Part 6 (2/2)
He heard a chattering beneath him-Brownings, by G.o.d!-and the expected burst did not come. He knew that he had been just about over the front when they conked his engine; it was a toss-up whether he would come down in enemy territory or not. But now, for the first time in ages, it seemed, there were machine-guns going that were not aimed at him!
His landing-gear swished against stubble and he fought with all his strength of body and of will to keep the Spad's tail down. He almost succeeded; his speed was almost spent when he began to nose over. He leaped, then, and as he struck ground he curled up and rolled-he had been a motorcycle racer for years-feeling as he did so a wash of heat: a tracer had found his gas-tank at last! Bullets were thudding into the ground; one shrieked past his head as, stooping over, folded into the smallest possible target, he galloped awkwardly toward the ditch.
The Brownings still yammered, filling the sky with cupro-nickeled lead; and while Kinnison was flinging himself full length into the protecting water and mud, he heard a tremendous crash. One of those Huns had been too intent on murder; had stayed a few seconds too long; had come a few meters too close.
The clamor of the guns stopped abruptly.
”We got one! We got one!” a yell of exultation.
”Stay down! Keep low, you boneheads!” roared a voice of authority, quite evidently a sergeant's. ”Wanna get your blocks shot off? Take down them guns; we gotta get to h.e.l.l out of here. Hey, you flyer! Are you O.K., or wounded, or maybe dead?”
Kinnison spat out mud until he could talk. ”O.K.!” he shouted, and started to lift an eye above the low bank. He stopped, however, as whistling metal, sheeting in from the north, told him that such action would be decidedly unsafe. ”But I ain't leaving this ditch right now-sounds mighty hot out there!”
”You said it, brother. It's hotter than the hinges of h.e.l.l, from behind that ridge over there. But ooze down that ditch a piece, around the first bend. It's pretty well in the clear there, and besides, you'll find a ledge of rocks running straight across the flat. Cross over there and climb the hill-join us by that dead snag up there. We got to get out of here. That sausage over there must have seen this s.h.i.+ndig and they'll blow this whole d.a.m.n area off the map. Snap it up! And you, you goldbricks, get the lead out of your pants!”
Kinnison followed directions. He found the ledge and emerged, sc.r.a.ping thick and sticky mud from his uniform. He crawled across the little plain. An occasional bullet whined through the air, far above him; but, as the sergeant had said, this bit of terrain was ”in the clear.” He climbed the hill, approached the gaunt, bare tree-trunk. He heard men moving, and cautiously announced himself.
”OK., fella,” came the sergeant's deep ba.s.s. ”Yeah, it's us. Shake a leg!”
”That's easy!” Kinnison laughed for the first time that day. ”I'm shaking already, like a hula-hula dancer's empennage. What outfit is this, and where are we?”
”BRROOM!” The earth trembled, the air vibrated. Below and to the north, almost exactly where the machine-guns had been, an awe-inspiring cloud billowed majestically into the air; a cloud composed of smoke, vapor, pulverized earth, chunks of rock, and debris of what had been trees. Nor was it alone.
”Crack! Bang! Tweet! Boom! Wham!” Sh.e.l.ls of all calibers, high explosive and gas, came down in droves. The landscape disappeared. The little company of Americans, in complete silence and with one mind, devoted themselves to acc.u.mulating distance. Finally, when they had to stop for breath:
”Section B, attached to the 76th Field Artillery,” the sergeant answered the question as though it had just been asked. ”As to where we are, somewhere between Berlin and Paris is about all I can tell you. We got h.e.l.l knocked out of us yesterday, and have been running around lost ever since. They shot off a rally signal on top of this here hill, though, and we was just going to shove off when we seen the krauts chasing you.”
”Thanks. I'd better rally with you, I guess-find out where we are, and what's the chance of getting back to my own outfit.”
”d.a.m.n slim, I'd say. Boches are all around us here, thicker than fleas on a dog.”
They approached the summit, were challenged, were accepted. They saw a gray-haired man-an old man, for such a location-seated calmly upon a rock, smoking a cigarette. His smartly-tailored uniform, which fitted perfectly his not-so-slender figure, was muddy and tattered. One leg of his breeches was torn half away, revealing a blood-soaked bandage. Although he was very evidently an officer, no insignia were visible. As Kinnison and the gunners approached, a first lieutenant-practically spic-and-span-spoke to the man on the rock.
”First thing to do is to settle the matter of rank,” he announced, crisply. ”I'm First Lieutenant Randolph, of....”
”Rank, eh?” The seated one grinned and spat out the b.u.t.t of his cigarette. ”But then, it was important to me, too, when I was a first lieutenant-about the time that you were born. Slayton, Major-General.”
”Oh ... excuse me, sir....”
”Skip it. How many men you got, and what are they?”
”Seven, sir. We brought in a wire from Inf....”
”A wire! h.e.l.landd.a.m.nation, why haven't you got it with you, then? Get it!”
The crestfallen officer disappeared; the general turned to Kinnison and the sergeant.
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