of wood. I don’t see any reason for all this strictness when we are on active service. It isn’t like being at home in barracks! There is no great harm in a couple of men dropping out to raid an orchard of the enemy when all the world knows that we haven’t had a decent meal in twenty days.”
The reddened face of Sergeant Morton suddenly showed to the rear. “A little more marching and less talking,” he said.
When he came to the house he had been ordered to occupy the sergeant sniffed with disdain. “These people must have lived like cattle,” he said angrily. To be sure, the place was not alluring. The ground floor had been used for the housing of cattle, and it was dark and terrible. A flight of steps led to the lofty first floor, which was denuded but respectable. The sergeant’s visage lightened when he saw the strong walls of stone and cement. “Unless they turn guns on us, they will never get us out of here,” he said cheerfully to the squad. The men, anxious to keep him in an amiable mood, all hurriedly grinned and seemed very appreciative and pleased. “I’ll make this into a fortress,” he announced. He sent Jones and Patterson, the two orchard thieves, out on sentry-duty. He worked the others, then, until he could think of no more things to tell them to do. Afterwards he went forth, with a major-general’s serious scowl, and examined the ground in front of his position. In returning he came upon a sentry, Jones, munching an apple. He sternly commanded him to throw it away.
The men spread their blankets on the floors of the bare rooms, and putting their packs under their heads and lighting their pipes, they lived an easy peace. Bees hummed in the garden, and a scent of flowers came through the open window. A great fan-shaped bit of sunshine smote the face of one man, and he indolently cursed as he moved his primitive bed to a shadier place.
Another private explained to a comrade: “This is all nonsense anyhow. No sense in occupying this post. They—”
“But, of course,” said the corporal, “when she told me herself that she cared more for me than she did for him, I wasn’t going to stand any of his talk—” The corporal’s listener was so sleepy that he could only grunt his sympathy.
There was a sudden little spatter of shooting. A cry from Jones rang out. With no intermediate scrambling, the sergeant leaped straight to his feet. “Now,” he cried, “let us see what you are made of! If,” he added bitterly, “you are made of anything!”
A man yelled: “Good God, can’t you see you’re all tangled up in my cartridge belt?”
Another man yelled: “Keep off my legs! Can’t you walk on the floor?”
To the windows there was a blind rush of slumberous men, who brushed hair from their eyes even as they made ready their rifles. Jones and Patterson came stumbling up the steps, crying dreadful information. Already the enemy’s bullets were spitting and singing over the house.
The sergeant suddenly was stiff and cold with a sense of the importance of the thing. “Wait until you see one,” he drawled loudly and calmly, “then shoot.”
For some moments the enemy’s bullets swung swifter than lightning over the house without anybody being able to discover a target. In this interval a man was shot in the throat. He gurgled, and then lay down on the floor. The blood slowly waved down the brown skin of his neck while he looked meekly at his comrades.
There was a howl. “There they are! There they come!” The rifles crackled. A light smoke drifted idly through the rooms. There was a strong odor as if from burnt paper and the powder of firecrackers. The men were silent. Through the windows and about the house the bullets of an entirely invisible enemy moaned, hummed, spat, burst, and sang.
The men began to curse. “Why can’t we see them?” they muttered through their teeth. The sergeant was still frigid. He answered soothingly as if he were directly reprehensible for this behavior of the enemy. “Wait a moment. You will soon be able to see them. There! Give it to them!” A little skirt of black figures had appeared in a field. It was really like shooting at an upright needle from the full length of a ballroom. But the men’s spirits improved as soon as the enemy—this mysterious enemy—became a tangible thing, and far off. They had believed the foe to be shooting at them from the adjacent garden.
“Now,” said the sergeant ambitiously, “we can beat them off easily if you men are good enough.”
A man called out in a tone of quick, great interest. “See that fellow on horseback, Bill? Isn’t he on horseback? I thought he was on horseback.”
There was a fusilade against another side of the house. The sergeant dashed into the room which commanded the situation. He found a dead soldier on the floor. He rushed out howling: “When was Knowles killed? When was Knowles killed? When was Knowles killed? Damn it, when was Knowles killed?” It was absolutely essential to find out the exact moment this man died. A blackened private turned upon his sergeant and demanded: “How in hell do I know?” Sergeant Morton had a sense of anger so brief that in the next second he cried: “Patterson!” He had even forgotten his vital interest in the time of Knowles’ death.
“Yes?” said Patterson, his face set with some deep-rooted quality of determination. Still, he was a mere farm boy.
“Go in to Knowles’ window and shoot at those people,” said the sergeant hoarsely. Afterwards he coughed. Some of the fumes of the fight had made way to his lungs.
Patterson looked at the door into this other room. He looked at it as if he suspected it was to be his death-chamber. Then he entered and stood across the body of Knowles and fired vigorously into a group of plum trees.
“They can’t take this house,” declared the sergeant in a contemptuous and argumentative tone. He was apparently replying to somebody. The man who had been shot in the throat looked up at him. Eight men were firing from the windows. The sergeant detected in a corner three wounded men talking together feebly. “Don’t you think there is anything to do?” he bawled. “Go and get Knowles’ cartridges and give them to somebody who can use them! Take Simpson’s too.” The man who had been shot in the throat looked at him. Of the three wounded men who had been talking, one said: “My leg is all doubled up under me, sergeant.” He spoke apologetically.
Meantime the sergeant was re-loading his rifle. His foot slipped in the blood of the man who had been shot in the throat, and the military boot made a greasy red streak on the floor.
“Why, we can hold this place!” shouted the sergeant jubilantly. “Who says we can’t?”
Corporal Flagler suddenly spun away from his window and fell in a heap.
“Sergeant,” murmured a man as he dropped to a seat on the floor out of danger, “I can’t stand this. I swear I can’t. I think we should run away.”
Morton, with the kindly eyes of a good shepherd, looked at the man. “You are afraid, Johnston, you are afraid,” he said softly. The man struggled to his feet, cast upon the sergeant a gaze full of admiration, reproach, and despair, and returned to his post. A moment later he pitched forward, and thereafter his body hung out of the window, his arms straight and the fists clenched. Incidentally this corpse was pierced afterwards by chance three times by bullets of the enemy.
The sergeant laid his rifle against the stonework of the window-frame and shot with care until his magazine was empty. Behind him a man, simply grazed on the elbow, was wildly sobbing like a girl. “Damn it, shut up!” said Morton, without turning his head. Before him was a vista of a garden, fields, clumps of trees, woods, populated at the time with little fleeting figures.
He grew furious. “Why
