavalry made their triumphant dash, "it's a motor-cycle. Iused to ride one in Beaufays."
The dispatch-rider whizzed by on the road below. The men watched him,and, ignoring their own dangers, one of the gunners remarked,
"It takes a hero or a fool to risk his neck in that part of the work!"
A dragoon galloped up with orders for the officers of the battery.
"Limber up!"
Instantly all was excitement. The gun was to take up a new position.The German infantry rush had failed, but the artillery halted not itstempest of shell.
Three of the horses had been killed. This left only five for the gun.They strained at their collars, but the wheels had sunk in the softsoil.
The shrapnel whined murderously. Another horse fell.
"Peste!" cried the hunchback.
He thrust the cage into Horace's hands, ran up to the wheels of thegun, where two gunners were lifting, shouldered the men aside, stoopedand put his tremendous strength into the heave and the gun jerkedforward.
"Hey, but you are strong!" said the sergeant.
"But yes," the hunchback replied, "I am almost as good as a horse."
The guns moved off at a sharp trot.
Horace and the hunchback jumped on the rear of the ammunition wagon.They had not gone a hundred yards when a shrapnel bullet struck one ofthe gun-drivers in the head and he fell.
The horses commenced to plunge.
There was a moment's confusion, and, before any one could say a word,Horace had dropped from the wagon, run forward to the gun and leapt onthe plunging horse. Old memories of the ranch came back to him and therearing animal quieted at once.
The gun-team trotted on.
The keen eye of the major caught the strange figure on the horse.
"Where do you come from, boy?"
Horace saluted, trying hard to do it with military precision, andexplained.
_Courtesy of "L'Illustration."_
"THEY DO NOT PASS!"
"THE VETERAN'S ADVICE."
Two famous pictures by Georges which awoke red-hot interest in Franceat the beginning of the war.]
"But you may be shot, there!" the major remarked, in a conversationaltone of voice, as he cantered beside the gun-team.
"If you'll excuse me, sir," said the boy, "but I'm in no more dangerthan the rest of us."
"But that of course!"
"It is 'that of course' for me, too, sir, if you'll let me," Horacesaid.
The major smiled under his grizzled mustache and galloped on.
The road was cut into deep ruts and great care was needed in driving,for the ditches were filled with wounded. To lighten the loads, thegunners ran alongside the guns and ammunition wagons. Darkness fellover the scene. The battle came to a lull. Night covered the slaughter.Never in his life before had Horace been so glad to see the dark.
The boy's first battle was over.
None of the gun crew, now, rode on the limbers. Every available pointon which a man could lie or sit was crowded with wounded. Many of thewounds were terrible, but few of the sufferers complained.
One man was lifted off, dying, as the battery stopped for a moment.
"Is it the end?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so, my boy," said the major.
"My mother wished to give a son to France. Tell her she is victorious!"and he died.
Said another, when the surgeon told him that one leg would have to beamputated,
"Only one, my doctor? Then France has made me a gift of a leg. I waswilling to give her both."
The ba
ttery passed on through the village. There were no cries ofwelcome. The women gave food to the soldiers, all silently. With anoble restraint, moreover, none of the women raised a word of blame.The men drove through with hanging heads, downcast, humiliated by themute reproach in the eyes of the villagers, who knew they were beingabandoned to their fate by their own army, which was powerless to aidthem. The morrow would bring ruin, brutality, and massacre.
It was late in the evening before the battery halted and Horace tookhis turn in watering the horses and doing the chores of a driverattached to a gun. Croquier, in a manner attached to the battery, felthe could be of principal service in trying to secure information. Whenhe returned, his expression was full of concern.
"What's happened?" Horace asked sleepily.
The reply came like a shot from a gun,
"The Germans have reached Charleroi!"
Horace pondered for a minute to think what this might mean, then raisedhimself on his elbow, suddenly wide-awake.
"That smashes the corner!" he cried. "They've pierced our line! Thewhole strategy is gone!"
"Not quite," said the hunchback grimly, "but unless something happensto-morrow, it will be smashed."
Therein, Croquier was right. The next day, Saturday, August 22, VonBuelow attacked Charleroi in full strength. The two main bridges eastand west of the city, at Chatelet and Thuin, fell under the impactof the combined light and heavy field howitzers, and, before noon,Charleroi was in German hands. Von Buelow thrust swiftly round theeastern end of the Fifth French Army, in order to roll up its flank andforce it into the arms of Von Kluck for annihilation.
"Unless something happens to-morrow!" Croquier had said.
That something did happen.
The Chasseurs d'Afrique, Turco and Zouave troops which had beendetached from the Fourth Army to help the Belgians at Namur, arrivedunexpectedly in Charleroi during the middle of the engagement. Theywere too late to keep the Germans from entering the city, but nottoo late to drive them out again, not too late to put a spike in VonBuelow's plan to flank the Fifth Army.
In all the history of modern war, there has never been more savagestreet-fighting, hand to hand, tooth and claw, sword and bayonet, thanin Charleroi. The Germans were more than five to one, but they couldnot stand cold steel. The onslaught of the French colonials was a spumeof wrath that the invaders dared not face. They fled like gray rats.
Then, upon doomed Charleroi, crashed the full force of the German fieldartillery. Church steeples and foundry chimneys fell like dry sticksbefore a whirlwind's blast, factories crumbled into ruin under thedisintegrating effects of high explosive shells, burying French andBelgian defenders in the ruins. The blue sky overhead was gray with theweb of flying steel, the gutters of the streets ran red.
Trebly reenforced, the Germans charged Charleroi again. Here were nomodern tactics, here was no battle born in the military schoolroom,but a savage, primitive combat, where each man fired, stabbed, thrustand clubbed to save himself and to fell his foe. Though outnumbered tento one, the French drove the sharp-biting rats, back, back, and backbeyond the outskirts of the town.
Again the artillery deluged Charleroi with an avalanche of shell.
Again the German infantry charged forward, now twenty to one, allfresh troops, against the wearied but still defiant Turco and Zouaveregiments. The torrent was irresistible and Charleroi was again inGerman hands.
This was the moment for which the French artillery had been waiting.No sooner was Charleroi filled with German troops than the French gunshammered at the shattered town. The French Army, however, had almostignored the development of howitzers, which proved so valuable to theGermans. They had but few of their 3.9-inch (105 mm.) and 5.7-inch (155mm. Rimailho) guns available for a reply to the German batteries andthey could not retake the town. About midnight, the city burst intoflames.
That same Saturday had been one of disaster, also, for the FourthArmy, though in a lesser degree. Horace had partaken in the retreatfrom Givet, though, naturally, he did not know the character of theengagement, the night before. All next morning he stayed by thebattery, acting as a driver, but the battery was not in action morethan an hour. The army suffered heavily, but retreated in good order,the line stiffening, and holding the Germans in check. The batteryslept that night on heaps of straw in a little chapel.
A dispatch-rider on a motor-cycle whizzed by. He was traveling thirtyor forty miles an hour on a road which was nothing more than a seriesof holes and ruts. A few guns fired from time to time, but the airreverberated with the grumbling breathing of that master of modernwar--petrol.
At half-past two o'clock the sergeant came.
"Get up there, Battery Two. There's coffee ready outside."
The little red lamp over the altar in the chapel burned steadily andcomfortingly; the red camp fires in the village streets wavered in thechill air of the early morning. A heavy dew had fallen. The German gunswere beginning to speak in the distance, but, as it seemed, sleepilyand sulkily.
"Those are the ten- and thirteen-centimeter pop-guns," said a gunner,listening.
"And they've all the seventy-sevens in the world, there," addedanother, "hear those bunches of sixes coming over!"
The sky was still dark enough to show the distant flashes of theheavier guns, like the glare from the eyes of a herd of giant beasts ofprey.
As the day lightened, in the half-dawn, the columns of earth upthrownby the shells seemed like gray specters that appeared for a moment andthen vanished. An 8.2-inch (220 mm.) shell buried itself in the groundbehind the battery, drawn up at the edge of the village, waiting fororders to take up position, and then, thirty seconds after, explodedlike a miniature volcano.
From the distance came the clacking of the motor-cycle.
"That's the dispatch-rider again," muttered Horace, turning to watchthe flying rider, though his ears warned him of a heavy shell hummingon its way, and a few seconds later, the wind of its passage blew coldupon his cheek.
The next second, the earth heaved itself up as though a subterraneousmonster were emerging from its lair, and the 10.1-inch (270 mm.)shell[14] burst with a slow majestic grandeur. A tree near by, atwhose roots the shell had fallen and burrowed, was tossed into the airlike a twig. In the pattering silence as the fragments of the shell andearth hurled outward, a shrill human scream penetrated.
Through the cloud of salmon-colored dust, with its gagging acrid fumes,could be seen the motor-cycle. It had plunged off sharply from theroad, jumped a low ditch and was stuck fast in a thick, dense hedge.The motors were running still. The rider--
Horace jumped from the back of the wheel-horse, followed by a coupleof the gunners, and ran across the road. The lad stopped the motorwhile the gunners lifted the cyclist from the saddle. He was terriblymangled. Horace turned his eyes away, in spite of himself.
"Let me go on!" cried the rider, in a voice so full of agony that itwas almost a screech. "I have dispatches."
They laid him down on the grass by the edge of the road, grass scorchedand crispened by the explosion.
The dispatch-rider looked up and saw the major, who had hurried to thescene.
"Dispatches! They are life or death for France!" he gasped.
The major stooped down and the wounded man guttered out a fewsentences, while feebly trying to reach the paper he bore.
Life was ebbing fast, but though the man's sufferings must have beenintense, he said no word of himself. Only he cried out again.
"I have dispatches!"
Then the major, in order that the gallant soldier should not die in thedespair of an unaccomplished trust, answered, in a firm tone,
"They shall be delivered. I promise it."
The dispatch-rider smiled through all his pain.
"My France!" he whispered proudly, and tried to salute the officer.
The major laid his hand lightly on the terribly torn body.
"It is not you, who salute me," he said, "but I, who salute you!"
With those wor
ds in his ears, the dispatch-rider joined the immortalhost of the dead heroes of France.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] In strict accuracy, this particular type of gun was not in useuntil the following spring.