Army Boys marching into Germany

It was a good-sized city into which the army marched, and the streets were full of people. There were other thousands who peered from behind window curtains at the hated newcomers, these Americans, who, they had been told by their lying government, could never get to France, and who, if they did get there, would run at the sight of German uniforms. They had run, but they had run after the Germans instead of away from them, and that trifling fact had made all the difference in the world.

There was no demonstration of any kind. The people looked on in sullen silence. Only the children showed interest. They were too young to understand what the coming of the Americans meant to their elders, and the flying flags and stirring music appealed to them as a spectacle and delighted them.

The American authorities took charge of the town and issued proclamations telling the people just how they were to conduct themselves under the American occupation. The ordinary business of the town was to go on as usual, and the civil authorities would not be interfered with as long as good order was maintained. After a certain hour at night, no citizen was to be allowed on the streets. American officers were to be saluted when they passed. Hats were to be lifted when the American flag appeared and when the American national air was played. The people were warned that the rules were to be strictly obeyed and that any disorder would be sharply and instantly repressed.

“And they’re getting off mighty easy at that,” grumbled Tom. “What we ought to do is to give them a taste of their own medicine. We ought to post up the same regulations here that the Germans did in the towns of France and Belgium.”

“We couldn’t do that,” objected Frank. “They were brutes and those things came natural to them. But we’re Americans.”

“Of course, you’re right,” admitted Tom. “Just the same it makes my blood boil at the contrast between what they deserve and what they’re getting. Look at these streets and houses, not showing a mark of war, and then picture the towns of France and Belgium, where only heaps of rubbish mark the passage of the Hun.”

“Speaking of that,” broke in Billy, “here’s a picture post-card that I picked up in the street a little while ago. It shows a group of Germans destroying the machinery in a French mill, smashing delicate and costly machinery to bits. The Germans had stopped working for a few minutes, so that they could be photographed and the pictures could be published in Germany. That’s what it is that makes the case of the Huns so hopeless. If any other nation did such things, it wouldn’t at least brag of it. But the Huns are actually proud of it. The dirtier the deed the greater the pride.”

“Yes,” replied Frank, “and I heard of a case where they sank lower still. After they had taken a picture of a mill they had broken up, very similar to this, they sent one of the pictures to the former French owner of the mill, and the picture had written on it: ‘This is the way your mill looks now.’”

“Oh, well, what’s the use,” growled Billy. “We’ve licked them and licked them good and proper. We’ll have to let it go at that, though I think as Tom does, that they ought to get a stiffer dose.”

“One thing is certain,” grunted Tom, “and that is if I’m a member of the provost-marshal’s guard in this town, I’ll make these fellows walk Spanish if they look cross-eyed at me.”

But Tom had no chance for this, for in another day or two the regiment went on, while other units of the division remained to garrison the town.

In the meantime, the boys had seen Dick, but to their disappointment he had no definite news for them. Only once more had he caught sight of the lonely figure, but while he was manœuvring his machine to make a descent the man had disappeared. He landed and made a search, but without result. Since that time he had kept a sharp lookout, but had seen no further trace of him.

“But I’ll keep on looking,” promised Dick. “I’m getting just as much excited about this mystery as you fellows are yourselves.”

“Here’s hoping,” replied Frank. “But it wrings my heart to think of poor Bart, if it is he, wandering around in that forlorn way. I only wish that we could get off to look for him.”

They were passing through the country districts now and the villages at which they stopped at night could not accommodate the men in their houses. These were occupied by the officers, while the men stayed in their tents.

The weather was getting colder, and the men had extra blankets served out to them. These were ample to keep them warm, but one morning Frank awoke shivering. Reveille had not yet sounded, and he turned over for another “forty winks” and drew his blankets closer. But he was still chilly, and on investigation he found that one of his blankets had disappeared.

At first he thought that either Tom or Billy must have played a joke on him. He went over to where they lay, but they only had their regular quota, and they protested so vigorously against being disturbed that he let them alone. Later when he questioned them about the matter, they denied knowing anything about it.

“It must have been one of the fellows from another tent,” suggested Billy. “He’s felt cold in the night and has come in and swiped yours. Pretty small potatoes, I call it.”

“I’d like to catch him doing it,” growled Frank. “I’d make it so warm for him that he wouldn’t feel any need of blankets.”

“He’s got his nerve with him to swipe things from the best boxer in the regiment,” remarked Tom.

“You’d better bone the quartermaster for another blanket,” counseled Billy.

Frank got another blanket in the course of the day and that night he tucked it in around him with unusual care. It would take some tugging to get that away from him.

It must have been considerably after midnight when he was conscious of something that disturbed him. But he was very tired, and after a moment he turned over to go to sleep again. Then came a distinct tug at the blanket that had him awake in an instant.

It was very dark in the tent, but he could discern dimly the figure of a man standing beside him.

“Now,” thought Frank grimly to himself, “my fine fellow, here’s where you get the shock of your young life.”

He gathered himself for a spring, leaped to his feet and grappled with the intruder. The latter tried to escape, but Frank launched himself into him with such impetus that they both went down together.

The head of the unknown struck the ground hard and he lay still. Frank was alarmed.

“Quick!” he called, as Tom and Billy, aroused by the fracas, rushed toward him. “Strike a match, one of you.”

Billy did so, and as the light flashed upon the face of the prostrate man they gave a shout.

“Bart!”