Morale | Page 4

of
predetermined points. They darted back up the ladders again. The thing
roared once more. Then it swung about, headed for the sand-dunes, and
with an extraordinary smoothness and celerity disappeared inland.

PART II
"... The Wabbly was meant for one purpose, the
undermining of civilian morale. To accomplish that purpose it set
systematically about the establishment of a reign of terror; and so
complete was its success that half the population of a state was in
headlong flight within two hours. It was, first, mysterious; secondly,
deadly, and within a very few hours it had built up a reputation for
invincibility. Judged on the basis of its first twelve hours' work alone, it
was the most successful experiment of the war. Its effect on civilian
morale was incalculable." (Strategic Lessons of the War of 1941-43.--U.
S. War College. Pp. 80-81.)
Two of the members of Observation-Post Fourteen gaped after the
retreating monster. Sergeant Walpole scribbled on the official form.
Just as the monstrous thing dipped down out of sight there was a
vicious, crashing report from its hinder part. Something shrieked....
Sergeant Walpole got up, spitting sand. There was blood on the
report-form in his hand. He folded it painstakingly. Of the two men
who had been with him, one was struggling out of the sand as Sergeant
Walpole had had to do. The other was scattered over a good many
square yards of sandy beach.
"Um. They seen us," said Sergeant Walpole, "an' they got Pete. You'll
have to take this report. I'm goin' after the damn thing."
"What for?" asked the other man blankly.
"To keep it in sight," said Sergeant Walpole. "That's tactics. If
somebody springs somethin' you ain't able to fight, run away but keep it
in sight an' report to the nearest commissioned officer. Remember that.
Now get on. There's monocycles in the village. Get there an' beat that

damn Wabbly thing with the news."
He saw his follower start off, sprinting. That particular soldier, by the
way, was identified by his dog-tag some days later. As nearly as could
be discovered, he had died of gas. But Sergeant Walpole picked up one
of the two rifles, blew sand out of the breech-mechanism, and started
off after the metal monster. He walked in the eight-foot track of one of
its treads. As he went, he continued the cleaning of sand from the rifle
in his hands. The rifle was useless against such a monster, of course,
but it is quaint to reflect that in that automatic rifle, firing hexynitrate
bullets, each equivalent to a six-pounder T.N.T. shell in destructiveness,
Sergeant Walpole carried greater "fire-power" than Napoleon ever
disposed in battle.
The tread of the Wabbly made a perfect roadway. Presently Sergeant
Walpole looked up to find himself scrutinizing somebody's
dining-room table, set for lunch. The Wabbly had crossed a house in its
path without swerving. Walls, chimneys, timbers and planks, all had
gone beneath its treads. But they had been pressed so smoothly flat that
until Sergeant Walpole looked down at his footing, he would not have
known he was walking on the wreckage of a building.
It was half an hour before he reached the village. The Wabbly had gone
from end to end, backed up, and gone over the rest of it again. There
was the taint of gas in the air. Sergeant Walpole halted outside the
debris. His gas-mask had been blown to atoms with Observation-Post
Fourteen.
"They're tryin' to beat the news o' their comin'," he reflected aloud,
"which is why they smashed up the village. The telephone exchange
was there.... Tillie's under there somewheres...."
He fumbled with the rifle, suddenly swearing queerly hate-distorted
oaths. Tillie had not been the great love of Sergeant Walpole's life. She
was merely a country telephone operator, reasonably pretty, and
flattered by his uniform. But she was under a mass of splintered wood
and crushed brick-work, killed while trying to connect with the tight
beam to Area Headquarters to report the monster rushing upon the

village. That monster had destroyed the little settlement. There was
nothing left at all but wreckage and the eight-foot tracks of monster
treads. Sometimes those tracks crossed each other. Between them
wreckage survived to a height of as much as four feet, which was the
clearance of the Wabbly's body.
Something roared low overhead. Sergeant Walpole swore bitterly,
looked upward, and waited to die. But the small plane was American,
and old. It was a training-plane, useless for front-line work. It dived to
earth, the pilot waved impatiently, and Walpole plunged to a place
beside him. Instantly thereafter the plane took off.
"What was it?" shouted the pilot, sliding off at panic-stricken speed
across the tree-tops. "They heard the bombs go off all the way to Philly.
Sent me. What in hell