Instantly the three prisoners set up a yell, explaining the situation, and with answering yells their comrades rushed toward them.
"I guess the game's up!" thought Franz grimly. "This was too good to last!"
He fired into the midst of the Germans, seeing two go down. Then some one either crept up behind him and struck him or he was hit by a missile thrown or by a glancing bullet, for he suddenly fell and lost consciousness, and when he revived, under a rain of kicks bestowed on his prostrate body by a brutal soldier, it was to find himself in the midst of a circle of Huns.
"Get up, pig-dog of an American!" spluttered the German captain. "You will capture our men, will you? Now you are a prisoner. The tables are turned!"
He spoke in German, and, of course, Franz understood. Before he realized what he was doing he snapped back an answer in the same tongue, not thinking what the consequences would be.
"I won't be a prisoner long!" said Franz. Hearing his own language from an enemy prisoner, he reached the conclusion that the speaker was of German parentage. This seemed to enrage the Boche captain. With crimson face he yelled:
"Ho! So you are a renegade German, are you? You fight against your own countrymen! Well, we know the right punishment for that. Get up, you traitor!" and he kicked poor Schnitz brutally. "Drag him along if he won't walk!" cried the captain to his men, and some of them, with ready bayonets, drew nearer to Franz.
"We're smashing through! We're smashing through!"
It was Jimmy who cried this. A turn of the battle had thrown him in contact with Roger, Bob, and Iggy after some hours of fighting, and once more they were pressing onward again.
There had been only time for a hurried word of inquiry—enough to learn that none of the four was injured at all seriously, though each one had had narrow escapes.
"Seen anything of Schnitz?" cried Jimmy, as he leaped forward to the attack again.
"He was with us a little while ago," shouted Bob. "I guess we'll find him up ahead!"
They did not know the fate that had befallen poor Franz.
"Are you all right, Iggy?" asked Roger.
"Sure I iss! Of what is left of me. But I a piece of my tin hat dit leaf behind," and he showed where a bullet or a fragment of shrapnel had shorn away part of his steel helmet.
"Close call that," commented Bob.
"Oh, well, I should of worry haf dot it iss not mine head," said Iggy, with a smile.
And while the four, together with a vast army of Americans, were pressing on, the Germans were being driven back. It is no wonder that Jimmy had cried out that the Allies were smashing through.
For the spear-head had been bent back. No longer was it a menace, and, in their turn, the Americans were forcing one into the German line—a broader spear-head, with the consequent chance of dividing the foe's line and turning either flank.
"Come on, boys! Come on!" cried a lieutenant. "Let's finish the job. Only a few hundred more yards, and we'll have reached our objective!"
And on they rushed, some falling, destined never to see the final glory of the American arms, others staggering along, exhausted or wounded, but never slacking while they had life to move.
And finally, after a desperate struggle, the triumphant cry that Jimmy had raised was shouted all along the line:
"We're smashing through! We're smashing through!"
And, indeed, the German line was smashed at this particular sector. They were fleeing now—the Huns. Throwing aside their guns and equipment, there was a mad struggle to get away—anywhere for safety.
Back the Germans were pushed. They were in desperation, many of them. They feared the American guns, they feared the American infantry, and they feared the "Teufel Hunds"—the "devil dogs"—of Marines. And the fear was translated into flight.
"Cease firing!" came the whistled order, and it was with thankful hearts that Jimmy and his three Brothers dropped down on the shell-scarred earth, too exhausted to longer hold their guns or even to stack them. It had been a battle to the death, and death had been the portion of many.
Almost before the panting breath of the tired soldiers had been throttled down to normal came the order:
"Dig in!"
It was expected, but it was none too welcome. Nevertheless, they all knew the necessity of doing as they were told. At any moment the Germans might bring up reserves and make a counter-attack. This must be guarded against.
And so the weary Sammies had to scratch holes in the ground, like veritable animals, to obtain shelter. Still no one murmured. They knew their very lives might depend on this rude shelter.
But as night settled down it began to be evident that the Boche had had enough. He was not going to make a counter-attack—at least not until his scattered forces were collected.
And then came a rest period, when such food as was available was eaten. It was not much—merely the emergency rations, but the soldiers were glad enough to eat them. They had advanced so far that it was impossible to bring up the kitchens in time.
"Where are you going, Jimmy?" asked Roger, as, after the hasty meal, he saw the young sergeant get up and move about.
"I'm going to see if I can get any word of Franz," was the answer. "You say he was with you fellows until just before you met me."
"Yes," said Bob. "He was with us when we were going to attack the house where the machine guns were. One of our shells saved us the trouble. Then we all went on and got into a sort of little gully. Right after that I missed Franz."
"I didn't see him after that, either," added Roger. "I hope he—I hope he's all right," he faltered.
"Oh, I guess he is," said Jimmy, but he could not get much conviction into his voice. Truth to tell, Jimmy did not really believe Franz was all right. Of course, he might have been swept to the right or the left in the waves of fighting and have been kept temporarily with some other detachment than his own. But several hours had now passed since the word had been given to cease firing, and Franz had not rejoined his own company.
"I'm going to see if I can get any trace of him," declared Jimmy.
"Maybe I'd better come along," suggested Roger. "Two can hunt better than one."
"All right," Jimmy assented. "Bob, you and Iggy stay here. Keep your ears and eyes open. Franz may come back while we're away."
Jimmy and Roger obtained permission to go back over the battleground to look for their comrade. It was a gruesome task, and the sights they saw were not pleasant. Here and there the stretcher bearers were busy taking the wounded to the nearest first-aid stations.
Roger led the way to the last place he had seen Franz. This was the little gully spoken of, where Schnitz had become separated from his companions just before he discovered the three German machine gunners, whom he made prisoners. But, of course, Roger and Jimmy knew nothing of this.
They searched as best they could in the fast-gathering darkness, but found no trace of Franz Schnitzel, nor did they get any word about him. Many to whom the two spoke knew the sergeant, but they declared they had not seen him except during the early part of the battle.
"Maybe he'll show up to-morrow," said Roger hopefully, when he and Jimmy turned back to join Bob and Iggy.
"Maybe he's back with the boys now," suggested Jimmy, trying to believe what he said.
But when they joined their chums there was no word from the missing "Brother," and it was with sorrowful hearts that they passed the night. Some of them were on guard duty, and through the long watches they waited eagerly for some word. But none came.
Then followed days of sorrow, for when morning dawned, bringing with it the work of constructing new trenches, Franz had not appeared, and when the roll was called he was listed as "missing in action."
"He's either dead or a prisoner," decided Jimmy, on the third day, when it was certain that Schnitz was not among the wounded.
"If he were dead wouldn't we find his body?" asked Bob.
"Not necessarily," answered Jimmy. "If a shell landed near him he——"
But he could not finish. It was not necessary. His comrades understood what he meant.
As for Franz, he was beaten and kicked to his feet and made to stagger on in the midst of his captors. The blow on his head had only stunned him. It was not serious, though very painful, and he felt in a daze as he was stripped of his weapons and most of his possessions and made to march in a round-about way toward the German lines. At this point the two forces were close together, and, as Franz had surmised, the Americans had fairly rushed over the machine-gun nest, or rather, they had passed on either side of it. And the Huns were preparing to use the weapon in a sort of rear action when Franz captured them, only, himself, to fall a like victim a little later.
"Traitor! Dog! Pig!" were some of the mildest epithets cast at Franz, as he was half-dragged along. Nor was it all mere words. He was kicked and cuffed, for the Germans seemed to like to vent their spite on him.
But Schnitz was game. Not a complaint did he utter. But he wondered what would be his fate and whither he was being taken.
"Another prison camp, I suppose," he reflected bitterly.
Conviction that Franz was in dire straits somewhere became almost certainty with Jimmy and his three chums as the days went by. But where, they did not know. A careful search had failed to reveal his body, and he was not among the wounded brought back to the hospitals.
But no inquiry could disclose where he was in case the Germans had him a prisoner. Jimmy told his chums that. And there was no positive proof that he was not killed. For many bodies were in such a state as to be unrecognizable, and from some even the identification disk was missing.
"Poor Franz!" sighed Bob, as the four talked it over together in the trenches or in some dugout, for they found several that the Germans had been forced to abandon. "It's just his luck to be captured again."
"Well, let's hope that he has that luck," suggested Roger. "Of course, it's tough luck, all right, but being captured, even by a Hun is some better than being killed. There's a chance if you're a prisoner—always a chance of escaping. But there's no escape from death. Of course, I know that to be in some of the prison camps is almost worse than death. But let's hope for the best."
"The worst of it is we can't do anything!" complained Bob. "That's what gets me—having to sit here and let him suffer maybe."
"It is hard," agreed Jimmy. "But we aren't doing much sitting around. There's too much else to be done. I've got to go out on listening post soon."
"I'm down for sentry go," added Roger.
"I a letter will write to mine mothar!" decided Iggy. "I from being up by de front door haf been, so I get a vacation."
"You're entitled to it," declared Jimmy. For the Polish lad had been assigned to a trench where German snipers were active, and more than one American had lost his life by the incautious exposure of just the top of his head. Iggy had had the luck to spot one of these pests, and had brought down the Hun, thereby winning the gratitude of his comrades.
But even the hardest kind of duty could not take from the four Brothers the sorrow that was in their hearts over Franz. It was almost worse than knowing he was dead, not to know what had become of him.
But there was nothing they could do. Jimmy spoke to their captain about it, but the officer shook his head.
"I've made inquiries," he said, "but there isn't a trace of the sergeant. Too bad, too, for he was a fine lad. We can only hope. And, if he is gone, make the beasts pay for him!"
It was about a week after the successful advance of the American forces when the spear-head had been wiped out and the German lines smashed completely through in several places that Jimmy and Roger were detailed to go some distance to the rear with messages and information for headquarters. They were assigned to a motorcycle and side car, Jimmy on the machine and Roger riding beside him.
"Well, this is a whole lot better than hiking it!" said Jimmy, as they started off.
"I don't—know—that—it—is!" stuttered Roger, as the car swerved from side to side over the rough roads. "When you walk you can go slow enough not to bite your tongue, but in this outfit you seem to hit only the high and low spots."
"It isn't what you'd call an asphalt pavement," agreed Jimmy, as he steered to one side to avoid a big shell hole. "But we'll get there."
Their journey was not exactly void of danger, for about halfway to the brigade headquarters, where they were to leave their messages, several Hun aeroplanes passed over the American lines. And at once some Allied machines came swooping along to give them combat. The German machines dropped several bombs, evidently searching out ammunition dumps, and one explosion took place in the road just before Roger and Jimmy passed over the spot on the motorcycle.
"Whew!" cried Jimmy, as he crouched to avoid the shower of dirt and stones. "That was a close one!"
"Too close for comfort!" agreed Roger. "Can you get around that hole?"
"Just about," murmured Jimmy. "It's some hole!"
But that was the only bomb that fell near them, and it was evident that it was not dropped for their discomfiture. For, though the Hun airmen might have observed the motorcycle shooting along beneath them, they would hardly have wasted a big bomb on it, when they might use the same weapon to set off a lot of American ammunition.
"They're getting a bit too personal," observed Roger, as they speeded on. "And look, Jimmy! There are a lot of our planes going to smash up the Huns now."
"Good enough!" returned Jimmy, not taking his eyes off the road ahead of him, for careful driving was required.
"Maybe the Twinkle Twins are up there," added Roger, gazing aloft.
"Maybe," assented Jimmy. And then, striking a fairly good stretch of road, he put on more speed, and they were soon at headquarters.
Most of the officers, as well as many of the men, were out watching the combat of the air. It soon terminated in favor of the Americans, and when two of the hostile craft had been shot down the others turned tail and fled.
"I hope our boys got the Hun who dropped the bomb so near us!" exclaimed Roger.
They delivered their message, and were waiting for an answer to be prepared when they observed a squad of signal corps men passing on their way to duty. The officer in command had to stop at brigade headquarters for instructions, and, leaving his men standing at ease, he went inside the old farmhouse which served as an office for the commanders.
"That's the same outfit the Bixtons are with," said Jimmy to Roger, recalling the incident of the dugout and his subsequent recognition of the two soldiers who had been talking to the civilians.
"Are they there now?" asked Roger.
"Don't see 'em. But maybe I can get some information. I'd like to know if Private Bixton, the chap we exposed at Camp Sterling, is any relation to the two men of the same name here."
Jimmy strolled over toward the men of the signal corps who were waiting for the reappearance of their officers. Some of the lads who formed part of the "eyes and ears" of the army nodded in friendly fashion to the two Khaki Boys, and Jimmy, selecting a man who seemed to be a veteran in fighting and in signal work, remarked:
"Haven't you a couple of fellows named Bixton in your outfit?"
"Why, yes, the Bixton boys are with us," was the answer of the private to whom Jimmy addressed himself. "That is, they belong to our outfit, but they're not here now. They're going to join us before we go much further to the front, though. Why, do you lads know 'em?"
"Not exactly," returned Jimmy. "We've seen 'em," he added, not specifying where. "But we knew a fellow back home—at Camp Sterling, to be exact—whose name was Bixton, and we wondered if he was any relation to these two here."
"Oh, ho! so you knew Mike Bixton, did you?" exclaimed the signal corps private, who gave his name as Anson.
"I didn't know his name was Mike," said Roger. "Guess we never heard his first name, did we, Jimmy?"
"Not that I remember. So he's a relative of these Bixtons, is he?"
"A cousin," volunteered Anson. "Course I don't want to get personal," he went on in a sort of free-and-easy Western style, "but what sort of chap was this Mike Bixton?"
Jimmy and Roger hesitated. It was hardly ethics to talk about a fellow soldier, and yet Private Bixton was out of that class. He was a deserter, entitled to no consideration, and he was worse than a deserter—he was, in fact, a traitor.
"Well, to be frank, and not to spread bad information, we didn't know very much good about Bixton of Camp Sterling," said Jimmy.
"I thought so!" chuckled Anson. "I thought where there was so much smoke there must be a bit of fire."
"What do you mean?" asked Roger.
"Well, these Bixtons here," went on Anson, stepping aside to speak more confidentially to Roger and Jimmy, "are making quite a fuss over their cousin, Mike Bixton."
"What sort of fuss?" asked Jimmy.
"Oh, saying he didn't get fair treatment, that he was misunderstood, that everybody was down on him, and all that. I don't know all the particulars, but I judge Mike must have been punished in some way at Camp Sterling."
"He was sent to prison as a deserter," said Jimmy.
"Cracky! As bad as that! Well, well! I suspected there was an African gentleman in the fuel heap somewhere," chuckled Anson. "That accounts for a lot."
"A lot of what?" asked Roger.
"A lot of talk by these Bixtons. They claim their cousin was persecuted by a couple of lads in Camp Sterling. Say these two lads—whoever they were—did all sorts of mean things to Mike Bixton in the training camp.
"And what's more," went on the old signal-corps soldier, "these Bixtons here say that if they ever find out who the two camp fellows were who helped send their relative away they'll do all sorts of things to 'em—treat 'em rough, and all that. I'd just like to see what they would do if they found out who the camp lads were. I'd just like to see. I'd give a lot to be there to see what happens when they meet those two fellows. They say it'll go hard with, 'em. I shouldn't like to be in their shoes. These Bixtons are tough lads and fighters! If they ever discover the two who were responsible for their cousin's predicament—whew! there'll be something doing."
Roger and Jimmy looked at one another. The face of Roger was a bit serious as Signaler Anson shook his head and repeated:
"It'll go hard with the fellows, whoever they are, who were responsible for the Bixtons' cousin going to jail."
"So you think it wouldn't be wise for the two lads who exposed Mike Bixton to let their identity be known to the two Bixtons in your signal corps, do you?" Jimmy asked.
"I'm positive it wouldn't be a bit wise," declared Anson. "But I guess it won't ever be known who those two fellows were."
"Oh, it might be," replied Jimmy easily.
"No, sir!" declared Anson. "That is, it won't if it's up to the fellows themselves to make their identity known. They'll lie low if they're wise and not give themselves away to these Bixton lads. They're fighters, I tell you, these two fellows—and bad fighters at that."
"Well, so are we!" exclaimed Jimmy, and in such a tone that Anson looked curiously at him, and asked:
"What do you mean? By any chance are you——"
"Yes, we're the two fellows who had a hand in putting Mike Bixton where he belongs," declared Jimmy. "Blaise is my name, and this is Roger Barlow," and he nodded at his chum. "He and I," he went on, "did the most, I suppose, in finding out Mike Bixton's mean tricks and exposing him. Of course, others helped us, but we did the most. And I am glad we did. I'd do it over again if I had to! This Bixton was one of the meanest sneaks that ever came over the pike! He tried to put the blame for a rotten trick on one of our friends. But his plan didn't work! Jail is too good a place for Mike Bixton."
"And are you really the fellows who put him there?" asked Anson.
"We two!" declared Roger, backing up his chum.
"I wouldn't have believed it!" confessed Anson. "I mean you look like peaceable chaps," he added.
"Oh, we can fight when we have to," said Jimmy, with a laugh. "And another thing. If these two Bixtons here want to know who it was that sent their cousin to jail, just refer them to us. If——"
At that moment Anson looked over Jimmy's head and what he saw seemed to astonish him He made a frantic sign to Jimmy Blaise, but that lad, uncomprehending, went on saying:
"If these Bixtons here want to know who sent their cousin to jail, tell them we did—Roger Barlow and Jimmy Blaise, both sergeants in the 509th Infantry. Tell 'em that!"
"You can tell 'em yourself," said Anson, with a queer grin on his face. "There the two Bixtons are, right behind you!"
Jimmy wheeled, to see the two soldiers he had noticed in the dugout confronting him. At least, he was almost certain they were the same ones, though, as he admitted later, he might have been mistaken. But there was no mistaking the fact now that the two Bixtons were ugly-looking chaps. They scowled at Jimmy and Roger, and Aleck advanced threateningly.
"Did you say your name was Blaise?" he asked Jimmy.
"Yes," was the quiet answer.
"And his name is Barlow?"
"That's me," admitted Roger cheerfully.
"Well, we heard what you were saying just now to Anson," went on Aleck Bixton. "Did you mean what you said, or was it just a stall? Did you two send our cousin Mike to jail?"
"If your cousin was Mike Bixton, of Camp Sterling, we certainly did!" said Jimmy calmly.
"Well I'll be—gassed!" ejaculated Wilbur Bixton. "Say, you fellows certainly have your nerve with you!"
"Here, let me settle with these dubs!" broke in Aleck, with a voice like the growl of an angry bear. "I'll just tell 'em where they get off."
He strode forward, his fists clenched, his under jaw shot out, his eyes half closed. He bore every mark of the bully and fighter. Thrusting his face almost into the countenance of Jimmy Blaise, Aleck Bixton snarled:
"Now look here, you fresh bloke, you're in for a fine time! My brother and I have been looking for a long while to find the fellows who played Mike that dirty trick. We began to think we wouldn't ever locate 'em; but we have! You're the two, so you say. Well, I want to tell you that you were fools to give yourselves away, though we're mighty glad you did. It saves us a lot of trouble trying to find you."
"Then are you glad you found us?" asked Jimmy.
"You said it! Now you're in for the finest licking you ever had. I'm going to give you one, and my brother'll give you another. We're going to beat you up good and proper, and then we'll write back and tell Mike we met you. He gave us your names, but we didn't know where to look for you. Now we've found you, and, say, what we won't do to you won't be worth making a report on! Come on, Wilbur, take off your coat and start in on this other guy while I polish off this Blaise. I'll blaze his face for him!"
"Not here!" exclaimed Anson. "You can't fight here!"
"We can't? You just watch me!" snapped Aleck. "I'm going to——"
"No you're not!" broke in his brother, catching him by the arm and pulling him back. "We'll have to wait—here come the officers!"
As he spoke a group of brigade officers passed, and the two Bixtons, as well as Jimmy and Roger, saluted. The officers stood in a group not far away, discussing some matter. Obviously it was not the place for a fight. Even Aleck recognized that.
"All right!" he growled. "This'll have to wait. But don't get it in your head that we'll forget—you two!" he added. "I said we'd beat you up and we will—good and proper! Only we'll have to take another time. The next time we meet you there'll be something doing—don't forget that. There'll be something doing! We'll fix you yet, Blaise and Barlow!"
"That's what we will!" chimed in Wilbur. "We'll make you sorry you ever sent poor Mike to jail!"
"I doubt your last statement," said Jimmy, in an easy, though low voice, for none of the disputants cared to have the officers overhear them. "Mike deserved to go to jail, and there's where he is now, if he hasn't escaped. And we'll never be sorry we had a hand in sending him there. It's where he belongs!"
"Say, you—you——" spluttered Aleck.
"Cut it out—here comes our captain!" warned Wilbur in a low voice. "We'll settle with 'em later!"
"That's what we will!" snapped out Aleck, as he moved away with the signal corps. And, as they passed on, the two Bixtons cast angry looks at the Khaki Boys.
But if they imagined that these looks troubled Roger or Jimmy, the two who had uttered such dreadful threats were utterly mistaken. The Khaki Boys only smiled, though as Anson, who was a middle-aged man, marched on, he shook his head dubiously.
Jimmy and Roger stood for a moment looking after the departing signal corps members. The two Bixtons carried the black box, as on the occasion when Jimmy had seen them before.
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked Roger of his chum.
"I don't think much of them!" exclaimed Jimmy.
"Me either. Think they'll try any rough stuff? Not that I'm worrying," he went on. "I'm just wondering."
"Well, they may try to give us a nasty turn if they get us alone," admitted Jimmy. "But we'll take a chance. These fellows may be what Anson said they were—scrappers and fighters. And it may be that they are just bluffs—talkers, wind bags."
"They struck me a bit that way," admitted Roger. "But say, you know you spoke of their being in the dugout that time. Are you sure, now, that they were there?"
"Pretty certain," admitted Jimmy. "I don't know that I'm certain enough of it to report to the captain, but in my own mind I feel pretty sure. I'm going to keep my eyes open, however. If those fellows are up to any underhand work we'll find out about it."
"I wouldn't put it past them to try something like that," said Roger. "Now that we know they're of the same family of Bixtons as the fellow at Camp Sterling we know what to expect."
"You said it!" declared Jimmy earnestly. "Well, I guess here comes our reply message. We'll have to hit the back trail."
A little later they were on their way over the rough roads toward the trenches where their company was quartered, waiting again for the word to go over the top and attack the Huns.
As Roger and Jimmy reached their comrades they saw Bob and Iggy strolling along a camouflaged road that led to some of the dugouts and trenches.
"Any news from Franz?" asked Jimmy, as he slowed down the motorcycle.
Bob shook his head, and Iggy answered:
"No, not efen a letter!"
"Huh! Fat chance he has of sending a letter if he's in a German prison camp!" said Jimmy, a bit gloomily. "I don't wish him any bad luck," he went on, "but I'd rather know he was in a camp than—well than somewhere else, as long as he can't be with us," he finished, and his chums understood what he meant.
After Roger and Jimmy had delivered their answer and had reported back to their company, which was stationed in a fairly comfortable dugout, they told Bob and Iggy of their experience with the two Bixtons.
"Say, Franz ought to meet them!" declared Bob. "He could tell them something about Mike and the ground glass and poison list that would change their mind about the character of their sweet cousin."
"I don't believe anyone could change their minds," affirmed Jimmy. "They're too mean, themselves, for that. Well, Roger and I are not worrying. Now then, what's the news here since we went away? Any rumors of a fight?"
"Plenty of 'em!" said Bob. "The air is full of rumors, and I guess it will soon be full of bullets. We're going over the top again in the morning."
"Well, the sooner the better," said Jimmy. And though he spoke lightly there was an undercurrent of meaning in his words. Going over the top in the morning always meant many gaps in the ranks the following night. But it had to be done.
The Khaki Boys were sitting in their dugout awaiting their turn to go on duty, a turn which would come soon after mess, when they were startled by hearing out in the main trench excited cries of:
"No! No! It can't be done! It's agin th' regerlations!"
And then, as if in an answering chorus in a play, there sounded deep voices, saying:
"We want pie! We want pie!"
"Oh, fer th' love of spoons, let me alone, will you? Ain't it hard enough to give you reg'ler stuff without havin' you ask fer pie? Pie! Why, my great wash boiler, how'm I goin' to make pie? It can't be done, I tell you! It can't be done!"
And again came in solemn chorus.
"We want pie! We want pie!"
The Khaki Boys looked at one another wonderingly.
"Well," remarked Jimmy, as he finished the cleaning of his revolver and started toward the door of the dugout, "if those voices weren't in English I'd say the Germans had put one over on us and were raiding the trench for pie."
"Sounds something like that," admitted Bob. "What's it all about, anyhow?"
"Let's take a look," suggested Roger.
"And should it be dat some pies iss out there, maybe we could of take more as a look," put in Iggy. "Maybe a bite we could of took."
"You said something that time, Iggy!" laughed Bob.
The four Brothers stepped out into the trench. It was not one of the front line trenches, and was not in very great danger from a German bombardment.
What the Khaki Boys saw was a much perplexed company cook, a tall, lanky Western lad, trying to stand off the good-natured verbal attacks of a crowd of hungry doughboys who had just been relieved from a rather long tour in the front trenches.
"We want pie! We want pie!" they solemnly chanted, as though it were a dirge.
"An' by Gregory Josephus I tell you it's agin the regerlations!" declared Hiram Miller, the cook. "How'm I goin' to give you fellows pie, when I ain't got so much as a prune, now, to make it of? An' no flour—no nothin', in fact! You an' your pie! If you git canned Willie you ought to be thankful. Canned Willie an' beans is all the grub I've got."
At this mention of canned corned beef, generally dubbed "Willie," or "Bill," there was a groan from the lads who had just come off duty.
"Beans!" cried one. "I'm ashamed to look a bean in the eye."
"Beans don't have eyes—you're thinking of potatoes!" was a retort.
"Well, give us potatoes then, but not beans, O Cookie!"
"Make it a beef stew with plenty of gravy!" shouted a burly chap.
"Pie! Pie! We want pie!" came the grim chorus again.
"Say, you fellers'll drive me crazy!" stormed the cook, shaking his fists in the air. "There ain't no such animile as pie, gol ding it!"
"Give us pudding then!" someone suggested.
"Oh say! By Hezekiah Slifkins!" cried the cook. "If you fellers want puddin' make it yourselves! I'm through!"
Bob had a sudden inspiration. As he saw the tired, careworn faces of the lads who had just come in from a nerve-racking tour of duty, exposed to death and danger—faces which, in the ordinary course of events, were too young to have such strained looks, Bob wished he could do something to help relieve them. And, from his own experience, he knew that food would do this.
"And there is food—and food," he told himself.
The daily mess of the trench was not very elaborate—in the nature of things it could not be. And one of the great cravings of the fighters was for sweets. That is why there was such a lot of chocolate used.
"Pie! Pie! We want pie!" came the doleful chant again.
"By Theophilus Porkenheimer!" shouted the cook, "if I hear that there word agin, I'll——"
"Say," said Bob, sliding up to him, "have you any bread or crackers?"
"Yes, I've got lots of that, son. Fresh supply jest come in."
"Got any molasses and condensed milk?"
"Yep. But say, that ain't pie, nor yet puddin'."
"Maybe we can turn it into something like it," went on Bob, "if we've got any prunes in this dump——"
"Prunes! By Hezekiah Albatross!" cried the cook, "there ain't a prune nigher'n ten mile!"
"Yes there is!" asserted one of the doughboys. "The supply company in the next trench has a lot of 'em, but they're short of condensed milk. If we could make a trade——"
"Go try it!" cried Bob. "If—well, we'll make some prune slump."
"Who's 'we,' an' what's 'prune slump'?" asked the cook. "Dunno's I ever hearn tell of it."
"By 'we' I mean Jimmy, Roger, Iggy and I can make prune slump," went on Bob. "I suppose you'd call it plum duff in the navy. But you take some prunes, stew 'em, make a sort of batter of crumbled-up bread or crackers, slap in some molasses and condensed milk, and bake it in a pan. We used to have it at Camp Sterling. 'Member, Jimmy?"
"I should say so! Go to it, kiddo!"
"Here are the prunes!" cried a lad, coming back with a big bag full. "They were crazy to trade 'em for condensed milk. Trot out your cans, Cookie."
"All right. By Chesapeake Bay, maybe there'll somethin' come of this after all! Prune slump! I'll try to make it, boys, but I ain't guaranteein' nothin'. 'Twon't be pie, but mebby it'll take on a flavor of puddin'! I'll make it."
"Bully for you, Dalton, old scout, for thinking of it," said one of the lads who had demanded pie. "We're crazy for something like that. It'll be like a little bit of home."
"Or Ireland!" suggested a quiet looking lad.
Then someone started to sing a popular song. They all joined in, and the cook, with a look of relief on his face, hastened back to the rude shelter that served for a kitchen and began to prepare the prune slump.
It was a great success, and the name of Bob Dalton was long remembered among his associates who partook of the concoction, for it was just that, being, as one lad remarked, about as unknown a mixture as a beef stew. But it was good. They all voted that.
It was dark when Jimmy, Roger, Bob and Iggy went on duty up to one of the front trenches. They were on a sector where activity might break out at any moment, and there was need for great alertness.
Jimmy and Roger, assigned to one platoon, were to take turns doing sentry duty in one traverse, while Iggy and Bob were sent to another near by.
Jimmy took his place on the fire step, and there he would stand until relieved, never taking his eyes from that grim stretch of dark earth in front of him, called "No Man's Land." On the other side of it were the German trenches, and from them, at any moment, might issue the Boche fighters in a raid.
Roger crouched as comfortably as he could at Jimmy's feet, ready to transmit to the platoon officer any information which Jimmy might whisper to him, loud talking being forbidden.
The night, however, seemed destined to be quiet. Up and down, to Jimmy's right and left, stretched the narrow strip of No Man's Land. Directly in front of the American trenches was barbed wire, fantastically tangled on posts leaning every which way. In front of the German trenches was more wire, similarly twisted. This wire was to stop a sudden rush in either direction.
In the silence and darkness of the night the Khaki Boys kept watch and ward to guard against surprise. Doubtless, the same watch was kept on the German side.
Soon after going on duty Jimmy felt a fine drizzle of rain in his face. The fact was unpleasantly borne to the knowledge of the others, and there was whispered grumbling. But it had to be endured, and it was fortunate that the lads had on their trench coats.
"Pleasant—not!" said Roger in a low voice, as he sprawled in the mud at Jimmy's feet.
"Oh, it might be worse. I'm wondering what poor Schnitz is doing now." Jimmy never took his eyes off No Man's Land.
"That's so," went on Roger. "I wish we knew. Oh!" he suddenly exclaimed.
"What's the matter? See something?" asked Jimmy quickly, but not turning his head to observe the shadowy form of his chum.
"No. But I felt something! Rat as big as a fox terrier. Ugh! he nipped me on the shoe. Dirty brute!"
"Part of the gay and festive life we live," murmured Jimmy. "Well, it can't last forever, that's one consolation."
Then he became silent—he and Roger. They waited in the trench for something to happen. And it did happen, but not in their immediate neighborhood.
For suddenly, about half a mile down the trench to Jimmy's left, there was a brilliant burst of fire, and a moment later the sound of sharp firing from the German trenches was borne to the ears of the Khaki Boys.
Instantly the traverses on both sides, and far up and down the line, were in tense activity. The waiting Sammies sprang to the firing step alongside of Roger and Jimmy, and, doubtless, in the German trenches the same scenes were taking place. The din was terrific, even though, so early in the conflict, the artillery had not yet come into play.
But presently the big guns began to boom, and then it became evident that the attack of the Germans, for such it turned out to be, was against a sector some distance removed from where the Khaki Boys were on duty. They, with their companions, were held in reserve. They remained to guard the trench. After the exchange of a few shots with their unseen Hun adversaries, quiet once more settled down over that part of the lines. But a sharp engagement was going on to the left, and the next morning it was learned that the Boches had captured a number of Americans, having surprised them. It was not all clear gain, however, for several of the Huns were killed.
And when Jimmy and his chums went off duty they heard disquieting rumors to the effect that the Germans must have had information about the weakness of the line that they attacked. For it was weak, and that was the reason the raid was so successfully made.
"How did the Germans know it?" asked Roger.
"Someone on our side gave the information," said Jimmy. "At least, that's what I heard."
"You mean traitors?" gasped Bob.
"It amounts to that—yes," was Jimmy's reply.
"Say, where'd you hear all this?" demanded Roger. "Is it straight goods?"
"Sure it is," answered Jimmy. "Talk of it all over. I got it from one of the orderlies at brigade headquarters."
"Just what was it?" Bob asked.
"Iss der German brutes by us goin' to come again?" asked Iggy.
"If they do I hope they don't find us as unprepared as the bunch was last night," remarked Jimmy, gloomily enough. "It was a bad piece of business. But it wouldn't have happened if the Huns hadn't known some of the reserves had been pulled away from that sector."
"Were they?" was Bob's question.
"Yes," answered Jimmy, who had acquired considerable of this disquieting information. "Our side was planning a big raid, but not in this immediate neighborhood. On that account the headquarters staff sent for some of our reserves. They were taken off quietly enough, and it was thought the Germans wouldn't get wise to the fact. But they did, and they took a jump over, and got away with it, worse luck!"
"And you say it was because of treachery on the part of someone on our side?" asked Roger.
"That's the story," admitted his chum. "You'll hear the talk as soon as you circulate around a bit. It's a rotten shame, that's what it is!"
"But how did anyone from our side get over to the German lines without being shot—unless he took the part of a spy and put on a German uniform?" asked Bob.
"They didn't go over—they sent signals," went on Jimmy. "And those signals are what gave away the weak spot in our lines."
"Signals!" exclaimed his chums. "What kind?"
"Different kinds," replied the young sergeant. "Last night there were light signals, but, of course, signals could be sent by day also, using smoke balls. You know we have a new machine for that."
"I didn't know it," admitted Roger. "What is it?"
"Well, I saw one up at the signal corps headquarters the other day. It looked like a big soup kettle with a stove pipe sticking out the top, and there were levers on the sides. I asked one of the fellows how it worked, and he showed me.
"Of course it's easy enough to make different colored fire signals at night," went on Jimmy. "You've all seen them, even on Fourth of July. But it isn't so easy to signal by smoke in the daytime—or, rather, it wasn't until this machine was invented. Before that they could send up puffs of white or dark smoke, just as the Indians used to signal from one mountain top to the other.
"But one of the signal corps men invented this 'smoke kettle,' as I'll call it. The smoke clouds can be made of almost any color—red, green or yellow. And there are white ones, too. It's all done by chemicals. When you pull one lever it sends a certain mixture of chemicals into the caldron. They form a ball of dense, colored smoke. A puff of compressed air sends the ball out up through the 'stove pipe,' as I'll call it, and it sails up into the air, keeping its round shape, like a cloud.
"I suppose they have some code, or combination, by which a certain number of smoke balls of a stated color sent up at definite intervals mean something to the man who sees 'em."
"Did the traitors send up signals that way?" asked Bob.
"I'm not certain of that. All I know is that the smoke balls by day and the colored fires by night are the means used by the regular signal corps. Whether the traitors took a leaf from their book, or stole one of the caldron machines and used it, I don't know. But it gave our weakness away all right, and we got in Dutch."
"Rotten work!" exclaimed Roger, and the others agreed with him.
"Dose craters should of be put in de smoke ball and dropped by a bomb yet!" declared Iggy.
"That's right, old scout!" exclaimed Jimmy. "Only don't call 'em 'craters,' Iggy, lad. You're thinking of a shell-hole. 'Traitors' is the word," and he spelled it.
"I of thankfulness to you am," said Iggy. "English, she is of mos' queer talk to learn, but I will on keep."
"Only way to do!" said Jimmy.
The information he had given his chums they soon verified by hearing the talk in and out of the trenches of the disaster of the previous night. That the American plans had been betrayed by someone within the Allied lines was evident. In no other way could the Germans have known that the supporting reserves had been withdrawn. And because of the demoralization caused by the success of the German raid it was impossible, for the time being, to go on with the plans of using the massed reserves, as had been hoped.
That afternoon, following mess, when Roger and Bob were on their way to the rear with a message to headquarters they met Captain Dickerson. He was in company with other officers attached to the secret service, and as the captain, who had once been suspected by the boys of being a spy, passed them he acknowledged their salute and paused to speak to them.
"I was wondering if we had any trace of them, sir?" said Bob, suggestively.
"Trace of whom?" inquired the captain with a good-natured smile.
"The fellows who sent signals from our lines and brought on the raid last night," said Roger.
"Oh, so you've heard that story, too?" asked the captain.
"Isn't it true?"
"Well, I'm not going to deny or affirm it," said Captain Dickerson, with a half smile. "But you boys seem to have luck in digging up mysterious matters, so if you hear of any bunch of fellows acting in a queer way or having certain chemicals in their possession you might let me know."
"We will, sir!" promised Bob, and Roger nodded his assent.
"I'll say this much," went on the captain. "The secret service department is working hard to locate the place where the signals came from, and trying to discover who sent them—if any were sent." The secret service official added this in order to be in conformity with his former statement of not admitting anything.
"We'll be on the watch as best we can," promised Roger.
Captain Dickerson walked on with other officers from the secret service department of the army, and Bob and Roger regarded each other with serious eyes.
"There's more to this than appears," declared Roger.
"I believe you," agreed his chum.
And in the days that followed they learned this more fully. For the location of a number of American batteries and machine gun nests was, in some manner, disclosed to the enemy. In consequence there was a shelling of these spots by the Germans, and considerable damage was done.
In one instance a battery had been carefully planted in a certain place and carefully camouflaged. It was hoped, after all the guns were in place, to open up a fusillade on a strong German position and carry it. This would have removed a menace from the American lines—a sort of small angle from which a raking fire was often sent.
But the night before the battery was to have opened it was almost completely destroyed by German shell fire. And the shells came with such accuracy, falling through the camouflaged screen, that it could not be doubted the exact location of the cannon was known to the Huns.
"But if the signals can be seen by the Germans, why can't they be seen by our men?" asked Roger. "And if they are seen, the location ought to be easy to come at."
"I don't know what the reason is," replied Jimmy, "but I know they haven't discovered the traitors as yet. It's getting serious, let me tell you!"
"I should say so!" agreed Bob.
It was about a week after the discovery that secret signals were aiding the Germans that Jimmy, coming back from a visit to the hospital where he had called to see a wounded chum, startled his friends by saying:
"I've heard from Franz!"
"No!" cried Bob incredulously.
"Yes," asserted Jimmy emphatically. "Listen while I tell you!"
Now don't get all worked up with hope," went on Jimmy, as his chums gathered about him. "While I have news from poor old Schnitz, it isn't exactly good news."
"Is it bad?" demanded Bob.
"Is he deaded alretty yet?" came from Iggy.
"No. And I'm glad I can say that much," replied Jimmy. "He isn't dead, but he's in a German prison. You know we've sort of hoped that ever since he was missing. Rather have him there than dead or badly wounded, you know."
"Who told you he was in a prison camp?" asked Roger.
"One of the wounded boys in the hospital. You know I went to see Boswick, who used to be our top sergeant. Well, next to him was a fellow who was hurt on the head and who's been out of his mind since then. Day before yesterday he got his senses back again, and to-day he was quite a lot improved. He heard me telling Boswick that Franz was missing, and this fellow, whose name is Waydell, told me about Franz.
"It seems he was not very far away from old Schnitz when the thing happened. He saw Schnitz take some German prisoners from a machine gun nest and start to march them to the rear. Then this fellow saw our friend, who must have been tickled to death with his feat—He saw Schnitz run into a bunch of Huns. They took Schnitz's prisoners away from him, though he did some damage before they had things their own way. And then they just naturally copped Schnitz and hustled him off."
"Well, why in the world didn't this Waydell help Schnitz out?" demanded Bob.
"He had the wound that put him out of business and later sent him to dreamland for a long time. But I'm glad he came to. It gives us definite information about Franz, and that's what we want."
"We want him back, too!" exclaimed Roger.
"Oh, of course," agreed Jimmy. "But it's something to know where he is."
"We don't—that is, we don't know exactly," remarked Bob.
"No, only that he's in some German camp. But there's always a chance that he may get out," went on Jimmy. "We'll hope for that."
Iggy gave a heavy sigh.
"What's the matter?" asked Roger.
"I so sorry am for Franz," was the answer. "Besser as I was a prisoner myself than him."
"Why?" Jimmy queried.
"'Cause he iss of a Germans like. Hims name is Germans, and once anudder time, when he wass a prison camp in good treatment he got not."
"I should say he didn't!" declared Roger.
"Well, den I am 'fraid like he will of the same treatment gets now," proceeded Iggy. "Maybe he will not of stand it."
There was silence for a moment, and then Jimmy said softly:
"Well, we can only hope for the best."
The four Khaki Boys discussed over again the news Jimmy had brought from the hospital. Gloomy as it was in itself, it was more cheering than no news at all, and for many days they had had none to indicate what might have been the fate of their missing chum.
"We may be able to find out what prison camp he's in," suggested Roger.
"What good would that do?" questioned Bob.
"Well, we might raid it and set him free, as well as any other poor boys of ours and the Allies that are held there."
"Fat chance!" murmured Jimmy.
"It could be done with aeroplanes, if we could get enough," declared Roger. "The next time I see the Twinkle Twins I'm going to ask them to keep a lookout for Franz at any of the German prison camps over which they fly."
"Your intentions are good, but it's a hopeless case that way," sighed Jimmy, and, after thinking it over, Roger said he thought he would have to agree to this. But still he kept on hoping, as did his chums, that some means would be found to rescue Franz.
"If he can stand the life long enough, we'll fight our way through Germany and raze every one of their horrible prison camps!" exclaimed Bob hotly.
"May that day come soon," murmured Roger.
And slowly, but surely, that day was coming. Hour by hour, almost, the great army of Americans was growing in France. Inch by inch the detested Huns were being pushed back, fighting stubbornly at every step. Skirmishes and small battles were frequent, and trench raids took place on both sides nearly every night.
It was one nasty, rainy night about a week after Jimmy had received the news that Franz was a prisoner that, as the four Khaki Boys were on duty in a firing trench, word was passed along to be more than usually on the alert.
"Why? Are we going to attack?" asked Bob of the platoon officer.
"We may, if things turn out a certain way," was the answer. "We have made certain plans which will be disclosed in due time. Just be on the alert."
And, taking their turns at being "observation sentinels," Jimmy and his chums strained their eyes as they looked across dark and rainy No Man's Land for the first sign of any activity on the part of the Germans.
There was a tense feeling in the air, as though something portended, and this feeling had a basis in fact, for shortly before dawn the German batteries suddenly opened fire on the line of trenches held by Jimmy, his chums, and others of the 509th.
"Are we going over the top?" cried Bob, as, by the distant flashes of fire from the German guns, he saw their platoon officer. It was safe to talk, or even shout, now, for there was no danger of giving an alarm to the Huns. "Are we going over the top?"
"Not in the face of that fire, at all events," was the grim answer. "The Boches have started the ball in earnest."
Every second the blasts from the German guns increased in intensity, and their effect was felt in the trench that sheltered the Khaki Boys.
"What's the matter with our artillery?" cried Jimmy. "Why don't they give Fritz some of his own medicine?"
And, as if in answer, a moment later came a thunderous response from the American lines.
"There they go!" cried Roger. "Now things will even up."
It was an awful artillery duel, and there were heavy casualties on both sides. While the artillery was firing from either side of No Man's Land there was little the Sammies could do save to shelter themselves as best they could behind the parados. These were sand bags, built up at intervals behind the parapet. They afforded as good protection against high explosive shell fire and shrapnel as could be obtained in trench warfare. And as they were practically impenetrable by machine gun bullets, if a soldier could get behind the heavy bags he was comparatively safe.
But many of them were burst apart or blown away by the missiles from the German guns, and it became necessary, if the boys in the trench were to have protection, to replace the bags.
Accordingly orders were given to do this, and details were told off, some to fill bags and others to put them in place. Roger and Bob were engaged in this last when Bob suddenly gave a cry and caught his left hand in his right.
"Hit?" cried Roger, for there was light enough, caused by the flashes from many guns, for him to see Bob start.
"Just a scratch," was the answer.
It was more than a scratch—being a rather deep flesh wound across the back of Bob's hand. But with the aid of Roger he quickly bound it up in a bandage, after applying an antiseptic, and then kept on with the vital work of making the trench safer.
Many were wounded and many killed on both sides by that night firing, and after an hour of bombardment on both sides there had come no order for the Sammies to go over the top.
"Don't we get the word?" asked Jimmy of Bob, as they had a moment's respite from building up the parados.
"It is queer," was the answer. "But if we have done anything like the damage to the Hun trenches that they have done to ours, it must be a bad place over there."
"I think we've paid 'em back with interest," declared Jimmy. "Our gun fire was twice as heavy as theirs."
And so it proved, for when dawn broke, gray and misty, it was seen that the line of German sand bags had been demolished for a long distance up and down the trench. And in the trench could be seen the German soldiers working frantically to repair the havoc. It was then that the Sammies could take revenge with rifle fire, and they did, in goodly measure.
But no word came to go over the top, and a little while after day broke the firing died down on both sides. Soon it was comparatively quiet, but there were sad scenes to follow.
The weather improved toward noon, and the sun came out to partially dry the muddy trenches and the rain-soaked garments of the soldiers. Bob's wound was dressed by a surgeon, and he was told to lay off duty for a day. Jimmy, too, had received a slight wound, and he had the same orders as had Bob. So the two of them went to the rear for a little rest.
It was while taking such ease as they could that they saw an aeroplane land near the camp to which they had come to get a little respite from the fighting, and when they saw two figures leap from the machine, Bob and Jimmy exclaimed:
"The Twinkle Twins!"
It was John and Gerald Twinkleton.
"Well, where'd you blow in from?" asked Jimmy.
"Had to come down to get some gas, or petrol, as they call it over here," explained John. "Been out doing scout work. Say, I hear you had a hot time last night."
"Sort of," admitted Bob. "Fritz tried to put one over on us."
"Yes, we heard about it," went on Gerald. "And it came near being a bigger thing than you fellows suspect. Did you hear about the smoke signals?"
"Smoke signals?" cried Jimmy. "Say, do you mean that there has been some more of that traitorous work going on?"
"It looks so," said John. "When we were out flying around yesterday we passed over a little valley. We were low enough down to see four men around a queer kind of machine. At first we thought it was a hidden mortar battery, but soon we saw some green and yellow puffs of smoke go up from it. We reported the matter to headquarters, and there was an investigation right off, but the four men had disappeared with their smoke apparatus when a squad of our lads got to the valley."
"Do you say there were four men around that smoke signaling apparatus?" asked Jimmy.
"Yes," answered Gerald.
"Could you tell who they were?"
"Well, no, not exactly. Except that two of them seemed to be men in American uniforms, and the other two were civilians."
"By Archibald Montmorency! as our cook would say," cried Jimmy, "I'll bet they're the same fellows we saw in the dugout. They are the traitors! This is great news you bring from the air, boys!" he said to the Twinkle Twins.
Wonderingly the four gazed at one another.