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Page 50
* * * * * * * * * * *
For months the "Here-We-Comes" had been quartered in a
"quiet"--or only occasionally tumultuous--sector, near
Chateau-Thierry. Then the comparative quiet all at once turned to
pandemonium.
A lanky and degenerate youth (who before the war had been
unlovingly known throughout Europe as the "White Rabbit" and who
now was mentioned in dispatches as the "Crown Prince") had
succeeded in leading some half-million fellow-Germans into a
"pocket" that had lately been merely a salient.
From the three lower sides of the pocket, the Allies ecstatically
flung themselves upon their trapped foes in a laudable effort to
crush the half-million boches and their rabbit-faced princeling
into surrender before the latter could get out of the snare, and
to the shelter of the high ground and the reenforcements that lay
behind it. The Germans objected most strenuously to this crushing
process. And the three beleaguered edges of the pocket became a
triple-section of hell.
It was a period when no one's nerves were in any degree normal--
least of all the nerves of the eternally hammered Germans. Even
the fiercely advancing Franco-Americans, the "Here-We-Comes," had
lost the grimly humorous composure that had been theirs, and
waxed sullen and ferocious in their eagerness.
Thus it was that Bruce missed his wontedly uproarious welcome as
he cantered, at sunset one July day, into a smashed farmstead
where his friends, the "Here-We-Comes," were bivouacked for the
night. By instinct, the big dog seemed to know where to find the
temporary regimental headquarters.
He trotted past a sentry, into an unroofed cattle-shed where the
colonel was busily scribbling a detailed report of the work done
by the "Here-We-Comes" during that day's drive.
Coming to a halt by the colonel's side, Bruce stood expectantly
wagging his plumy tail and waiting for the folded message from
division headquarters to be taken off his collar.
Usually, on such visits, the colonel made much of the dog. To-day
he merely glanced up abstractedly from his writing, at sight of
Bruce's silken head at his side. He unfastened the message, read
it, frowned and went on with his report.
Bruce continued to wag his tail and to look up wistfully for the
wonted petting and word of commendation. But the colonel had
forgotten his existence. So presently the collie wearied of
waiting for a caress from a man whose caresses, at best, he did
not greatly value. He turned and strolled out of the shed. His
message delivered, he knew he was at liberty to amuse himself as
he might choose to, until such time as he must carry back to his
general a reply to the dispatch he had brought.
From outside came the voices of tired and lounging soldiers. A
traveling kitchen had just been set up near by. From it arose a
blend of smells that were mighty tempting to a healthily hungry
dog. Thither, at a decorous but expectant pace, Bruce bent his
steps.
Top-Sergeant Mahan was gazing with solicitous interest upon the
toil of the cooks at the wheeled kitchen. Beside him, sharing his
concern in the supper preparations, was Mahan's closest crony,
old Sergeant Vivier. The wizened little Frenchman, as a boy, had
been in the surrender of Sedan. Nightly, ever since, he had
besought the saints to give him, some day, a tiny share in the
avenging of that black disgrace.
Mahan and Vivier were the warmest of Bruce's many admirers in the
"Here-We-Comes." Ordinarily a dual whoop of joy from them would
have greeted his advent. This afternoon they merely chirped
abstractedly at him, and Mahan patted him carelessly on the head
before returning to the inspection of the cooking food.
Since an hour before dawn, both men had been in hot action. The
command for the "Here-We-Comes" to turn aside and bivouac for the
night had been a sharp disappointment to them, as well as to
every unwounded man in the regiment.
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