Chapter Six. THE long khaki-clad line shuffled wearily to a halt

THE long khaki-clad line shuffled wearily to a halt. The hot, white sun beat heavily down on them. The dust had caked itself into thick clots on their skin where the sweat had turned it into mud.

The orders came echoing down from the head of the column: "Break ranks. Take ten."

Johnny threw himself on the grass by the side of the road. He lay on his back, hands over his eyes. His breath drew wearily in his throat. Joe sat on the ground beside him. "Christ," he muttered, "my dogs are killing me." He took his shoes off and began to massage his feet. He groaned.

Johnny just lay there quietly. A shadow fell across him. He took his hands from his eyes and looked up at it. It was the corporal. He moved over to make room for him on the .small clump of grass. "Grab yourself a piece of grass, Rock," he said.

Rocco sank to the ground beside him. He looked at Joe rubbing his feet and smiled. "That's where being a

barber gives you a break," he said; "your feet get used to being stood on." "B. S." Joe said. "You just ain't human, thass all."

Johnny grinned at him and rolled over to face Rocco. "Did yuh find out where at we goin', Rock?

Rock nodded his head slowly. "I think so. Some place along the Meuse River. The Argonne Forest or something."

Joe held his feet up and looked at them, "Do you hear that, doggies?" he said to them. "Now we know where we goin’."

Rocco continued as if Joe hadn't interrupted him. "They say there's a big push startin' off up there."

"How far off is it from here?" Johnny asked. "About thirty, thirty-five miles," Rocco answered. Joe let out a groan and sank back on the grass. They lay there silently for a few minutes. The hum of an airplane motor turned their gaze skyward.

Johnny shaded his eyes and looked up. A gray-painted Spad with French colors was winging its way diagonally across the horizon. Idly their eyes followed it.

"It must be nice and cool up there," Joe said enviously. "At least your feet don't bother you."

Johnny watched it. It was as graceful as a gull in a blue sky with the sunlight shimmering on it. Suddenly it veered sharply and came racing toward them. There was an element of frantic haste about the way it fled across the sky. "I wonder what's the matter with him?" Johnny asked. The question was answered for him. In the sunlight behind the Spad were three red Fokkers with big black crosses painted on their wings. They were flying in tight formation over the little Spad.

Suddenly one peeled off from the formation and dove down toward the little gray Spad. The Spad veered off sharply. It flipped up one wing and banked into a sharp turn and the Fokker dove past it.

Johnny laughed aloud. "The little frog fooled the Heinie." They watched the Spad now fleeing toward the east. "I think he's going to get away from them," Johnny said.

Another Fokker came tearing down at the Spad. They could hear the chatter of its guns over the roar of the motors. It reminded Johnny of the typewriters in the office. "Why doesn't he turn and shoot back at them?" Johnny yelled.

"That's what they want him to do," Rocco said. "Then they can box him in. He's playing it smart trying to outrun 'em."

Again the Spad escaped and the Fokker shot below it. The first Fokker was climbing slowly, but it was far behind the Spad. It would never gain height in time to make another pass at it.

"Only one to go," Joe said. "If he gets away from this one he's in the clear."

As he spoke, the third Fokker went into its dive. They held their breath as they watched. The planes were too far away for any sound to reach their ears now, the whole movement seemed to be enacted in pantomime. Again the Fokker shot under the Spad.

"He made it! He made it!" Johnny was yelling. He turned to Rocco. "Did you see that?"

Rocco didn't answer. He touched Johnny's arm and pointed.

Johnny turned and looked at the Spad. A thin stream of black smoke was pouring behind it. It seemed to waver in the air like a stricken bird. Suddenly it turned on one side and began to slip toward the earth. They could see the flames licking along the wing. It began to rush toward the ground with frightening speed. A small black object detached itself from the burning plane and fell toward the ground.

Johnny jumped to his feet. "The poor guy jumped," he said bitterly.

Rocco pulled him back on the ground. "Stay down," he said sharply. "D'yuh want the Heinies to spot us?"

Johnny sank back on the ground. He felt oddly exhausted. He threw his hands over his eyes to keep the sun from them. Against the black of his lids he could see the small black object detach itself from the burning plane. He took his hands from his eyes and looked toward the sky. The Fokkers were circling in the sky over the spot where the Spad had gone down. After a few seconds they turned and went back toward the German lines and the sky was empty, a clear, tranquil blue. He began to feel the heat again, the weariness seeping through him.

The shrill of the sergeant's whistle startled him. "On your feet, men," he heard the voices calling. He got wearily to his feet. Joe was lacing tight his shoes, Rocco was adjusting his pack. He turned and walked toward the road where the men were forming a column.

Night was beginning to fall as they marched into the little village. The sides of the streets were lined with people who were watching them with quiet imperturbable eyes. Occasion­ally they could see someone holding a small American flag.

They walked automatically, one foot falling in front of the other, their eyes straight ahead. They were too tired to be curious about the people, and the people were too weary to get excited over the soldiers. They were aware of each other, they felt warmth and sympathy and even understanding toward one another, but they were too tired to show it.

Only Joe felt different from the others. At the first sign of a village he perked up. When he saw the people standing there, he looked at them. He smiled at some girls. He nudged Johnny. "Dames," he chortled, "hot zig!"

Johnny plowed along silently. He didn't look up when Joe spoke to him. He was thinking about the last letter he had received from Doris. She had said that motion-picture folks were in the forefront of all the Victory Bond drives. Mary Pickford, Doug Fairbanks, and all the stars had gone out on tours to sell Victory Bonds. Others went on hospital tours. The women were rolling bandages. Peter had made shorts and pictures for the government plugging various home-front activities. Business was booming. Many new theaters had opened and now pictures were being shipped from Hollywood all over the world. In England and the rest of Europe, where the studios had been forced to close down because of the war, American pictures were being avidly demanded and enthusi­astically accepted.

Mark had grown a great deal in the past year. He had finished grammar school and Papa had sent him to a military school. He was hoping the war wouldn't be over before he was old enough to go.

Two new stages had been added to their studio and now it was one of the largest in Hollywood. Edison had demonstrated a talking film—a cylinder hooked up to and synchronized with motion-picture film. Papa, along with many other leading production men in the industry, had looked at it. It wasn't prac­tical.

Johnny cursed to himself silently. This was a hell of a time for him to be away. They were crazy. Couldn't they see that if pictures could be made to speak, they would completely

achieve the level of the stage? He wished he were there so he could see this machine of Edison's.

They were in the center of the town now. It was a big, empty, cobblestoned square. The column drew up in ranks and halted. They swung their packs from their shoulders and rested their guns on the ground. Somewhere to the north they could hear a distant rumble of big guns. It sounded like thunder in the distance.

Johnny's hand on the muzzle of the rifle could feel the vibration coming up from the ground through it. He waited quietly. Idly he wondered whether they were going on through tonight or were going to stay here.

A little French official bustled up to the captain importantly. They talked rapidly for a few minutes, then the cap­tain looked up. "We’ll stay here for the night," he announced. "We're shoving off at four a.m., your noncoms will give you sleeping-quarters. Make the most of it. You'll be lucky if you see a bed in the next few weeks." He turned and walked away with the little French official.

"The hell with that," Joe said through motionless lips to Johnny, "I'm gonna get me a dame."

Rocco overheard him. "You're turnin' in," he said to him. "This ain't no picnic we're goin' on. This is business."

Joe scoffed at him. "I heard that before. All we're gonna do is march up there an' then they're gonna march us somewhere else. This isn't a war against Germany, it's all a conspiracy against my feet."

A lieutenant was coming down toward them. "Shut up," Johnny whispered, "the looey's comin'."

The lieutenant gestured to Rocco. He stepped forward and the officer spoke to him quickly. He gave Rocco a slip of paper and went on down the line to the next platoon.

A few minutes later they were dismissed.

"Where can you get a drink around here?" Joe asked. There wasn't a light visible in the town.

No one answered him. A few seconds later they followed Rocco down the street. They stopped at a small gray house. Rocco knocked at the door.

A man's voice answered in French through the closed door.

Rocco waited until the voice had finished. "We're the Ameri­can soldiers."

The door opened. A tall man with a swarthy black beard opened the door. The yellow light streamed out from behind him. He held his hands wide. "Les Amèricains!" he said. "Come in, come in."

They followed him into the house. He shut the door behind them. "Marie!" he called out. Some rapid words followed in French which they did not understand.

They stood awkwardly just inside the room. Rocco took off his helmet and the other boys followed sheepishly. A girl came into the room carrying some large bottles of wine.

Joe looked around him triumphantly. "I should have known the army would fix us up before we went into battle," he crowed.

The Frenchman smiled at him. "Fix," he said, "yess, fix." He opened the bottle of wine and poured it into glasses. Ceremoniously he passed them around. He held his glass toward them. "Vive l’ Amèrique!"

They drank their wine. He refilled their glasses, then waited. Johnny was the first to guess what he was waiting for. He smiled at the man. "Vive la France!" he said.

Joe was already trying to talk to the girl.

Rocco was shaking his shoulder. He awoke like a cat; one minute he was lying there asleep, the next moment he was awake. Actually he had been waiting for this moment all night. Now when it came, his first reaction was to stay in bed.

"Where's Joe?" Rocco whispered.

"I dunno," Johnny answered. "Isn't he here?"

In the dark Rocco shook his head.

Johnny sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He laced on his shoes. "I'll find him," he said to Rocco.

He walked quietly out of the room into the small hall. He stood for a second until his eyes became used to it and then walked to a door. He opened it and walked in. He went over to the bed in the corner of the room. As he walked toward it, a figure on the bed rolled over and gave forth with a loud familiar snore.

He grinned to himself. He bent over the sleeping figure and suddenly shot a heavy hand down and grabbed Joe by the shoulder. With one tug he pulled him out of bed and onto the floor. "Voowolla," he whispered in his best imitation of a French accent. "Zo thees iss what happen behin' my back!"

Joe struggled fiercely on the floor while Johnny held him there. "I'm sorry, mister," Joe gasped. "I didn't mean anything."

Johnny began to laugh. He let Joe get to his feet. "Come on, sleeping beauty," he said. "We got a war waitin'!"

Joe followed him out into the hall. "How did you know I was in there?" he asked.

Johnny knelt at the door and picked up his shoes and handed them to him silently.

Joe looked at him bewildered. Then he began to grin. "The French, they are a funny race, parley vous," he half sung.

Johnny motioned for him to be quiet.

"I don't care what happens now," Joe said, still smiling. "I've had everything!"