ALTHOUGH there was scarcely an officer who long ago had not realized the full import and significance of the gigantic movement which had concentrated so many hundred thousand Americans in and around that section opposite the German-held St. Mihiel salient, comparatively few of the lads in the line had looked quite so deeply into the situation.

Now it was perfectly clear.

Hundreds of the biggest guns, together with the famous French “75’s” had been concentrated in position a few miles back. Aeroplane squadrons had been constantly patrolling the skies. Every branch of the Engineers had been brought up, and now those brave and intrepid men, the Pioneers, were adding the final touches to the preparations for their hazardous, self-sacrificing task.

For the Pioneers, if you did not know it before, go first of all when it is a concentrated attack upon a well fortified and entrenched position.

It is the Pioneers who pave the way, doing what previous artillery bombardment may have failed to do in cutting wire entanglements, etc.; theirs is the necessary preliminary work, in which, much of the time, they are open targets for the enemy fire.

And then come the engineers, bridging streams, cutting and blasting away earthen and concrete obstructions, filling in shell holes, levelling roads—making ready for the great attack in which every branch of the service on land will participate; infantry, cavalry, light artillery, tanks, trucks, ambulances, field hospitals, everything.

These were the things for which everyone was making ready at ten o’clock the following morning when the first actual order was received. It was an order which in no way affected the men and lesser officers directly, and yet it was one which marked the first step in the tremendous program.

Brigade, regimental and even battalion commanders, which is to say brigadier-generals, colonels, lieutenant-colonels and majors, were summoned to Division Headquarters.

There, as it soon became known, they met not only the major-general in command, but General Pershing himself. Unheralded, he had arrived by fast auto with the break of dawn, and since that time, as hundreds of maps spread out before them testified, he and the major-general had been in most important conference.

To Corporal Tom Walton fell the never-to-be-forgotten privilege of witnessing this historic sight.

His colonel’s aide arrived back from the conference a few moments after it had begun, to get some maps from the colonel’s quarters. He needed someone to help carry them over.

“Corporal Walton,” his direct commander’s voice called, “you will accompany and assist Lieutenant Behring.”

And that was how Tom Walton got his first glimpse of the great American commander, General Pershing. It was a close view, too, for he had to deposit the maps and photographs upon a table only a few feet away from where the generals sat.

In that instant, while Tom was furtively staring at him, General Pershing looked up. It may have been that he did not give a thought to the youth who thus was overcome by a sudden confusion, but Tom believed otherwise, for the eyes seemed to twinkle kindly for just the fraction of a second, the square jaws relaxed just a little, and the line of the mouth relaxed.

Perhaps, on the other hand, with the biggest job of his big career before him, General Pershing was not unmindful of the fact that he had behind him a whole army—thousands upon thousands—of just such clean-cut, courageous, never-say-die Americans as this young man from Brighton.

In a second, however, he was concentrated again upon the problems before him, and Tom, his job completed, was on his way back to his comrades, to tell them over and over again just how General Pershing looked, spoke, acted, and a dozen other details of information which Tom did his best to give.

What actually was going on at that conference was American and world history in the making. It was, as it became known later, the beginning of the end for the Boche and for Germany.

Thousands of maps and photographs were distributed. Every foot of ground to be traversed by every separate unit was marked off, timed and scheduled to the whole program. Each colonel knew to the exact moment the time when his regiment was to go forward from a given point of concentration; every major knew how his battalion was to be divided and thrust eastward under instructions which he was to convey to his respective captains.

No war strategy ever was worked out to finer detail. None ever attained its objective so quickly and successfully.

That afternoon, as the captains were summoned to receive their detailed orders, the greatest excitement prevailed everywhere. Orders are not revealed to the men and non-commissioned officers until the time has arrived to carry them into effect. But there was no longer any concealing the fact that activities of tremendous import were imminent, and all down the lines, as men examined their accoutrements, the word passed and was repeated, “We’re going in.”

And finally some bright mind hit upon a recollection, and thenceforth there was no further doubt as to the day of the advance; only the hour was in doubt.

On September 12, 1914, the Germans, at tremendous sacrifice in their first drive toward Paris, had established the St. Mihiel salient. It had been held steadily ever since, and on this September 10, 1918, it was within two days of that fourth anniversary. It would be fitting punishment that the Huns should begin to suffer retribution on the very day when they might be expected to be feeling as boastful as only a German can.

Yes, there was no doubt about it in any man’s mind. They were going to attack on September 12th.

And so, with this almost definite assurance in mind, the preparations went forward with even renewed vigor and anticipation. No need to urge the men. They worked as boys would for a holiday. The rain, which continued with only slight and infrequent abatement, was no annoyance, was hardly even noticed now.

The big work for which they had prepared for months—first in America, then in England, and finally behind the lines in France—was now at hand. Their mettle was to be tested against the Boche. Their numbers, their ability, their courage were to be thrown into the world contest of Liberty against Autocracy.

“Do you remember how you used to feel just before we went into a game against an eleven that we knew to be at least our own weight?” Ollie breathed to Tom and George, as the three of them were completing the last essentials to a critical inspection.

“Sure do,” replied Tom, the biggest and heaviest of the three, “and I never put on a head-piece with greater anticipation than I do this,” and he clamped his heavy helmet on as though the battle already were under way.

In a muffled voice Harper wanted to know how his gas mask became him, and if really, after all, he wasn’t the long-sought missing link.

There is a cheerfulness about men about to go into battle that only those who have been through it can understand—a thrilling of every nerve that makes one jest, even though death may be stalking only a few yards or a few hours ahead—a forgetfulness of all else but the determined will to fight to the last, and to win.

Suddenly from far to the east there came the muffled thunder of heavy cannonading which brought all three men upright. For a moment they thought that real hostilities were on; but the illusion was not for long. The sporadic reply of their own batteries told them as clearly as words could that it was just “one of those messages from Fritz and Heinie” which of course required a reply, but did not after all amount to very much. It was a sort of exchange of compliments, the lads in the trenches termed it.

Nevertheless every man was on edge, and when a simultaneous shout of warning and expectancy went up from two or three alert fellows who had been gazing skyward, a thousand heads went up, to witness one of those most daring and spectacular exhibitions of the entire war—a battle in the air.

The three Brighton boys—for as such they were known to all their companions—rushed for an elevation already occupied by half a dozen others, and from which a wider sweep of the skyline was to be had.

Even as they did so the real preliminaries to the battle began. The American pilot, who it was now plain had been merely playing the role of the pursued to lead the enemy beyond the aid of any of his own machines, suddenly swerved for the attack.

The Boche pilot was in a small and speedy Albatross, but in maneuvres and tactics he was outmatched by the American, who came at him with such speed and directness that the witnesses, a thousand feet below, held their breath in expectation of a crash that would bring both machines and their pilots to the ground a battered, mangled mass.

But the American pilot knew his game well. He swerved a little upward and over, just as the Hun took a swift nose dive to avoid contact. There was the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire, that sounded from the distance more like the popping of toy guns. Neither made a hit, apparently, but the American plane had the position in which the Boche had to pass under, over or around him in any attempt to reach his own lines.

The German had no heart for battle and headed straight south. Again the American came at him like a streak of lightning, began to climb at the same time, and the enemy tried a downward sweep and a turn northward at the same time. The American turned, too, and those on the ground began to applaud at the advantage he had gained. He was but a relatively short distance behind, but at a much higher altitude.

As the Hun headed northeastward with all the speed he could get out of his Albatross, the American came down the wind, dropping as he came, and with momentum adding to the power of his propeller. When just within range he opened up with a fusilade from his machine gun. The German tried swiftly to change his course, but the effort was made too late.

His plane was seen to hover for a moment first on one wing and then the other, as it seemed to come to a dead halt, and then, just as a little tongue of flame shot outward there was a loud explosion, the Albatross turned its nose downward and crashed to earth.

The American machine circled for a moment, as though the pilot were seeking his exact bearings, and then began a long, slow, gliding descent.

From all directions men by the score hurried over to where the machine would land, learn the identity and get a glimpse of the pilot who had furnished the entertainment.

As he came to the ground, the plane halted and the first of them gathered around, there was a gasp of astonishment and sympathy, the pilot lay back in his seat as white as a ghost, his left arm hung limp at his side, blood trickled from a wound in his shoulder, and obviously he would have fainted and fallen had the battle lasted a few moments longer.

“A stretcher!” cried a lieutenant of the Aviation Corps, who had run to the spot to congratulate his colleague.

A stretcher was brought, and an ambulance came hurrying up. The man was unconscious when he was lifted in.

“Serious, but not fatal,” was the abrupt diagnosis of a surgeon after a cursory examination. “Mostly weakness from loss of blood.”

“But why did he stay up after being hit?” asked one man, more of himself than anyone else.

“The Hun would have been glad to get away at any time,” put in another.

The lieutenant who had called for the stretcher turned in no unfriendly way toward them.

“He didn’t come down until he’d gotten his objective,” he said, “because of the stuff that he’s got in him—the same stuff that you fellows have got, too. You’ll be doing the same and just as good things on land, once you get started—and that won’t be very long now.”

He added the last few words in more of an undertone, as though speaking to himself, but everyone caught the significance of them.

“I believe it’s a good sign,” said Ollie Ogden, as the three friends were slushing over the still slippery return journey, although the long rain had ceased early that morning.

“Believe what’s a good sign?” demanded Harper, impatient that Ollie should be so indirect.

“The way that pilot stayed up and won his fight.”

“Well, how’s that a sign? A sign of what?” Tom broke in.

“Why,” explained Ollie, “I believe it’s a sort of a forecast of this new drive we’re going into, and for that matter the whole war. Some of us may and will get hurt, but we’re going to stick at it until we win, and we’re going to make the quickest possible job of it.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed Tom, “Only in our case we’re not going to invite the enemy over our lines to do it. We’re going to carry the fight to him.”

“You’re right,” added Harper, “and this looks as if it’s not many hours off.”

He pointed to a long string of motor trucks bearing pioneers, engineers, snipers, wire-cutters—the forerunners of a battle in which preliminary difficulties must be overcome.

Tom looked at his wrist watch. It was 6.16 and the sun was just setting. Darkness would soon enclose that part of France in the cloak of night—and it was upon the eve of the fourth anniversary of German-established St. Mihiel saliant!

“Not long is right,” he said, reminiscently.

And Harper added, while Ollie nodded his head in assent:

“We’ll soon be ready to go.”