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Page 38
The point, ahead of the platoon, had swerved too far to the left,
in the blackness--an error that would infallibly have brought him
up against the wires, with considerable force, in another two
steps. But the Missourian was between him and the wires. And the
point's heavy-shod foot came down, heel first, on the back of the
rookie's out-groping hand. Such a crushing impact, on the
hand-back, is one of the most agonizing minor injuries a man can
sustain. And this fact the Missourian discovered with great
suddenness.
His too-taut nerves forced from his throat a yell that split the
deathly stillness with an ear-piercing vehemence. He sprang to
his feet, forgetful of orders intent only on thrusting his
bayonet through the Hun who had caused such acute torture to his
hand. Half way up, the rookie's feet went out from under him in
the slimy mud. He caromed against the point, then fell headlong.
The German, doubtless thinking he had stumbled upon a single
stray American scout, whirled his own rifle aloft, to dash out
the brains of his luckless foe. But before the upflung butt could
descend,--before the rookie could rise or dodge,--the point added
his quota to the rude breaking of the night's silence. He
screamed in panic terror, dropped his brandished gun and reeled
backward, clawing at his own throat.
For out of the eerie darkness, something had launched itself at
him--something silent and terrible, that had flown to the
Missourian's aid. Down with a crash went the German, on his back.
He rolled against the Missourian, who promptly sought to grapple
with him.
But even as he clawed for the German, the rookie's nerves wrung
from him a second yell--this time less of rage than of horror.
"Sufferin' cats!" he bellowed. "Why didn't anybody ever tell me
Germans was covered with fur instead of clothes?"
The boche platoon was no longer striding along in hike-
formation. It was broken up into masses of wildly running men,
all of them bearing down upon the place whence issued this
ungodly racket and turmoil. Stumbling, reeling, blindly falling
and rising again, they came on.
Some one among them loosed a rifle-shot in the general direction
of the yelling. A second and a third German rifleman followed the
example of the first. From the distant American trenches, one or
two snipers began to pepper away toward the enemy lines, though
the fog was too thick for them, to see the German rifle-flashes.
The boches farthest to the left, in the blind rush, fouled with
the wires. German snipers, from behind the Hun parapets, opened
fire. A minute earlier the night had been still as the grave. Now
it fairly vibrated with clangor. All because one rookie's nerves
had been less staunch than his courage, and because that same
rookie had not only had his hand stepped on in the dark, but had
encountered something swirling and hairy when he grabbed for the
soldier who had stepped on him!
The American lieutenant, at the onset of the clamor, sprang to
his feet, whipping out his pistol; his dry lips parted in a
command to charge--a command which, naturally, would have reduced
his eleven men and himself to twelve corpses or to an equal
number of mishandled prisoners within the next few seconds. But a
big hand was clapped unceremoniously across the young officer's
mouth, silencing the half-spoken suicidal order.
Sergeant Mahan's career in the regular army had given him an
almost uncanny power of sizing up his fellowmen. And he had long
ago decided that this was the sort of thing his untried
lieutenant would be likely to do, in just such an emergency.
Wherefore his flagrant breach of discipline in shoving his palm
across the mouth of his superior officer.
And as he was committing this breach of discipline, he heard the
Missourian's strangled gasp of:
"Why didn't anybody ever tell me Germans was covered with fur?"
In a flash Mahan understood. Wheeling, he stooped low and flung
out both arms in a wide-sweeping circle. Luckily his right hand's
fingertips, as they completed the circle, touched something
fast-moving and furry.
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