"There's a lot more to this than any of us suspect, I guess," said Gerald Twinkleton, with a grave shake of his head. "Of course when Jack and I saw those men sending up smoke signals we didn't dream, at first, that anything was wrong. But when we noticed the two civilians with them we guessed there must be some queer deal on, and we decided to report matters. Then we learned that this wasn't the first time those signals had gone up, and each time, after they had shot up into the air, there was an enemy attack."
"Bad business," commented Jimmy.
"But if those fellows are spies, including the two in uniform, where would they get one of our smoke-making machines?" asked Bob.
"The signal corps has a number of them," explained Jimmy. "One might easily be stolen, together with the chemicals needed."
"The signal corps!" cried Roger. "And those Bixtons—who are off the same piece of goods as Mike, back at Camp Sterling—those Bixtons are in the signal corps!"
"That's what makes me say there's more to this than appears on the surface," commented Gerald. "Now let's hear again what it was you saw in the dugout, Jimmy boy."
Thereupon Jimmy related what they had seen as they were making their escape after the collapse of the shelter where they had been resting.
"Would you say for sure that the two you saw in uniform in the dugout were the two Bixtons you afterward noticed in the signal corps?" asked Jack of Jimmy.
"No, I couldn't be positive," was the answer. "You see we didn't have more than a hasty glimpse of them, and then only by the light of a candle. But from what you Twinkle Twins tell us, it's evident that the same four—two in uniform and two without—who were in the dugout were also sending up smoke signals."
"Well, it looks that way," admitted Gerald. "Of course, there's always a chance that things may take a different turn, but there's enough here for headquarters to get busy on."
"The main thing to do, in my opinion," declared Jimmy, "is to find out if the fellows we saw in uniform in the dugout and the two the Twinkle Twins saw sending up signals are the same, and then to learn if they're the Bixtons."
"That's the idea!" exclaimed Bob. "But it's easier said than done."
"We'll help all we can," said the Twinkleton Twins, as they started off again in their aeroplane, the tank having been filled with gasolene.
The secret service men at headquarters, including Captain Frank Dickerson, at once acted after the boys had given the additional information in their possession.
Jimmy and his chums had few opportunities to learn what was done by Captain Dickerson and his associates to get on the trail of the smoke signal traitors. All they heard was that an investigation was being made and that every effort was being bent toward learning whether or not the Bixtons were involved. It would not do to accuse these two wrongly, even though they were of a caliber not greatly desired in the army. They were entitled to be considered innocent until proved guilty, and the private quarrel they had with Jimmy and Roger, because of the instrumentality of the latter in sending Mike Bixton to prison, had nothing to do with the smoke signal issue.
As for that personal quarrel, the threats the Bixtons had made against Roger and Jimmy did not greatly worry the two. They felt that they could look out for themselves even against two such bullies and braggarts as were Aleck and Wilbur Bixton.
Indeed, there was a time when it seemed as if the paths of the two signal corps men would not again cross those of Roger and Jimmy. For the two latter, with their chums, were sent to a distant sector where the fighting was almost constant. And the chances were much against the four Brothers returning to the lines where the Bixtons were stationed.
There was hard fighting—so desperate, in fact, that Jimmy and his chums had little chance to think about anything except how to keep from being killed and how to inflict as heavy a punishment as possible on the enemy. The fighting was in a wooded country where advance was difficult, for the thick underbrush afforded shelter for many machine gun nests, and the Huns seemed to place more dependence on this style of fighting than on any other at this time and place.
Day after day the skirmishes, all part of one great battle, waged in and around the forest. The country was rough and hilly, with streams here and there, some of them large enough to be called rivers in the American sense, while others so dignified were but mere creeks.
There was not so much of the trench fighting here. The woods afforded almost as good shelter as did holes dug in the earth, but this was not saying much. At times, of course, it became necessary for the Khaki Boys to dig in, but they did not stay long enough in one place to make possible the digging of elaborate and well-protected trenches.
All sorts and styles of fighting went on during the week that Jimmy and his friends were in this sector. There was the duel of big guns, the exchange of shots from mortar batteries that fired wicked bombs; there was, of course, constant rifle fire, and many a man lost his life because of some hidden sniper. Aeroplanes were constantly flying to and fro, the Huns endeavoring to locate ammunition dumps or transport trains in the woods, that they might blow up either or both. And the Americans and Allied planes sought to so direct the advance of their fighters as to make it most effective.
There was an advance. That fact was clear, for the Americans were battling desperately—artillery, infantry and the ever-gallant marines. Inch by inch, almost, it seemed, the Huns were being pushed back. But they did not cease to struggle and give hard blows in return.
"Look!" exclaimed Jimmy to Roger one day, when a respite had come after a desperate and bloody conflict. "There go the signal men up to the front. Must be getting ready for an advance."
"Looks like it," assented Roger.
"And there are the Bixtons!" added Bob.
The two brothers, in whom so much interest centered for the four Khaki Boys, were hurrying along with their companions. And, as on the other occasion, Aleck and Wilbur Bixton carried the black electrical box.
"They didn't see us," commented Roger.
"Just as well," said Jimmy. "We don't want any family rows now. The one with Fritzie is enough."
Whether it was because of some information acquired by the signal corps men or in arrangement with a previous plan did not develop, but soon after the two Bixtons and their comrades had hastened up toward the front lines the order came for a general advance.
And then came a forward rush—a smashing through the German lines as they stretched through the woods. Strictly speaking, there was hardly a line, as one thinks of it as represented by trenches; but there were machine gun nests here and there—deadly nests they were, too—and there were hiding places sheltering grim German fighters. Big guns there were—blasting guns that wrought fearful havoc. And for each shot the Boches fired the Sammies sent two in return, so that slowly but surely they advanced.
Then came a forward rush over a nasty bit of ground. There was a fusillade of rifle fire, as well as a hail of bullets from the machine guns.
"Come on! Come on!" cried Jimmy.
"I'm with you!" yelled Roger.
"Seen Iggy and Bob?" asked Jimmy, as his chum leaped over the dead body of a German to advance with the sergeant.
"Yes, they're coming. Look! There's a party of Huns trying to get that machine gun to play on us! Let's tackle 'em!"
"Go ahead!"
Almost before they knew it Jimmy and Roger had distanced their immediate companions, and together they rushed on six Germans who were working over two machine guns. Two of the Huns were shot and another was bayoneted. The rest turned and fled.
"So far, so good!" cried Jimmy, wiping off some blood that was running down his face. "But what's happened? We seem to have the whole place to ourselves."
Roger Barlow, who had so nobly assisted Jimmy Blaise in wiping out this particular German machine gun nest, looked around after the struggle and on hearing his companion's remark.
"What's that?" he asked. "We have the place to ourselves? Well, why shouldn't we after we got rid of these fellows?"
"No, I didn't mean that exactly," went on Jimmy. "But take a look! None of our fellows is anywhere near here. The fighting seems to have been switched over to our right."
Roger, who had almost as much blood on him as had Jimmy, took an observation. He soon realized that what his fighting chum had said was true.
They were on a little wooded knoll, and the view was so obstructed by stunted trees and underbrush that they could not see very far in any direction. But they had a sufficient view to show that there was hard fighting going on about a quarter of a mile to their right, while all about them the place was still and deserted—that is, comparatively still, for the din of battle was carried to the Khaki Boys where they stood.
"I guess we rather overran our objective," observed Roger, as he gazed about for a puddle of water in which to cleanse himself of the blood that was not all his.
"If you mean this machine gun nest was the objective, we did," agreed Jimmy, as he looked at the dead Germans. "We ran right over them. But now we'd better get back to the rest of our own bunch, or they'll be listing us as missing or deserting."
"Yes, we'll get back," assented Roger. "But first let's clean up a bit. There's a puddle of water over by the gun."
It was water, of a sort. In northern France it seems to rain most of the time, or at least it did while our boys were there. There were many shell holes over the ground, and many of them became filled with and retained water for some time. The puddle Roger picked out was half full of—well, liquid would be a better word than water, but the army lads got over being fussy about a thing like that.
"It's good enough to wash in, but I'd hate to drink it," observed Jimmy, as he began to clean himself.
"You said something!" came from Roger. "And yet I've heard our boys say that they've drunk worse stuff than this and that it tasted good."
"Oh, I suppose so," agreed Jimmy. "But I'm going to look about a bit before I take any of this."
And he was glad he did, for some time later, in moving about in the little glade, they found a clear, sparkling spring, and there they drank their fill and finished up the "bath" they had started at the mud puddle.
"Well, I feel a hundred per cent. better," declared Roger. "And now let's hike back. The fighting is still going on, and we don't want to miss any of it."
Jimmy nodded, and the two Khaki Boys began to pick their way through the underbrush. It was rather rough going, for if there had ever been a path it was now obliterated by the bursting of shells amid the trees when the place was under fire, as it often had been.
Roger and Jimmy were near the edge of the little glade which, as has been said, was on the top of a hill, when suddenly, just as they were about to cross an open space, the vicious hum of an unseen missile was heard over their heads.
"Duck!" yelled Jimmy, at the same time dropping flat and pulling his companion to a similar posture.
Of course it was too late to have "ducked" for that particular bullet, as it was over their heads and past them before the boys fell prone. But, as Jimmy said afterward, he thought more were coming.
"What's the big idea?" asked Roger, as he rubbed his elbow that had come in sharp contact with a stone when Jimmy dragged him down.
"Didn't you hear the shot?" demanded Jimmy.
"Yes. But the bullet you hear will never hurt you. It's the one you don't notice coming that does the trick."
"That's all right," asserted Jimmy calmly. "But there may be more coming. Lie low now, I'm going to try a little camouflage work."
Keeping prone on his face, and seeing that Roger did the same, Jimmy cautiously raised his "tin hat" above the earth, using a short stick he picked up as a support.
Almost instantly there came a "ping!" and a little hole appeared in the helmet.
"Firing at close range," observed Jimmy.
"I should say so!" exclaimed Roger. "And those aren't stray bullets, either. It was directed straight here."
"Right!" assented Jimmy. "But the thing of it is to decide whether it's our boys firing or some Germans who may have swept in from the left flank."
"How could it be our boys?" asked Roger. "Don't they know we're here?"
"How could they? We rushed over with a bunch of our boys to clean out this machine-gun nest. And we're the only ones left alive to get here, worse luck for those who started out with us. So there's not much chance that any fellows in our squad know we're here. At the same time, this place was known to be held by the Huns, and our boys, who don't know anything about our having taken the gun, may still think it's a machine gun nest and be peppering it whenever anything alive shows, as my helmet did. I'm glad my head wasn't in it," and Jimmy looked again at the bullet hole in the strong metal.
"And do you think it could be Germans shooting at us?" Roger inquired.
"Of course it could be Huns. A lot of 'em are probably over to the left of us where there isn't so much fighting going on. They may have seen us wipe out this bunch of their friends, and now they're going to turn the trick on us."
Roger agreed that this view of the matter was probable. Then he asked:
"What are we going to do about it?"
"Let's work our way back to the middle of the bunch of trees," suggested Jimmy. "We'll be somewhat protected there, and maybe if we try to get out in another direction than the one we just attempted, we'll have better luck.
"Wiggle back now, but don't raise your head. Can you make it going backward?"
"It's harder to crawl backward on your stomach than it is to go forward in the same way," said Roger; "but I'll try."
He did try, as, likewise, did Jimmy. But they found it almost impossible because of the nature of the ground, and Jimmy called a halt.
"Let's pivot around," he suggested, and head uphill. It'll be easier crawling then. But keep your head down."
Almost as Jimmy spoke there came another of the wicked hums of a singing bullet, and it "pinged" against a tree not far from the two Khaki Boys.
"They either see us or they guess we're still here," said Jimmy.
"I don't believe they see us," stated his chum. "More likely they're just taking a chance and firing at the location where they last saw your tin hat. We'd better hurry on."
Fear and desperation urged the boys forward, and they crawled rapidly, if painfully, up the hill, in and out of shell holes, over sticks, stones, and, in one case, a dead body. But eventually they reached the place where the machine gun had been planted. It was there still, with most of the crew dead around it.
"Wonder if we could turn it around and aim it at the fellows who fired on us?" suggested Roger.
He and Jimmy examined the gun, and though they were not familiar with this particular German weapon their general knowledge told them that it was so damaged as not to be fire-able.
"Well, we'll have to depend on what we have," said Jimmy, as he looked to his rifle and revolver. Fortunately, he and Roger had plenty of ammunition. They had with them all their possessions, including their emergency rations.
"We can stay here until dark, if we have to," said Jimmy. "But I don't want to. Let's make another attempt at it on the opposite side. But keep low."
They got a drink of water from the spring, and then lay down and began to crawl out of the woods. They did not stand upright except when behind the thick shelter of trees.
But no sooner had they begun to progress after the manner of a not very agile serpent than there was the sing of bullets over their heads, and some struck the ground near them.
"They see us!" cried Roger, and there was a catch in his voice.
"I don't believe they exactly see us," returned Jimmy. "But I think they see the bushes move as we crawl along, and they're firing into the underbrush."
"They'll get us just as surely that way as if they did see us, if they keep on firing long enough," went on Roger.
"Yes, I suppose they will," agreed his chum. "Well, we've tried the front and back doors out of this place. Now let's tackle one to the side."
"Right or left?" asked Roger.
"Right," decided Jimmy. "That's where our boys were fighting, and the Germans are less likely to be there. We'll try the right. But crawl, buddy, crawl!"
"Oh, I'm going to," declared Roger.
They had moved back when they found that they were fired upon the second time, and now they were in a position to crawl down off the summit of the little hill, going to the right.
Would they find the way clear? That was the question Roger and Jimmy asked themselves, and how much depended on the answer to it, they well realized. The unseen marksmen seemed fearfully alert.
"Take it easy now," suggested Jimmy, as, after a moment's pause, he and his chum began again their crawling to get down and off the little knoll. "Go slow!"
"You needn't tell me that!" complained Roger. "I'm willing to go as slow as the next one, only I want to see who's shooting at us."
"They're not anxious to be seen," came from Jimmy, as he slowly progressed. "I've been looking for a chance to take a shot myself, but I haven't seen so much as a finger. Our turn'll come, though."
"It can't come any too soon for me," asserted Roger.
They had not crawled more than ten feet to the right when again came unmistakable evidence that their movements were watched, even though they themselves might not be observed.
"Zip! Just like that!" exclaimed Jimmy with grim humor, as he heard the singing of a bullet over his head. "A little lower, and that one would have nipped me."
"Shall we go back?" asked Roger.
"No, let's keep on a little farther. This is our best play. If we can't get out on this side there isn't much use of trying the left. Snipers are almost sure to be there."
So they crawled on for perhaps ten feet, and then again they were fired at.
"No use!" exclaimed Jimmy, and there was a rather despairing tone in his voice. "We've got to go back."
"And try the left?" asked Roger.
"Yes. It's our only chance. If they fire at us from that side——" He did not complete the sentence, but Roger well knew what his chum meant.
Back they crawled, being fired at again, and when they were comparatively safe, at least for the time being, in the clump of trees, the two Khaki Boys looked at each other.
"They're German snipers all right," declared Jimmy.
"Sure thing," asserted Roger. "Probably the fellows that yelled 'Kamerad!' and beat it when we came up toward their machine gun have got a lot more Boches and are going to try to take us prisoners."
That view of it was also Jimmy's, and he said as much, adding, however:
"They don't make a prisoner of me as long as I've got a shot left!"
"What are you going to do now?" asked Roger, as he saw Sergeant Jimmy loosen his belt a couple of holes. "Going to leave some of your stuff here?"
"Indeed not!" Jimmy quickly answered. "We need every thing we have on, though it's a load to carry. Can't take a chance and leave off even the gas masks. There's no telling when the Huns may take a notion to drop a gas shell in these woods, and there's not enough wind to carry the fumes away. No, indeed, we can't take any chances. I'm just going to make myself a little more comfortable. It's hard enough to carry all this outfit around when you're standing up, but it's worse when you're crawling. But perhaps a loose belt will help some."
"I'll try it, myself," returned Roger. "Well, if we don't get through this time what shall we do?" he asked.
Jimmy did not answer for a moment. He seemed to be considering some problem, and, indeed, the straits the two boys found themselves in was a problem that might well perplex older warriors.
"We'll try the left now," went on Jimmy, after a bit. "It would seem to be the least promising of all, but there's no telling. Come on, if you're ready."
"I'm as ready as I ever shall be," said Roger grimly. "Go ahead."
Once more they dropped prone and began to crawl along. This time they went more cautiously, making their way behind such shelter as was afforded by fallen trees, old stumps, and clumps of bushes. They also were careful not to move the foliage about them more than was absolutely necessary. For, in the opinion of Sergeant Jimmy, it was this movement, rather than direct views of themselves, which enabled the snipers to shoot at them.
"Guess maybe we'll make it this time," said Roger in a low voice, as he crawled along behind his chum. "What are you going to do when you get to the open place, Jimmy, old man?"
"Wait until we get there," advised Jimmy. "But I guess the only thing we can do is to run for it, and fight as we run. See that bunch of woods right ahead of us?"
"I see it," assented Roger.
"Well, let's make for that, and then, maybe, we can swing around and get back to our company. We can't stay very long in the open with all these snipers around us, and that bunch of trees is the nearest shelter. I don't know what they are, nor what they cover. They may be full of Huns, but we've got to do something, and we can't stay back here."
"I guess that's right," said Roger. "Keep on going. We haven't been fired at since we started on this path."
This was true, and the two young soldiers began to have hopes that they might get through.
"Though why it is I can't understand," said Jimmy. "I thought this section would be full of Huns, since we haven't done any fighting in this direction to drive 'em back."
Strange and hardly understandable as the situation was, still it remained as Roger and Jimmy noticed—that they were not fired upon during their painful progress to the left.
"Maybe they're saving it up for a grand bang-up," suggested Roger, when the twain had made their way perhaps fifty feet farther along.
"Don't be cracking jokes at a time like this!" half-growled Jimmy.
"It won't be a joke if it happens," snapped back Roger.
He and his chum went on a little farther. They were getting close to the edge of the woods now, and an open space lay before them. Across this, and it was rough ground marked by shell-holes, was another bunch of trees, the open place being perhaps five hundred feet in width.
"If we cross that and gain the woods, maybe we'll be safe, and—maybe not," murmured Jimmy. "Anyhow, we've got to make a try for it, Rodge. Are you ready?"
"Go ahead!" was the short answer.
"All right—come on. Jump up and run for it. But don't stand upright. Crouch as much as you can and run zigzag. And shoot—if you see anything to shoot at. Now come on!"
As Jimmy cried these words he leaped to his feet, an example followed by Roger. Then the two of them, crouching over and darting from side to side, ran into the open.
For a few moments they, thought they were going to have the way clear—that they would not be fired at. But this was not to be. Half way to the woods both boys saw off to their left several gray-uniformed figures leap up.
"There they are! Shoot!" cried Jimmy.
He fired from the hip, as did Roger. They were both pretty good shots, and they had practised this method, so they knew what they were doing. One of the Germans toppled over, though whether from the effect of Roger's fire or Jimmy's could not be told. But the others began firing in return, and the bullets sang about the heads of the Khaki Boys.
"Come on! Run faster!" yelled Jimmy, as he fired again.
"Say, there's a bunch of 'em!" cried Roger, as he saw more Huns springing up as if from holes in the earth where they had been hidden.
Jimmy did not answer. He was busy firing at the enemy, even as he was being shot at, and he had the satisfaction of seeing two more go down. One of these Roger got. Then Jimmy felt a sharp pain in one ear, and, clapping his hand to it, he saw his palm covered with blood.
"Hurt much?" cried Roger, as he dashed up beside his chum.
"No, just a graze, I guess. But keep away from me. The two of us together make a bigger target than one. Separate!"
He leaped to one side, and as he did so a bullet passed between him and Roger. They could hear it. Had they stood together one or both of them might have been hit.
On they staggered, firing as rapidly as they could under the circumstances. They crouched down, zigzagged from side to side, and hoped for the best. They were now within the fringe of the woods, and a few feet more would bring them within the shelter of trees.
But would they find more foes there? That was the question.
Suddenly there was a loud explosion, and, glancing back for an instant, Roger and Jimmy saw that a shell had torn a big hole in the earth at a spot where the German firing party had been massed. There was no firing party now.
"Was that one of our shells?" cried Roger.
"Hard to say," was Jimmy's reply. "It did the trick for us all right, though."
"If they don't come any nearer," added Roger grimly.
Exhausted and weary, they reached the woods. They dodged in among the sheltering trees, fearing any moment that they would be fired upon by enemies who might be concealed in the copse.
"I—I'm about all in!" gasped Roger.
"Same here!" panted Jimmy. "We've got to rest and get some water after we make sure this place is comparatively safe."
On they staggered. They could hardly breathe now, so great had been the rush and burdened, as they were, with equipment. They saw before them a little grassy glade, and at one edge of it was a spring of water. The sight was a welcome one.
"Over there!" cried Roger, pointing to it to direct Jimmy's attention. "We'll flop down there and——"
Roger's words ended in a mumble. Jimmy, thinking his companion had been shot, turned quickly in time to see a man standing behind Roger with an upraised club. He had struck Roger on the head, knocking him down.
Jimmy opened his mouth to utter a yell, though why he could hardly have told, and he was about to bring his rifle to bear on the assailant of his chum when Jimmy himself felt a stunning blow on his head just beneath his steel helmet. He went down limply, his eyes seeing nothing but blackness.
And as the two lads were struck down, their two assailants, who had leaped from behind concealing trees to take advantage of the panting, exhausted Khaki Boys, looked at one another with satisfaction.
"Now we've got 'em!" cried one.
"I should say so!" declared the other. "This'll end their tricks! Now, what'll we do with 'em?"
"Haul 'em up to the top of the hill and dump 'em over the cliff into the river. That'll get 'em out of the way and it won't be awkward for us. Come on, you drag one and I'll tackle the other!"
And suiting their action to these words, the two assailants hauled Roger and Jimmy to the edge of a cliff not far from where the two chums had been struck down. A moment later two limp bodies were pushed over the edge and there were two splashes in the foaming river that was studded by cruel rocks.
"Whew, that was some fight!"
"I say de same by you, Bobby!"
It was Iggy who made the last remark and Bob Dalton who spoke first. They had swept on with their companions in arms, crashing their way through the German lines, and now the order had come to cease firing. It would not do for too large a number of the cheering, victorious Americans to get beyond the protection of their big guns, and this was likely if they rushed on much farther.
"Got any water in your can, Iggy?" went on Bob, as they sat, or rather, "flopped," down on the ground, exhausted, as were their comrades. "If you haven't any, I have some I'll share with you."
"I have some quiteness of vodah—I mean wat-ter—left," said Iggy. "Und jolly much goot will she taste now."
"You said something, pal!" declared a wounded soldier near by. "Some Fritzie put a slug through my canteen, and there isn't a drop in it, and I'm as dry as a boneless herring."
"Here!" cried Bob, instantly offering his water flask. "Take as much as you want. I can get more."
"Don't be too positive of that, buddy," said the wounded man. "But I certainly do appreciate a swallow of this. Guess I'm booked to go back," he said, as he looked at his mangled hand. Poor fellow! He never was to use it again.
The scenes all about Bob and Iggy were too filled with horror to bear repeating. Though the Americans had swept on victorious, driving the Huns before them and out of their trenches, yet it was at a price. Perhaps, from a military standpoint, not too heavy a price to pay for victory, but still a price.
There were dead, dying, and wounded men all about, and more back where the German resistance had been strongest. Bob and Iggy had come through the ordeal with nothing more than slight flesh wounds. They were sufficiently painful, but not serious enough to send them to the hospital. Iggy had been scratched on the arm by a ragged bit of shrapnel shell, and Bob had received a cut on the forehead by some flying missile.
And now came the blessed relief from the toil and the struggle, from the sweat and the blood of the battle.
"Cease firing!" had sounded, most welcome signal, and the men who were left alive, many of them wounded, began to think of other things than killing and trying to escape from being killed.
They sat or sprawled about, some panting to get back the breath that was so nearly spent. Others began to eat some of their emergency rations and to drink water from their canteens.
"Did you see anything of Roger and Jimmy?" asked Bob, when he had recovered something of his spent energies.
"Yes. I see tham run like what you say—Old Harry—over by that way," and Iggy pointed to the left. "Then came a big shell and so much dust and smoke that I of see tham no more."
"Say, I hope that shell didn't do for 'em!" exclaimed Bob. "Didn't you see anything of 'em after that?" he asked anxiously.
"Oh, that shell did not tham keel," declared Iggy. "Oh, no! I see tham when the smoke of it went up, and so sure I am that they was not keeled by these shell. But maybe they was keeled by some other."
"Yes, that's always the chance in this business," returned Bob gloomily. "Well, we'll soon know. If they're alive they'll join us, no doubt."
"De soonest de bester," declared Iggy.
Perhaps there is no more trying time to fighting men than just after a big battle. The excitement that forced them on against the odds of death in many forms has subsided, and there is the reaction. Perhaps this reaction is even greater after victory than after defeat. For in the latter case there is still the incentive of hurrying on, often to avoid capture, and this need of haste provides the excitement that prevents too much thinking.
But after a terrific and bloody engagement, such as that through which Bob and Iggy had just passed, and when victory has come, there often follows a reaction caused by the thought of the brave ones who, by their lives or by horrible wounds, have helped pay the price of the success of those who live and who come after.
And it was thoughts like these that filled the hearts and minds of the Khaki Boys and their comrades with gloom as they recovered themselves after the fighting.
"Say, when are we going to get some hot soup?" one lad asked.
"What flavor do you want?" shouted a companion.
"Oh, I'm not particular. Strawberry or vanilla—just so long as it's hot."
"Fat chance you have of getting soup!" declared a veteran. "Lucky, if you have a crust and some muddy water."
There was a laugh at the talk, and then some one produced a battered mouth organ. As if by magic, many who heard the not unmusical strains forgot their weariness and joined in a popular song. Some of the wounded even tried to sing, and it greatly raised the spirits of all within sound of the simple melody.
"Good work, boys! Keep it up!" cried a captain, as he hurried by on his way to dispatch messengers to the rear. "Sometimes a song's as good as a cup of coffee!"
Soon the stretcher bearers began their grisly tasks, and after the wounded had been cared for the work of burying the dead had to be begun. Many negroes were employed in this sad task, and be it said to the credit of these men and their brothers who took active parts in the fighting, that they proved themselves to be worthy of great praise and confidence.
Not much time could be spared for mere sitting around, or "loafing," on the part of the unwounded fighters. Even those, like Bob and Iggy, who had slight hurts, were expected to turn in and help now.
It was necessary to consolidate the positions gained after such severe fighting and such sacrifices, and while the German trenches were occupied by some of the American forces, it was needful to dig more, to plan dugouts, and to put up new barbed-wire entanglements.
For the Boches might be expected to make a counter-attack at any time, though it was believed they were so badly demoralized for the present that there would be no immediate resumption of hostilities on this particular sector.
And so, after a brief rest, Bob and Iggy, having partaken of some of their rations and some water, began to dig with pick and shovel; a labor that was shared by many of their chums.
It was almost night when the needful precautions had been taken against a surprise, and then the men were delighted to hear that some kitchen outfits had come up and that hot food would shortly be served.
"And, oh boy, what won't I do to it!" cried Bob. "I've got an appetite like a house afire!"
"Me, I am of a hunger, too," said Iggy. "But wish you not, Bob, dat Roger and Jimmy might be with us?"
"Do I wish it? I say I do!" cried Bob. "However, they may blow in at any moment. Maybe they've taken a lot of prisoners and have to escort 'em to the rear."
"I hope so," murmured Iggy.
"Only, if that's the case," went on Bob, "I hope it doesn't turn out as it did with Franz. We don't want Rodge and Jimmy captured and taken to some prison camp."
"Not!" declared Iggy with emphasis. But, had they known it, the plight of Roger and Jimmy at that moment could not have been much worse had they been in some Hun stockade.
Night came and passed, and there was no sign of, nor word from, the two missing ones. Bob and Iggy looked at one another the next morning, and there was fear and worry in their eyes.
"Where you think they be?" asked Iggy.
"I don't know," confessed Bob. "It looks as bad for them as it has looked for some time for Schnitz. But we must keep on hoping. If they're dead we'll know that soon enough—worse luck. But if they are listed as missing—well, what's the use?"
Iggy slowly shook his head.
"We of first was five Brothers," he said. "Then Franz go, and we was four. Now two more iss go and we iss two. Two left, only. Py jolly, maybe soon we iss only one!"
Bob, who was cleaning some of the mud off his leggings, looked up and over at his Polish chum.
"Hey, you, come off that!" he exclaimed.
"Come off what?" asked Iggy in surprise. "I iss only sit on de ground, and unless I iss come off him—py jolly! where else could I go?" he asked.
"Oh, I didn't mean come off the earth!" exclaimed Bob, with a laugh. "I meant stop making such gloomy predictions."
"Who is he?" asked Iggy.
"Who's who?" countered Bob.
"Dat Mr. Dixton," responded Iggy. "Does you mean Captain Frank Dickerson?"
"Oh, no! No!" laughed Bob. "I mean you are not to be so gloomy-Gus like."
"Gus? Gus? Iss he a pasteboy—I mean a doughboy, too?"
"Say, if I've got to go back and explain everything I'll never get this mud off!" laughed Bob. "All I meant was don't look on the dark side of things. Be a little happier, and you'll make me happier. Don't think, just because Roger and Jimmy haven't showed up, that they are dead or prisoners. They may be all right."
"I have a hope so," said Iggy, but the gloomy way in which he shook his head did not indicate that he was very sincere.
However, there was nothing that could be done about it, and Bob and Iggy just had to wait. Time, however, did not hang heavily on their hands, for there was never a moment of the day and very few moments of the night when there was not something to do. If it was not standing guard, doing sentry duty, digging trenches, or helping fit up dugouts, there were barbed-wire parties to become active in, listening-post duty to go out on, and the thousand and one things that a fighting army can always find to do.
Iggy and Bob performed their full share of all these tasks, and it was perhaps well that they could be kept so occupied. For, in spite of Bob's seeming cheerfulness, dark forebodings as to the fate of Jimmy and Roger would come to him.
"And there's Franz, too," he told himself. "But he's been missing so long now that it's hardly possible he'll ever come back—at least, until after the war is over and prisoners are exchanged."
But Bob was to meet Franz Schnitzel sooner than he expected, and under strange circumstances.
"Well, I wonder what the next move will be," remarked Bob to a fellow soldier one day about a week after the big advance in which Roger and Jimmy had been lost sight of. Since that time there had been only slight engagements between patrols of the Americans and the Huns.
"Oh, there'll be more fighting," was the answer from a young soldier named Harry Blondell, with whom Bob had become friendly. "There's got to be more fighting. I guess our officers are laying pipes for another big scrap that'll carry us clear into Germany."
"That would be some advance!" laughed Bob. "But, at the same time, the Boches may be planning to come through our lines again."
"Well, we'll be ready for 'em," declared Harry. "I never felt better in all my life. This hard fighting and living in the mud and wet seems to agree with me."
"Glad you're fit!" declared Bob. "The Kaiser'll probably be worried when he hears you're ready to take the field again against his divisions."
"No doubt!" chuckled Harry.
The truth of the matter was that, aside from wounds, the health of the American soldiers was excellent in spite of adverse conditions due to the climate. They could be wet to the skin day after day, and yet few of them took colds, and many of them were delicate lads who, up to a few months before, would not have thought of going out in the rain without rubbers and an umbrella.
It was one evening when Bob and Iggy, together with many of their comrades, were preparing to go on duty for their night tricks that a rumor started somewhere in the trenches to the effect that a big battle impended on the morrow.
Just who was responsible for this no one seemed to know, but soon after the talk circulated it was noticed that there was great activity around the brigade headquarters. Messengers hurried to and fro, and several American aeroplanes were observed fluttering over the German lines.
"Well, fighting is what we're here for," said Bob to Iggy, as they started for the traverse where they were to be on duty about half the night—unless an attack should come.
"Yes, it is better to have a fight and get with it through than to be waiting all the times," said the Polish lad.
It was rather a nervous strain for many sentries that night as they stood on the firing step, gazing across No Man's Land toward the barbed-wire entanglements of the Germans. Would the Sammies get the order to charge across there, after a barrage had been laid down? Or would the gray hordes leap out and try to thrust back the soldiers of Uncle Sam who were slowly but surely smashing the Hun lines? This might be known to the staff officers in the headquarters back of the American lines, or the answer might be made by the Boche generals.
So it was nervous waiting, and Bob, in common with the others, felt it as they stood on duty through the long hours of the dark night.
It was nearing three o'clock, and it would be dawn in another hour, when platoon officers began moving along the trenches, and as they passed group after group of the Sammies the officers whispered:
"Be ready! We attack at four o'clock!"
Those who had wrist watches looked at them, the radium-illuminated dials showing the approximate time.
"An hour to wait!" mused Bob, as he answered the officer who notified him. "A lot will be happening an hour from now."
And the same thought was with all of them.
"How many would be alive at this same time to-morrow night?"
Slowly the seconds and minutes ticked themselves away. Silently the soldiers in the trenches made ready. And behind the lines preparations to support the advance, after the way was prepared for it by shells from the big guns, were going on.
Silently groups of alert men gathered behind their officers in the traverses. The sentinels stood on the firing step, ready and waiting. Short ladders were placed here and there to facilitate the fighters in getting out of the sunken protections.
Bob noted the illuminated minute hand of his watch creeping on toward the XII.
"Sixty seconds more," he murmured. He glanced over toward Iggy. In the faint dawn he could see his Polish chum standing with his rifle, ready to leap from the trench.
Then, suddenly, like a burst of thunder from a clear sky, the American barrage started, and after a sufficient time had elapsed the whistles sounded.
"Over the top!"
The old, familiar, but always thrilling call. "Over the top!"
Out of the trenches leaped Bob, Iggy and their comrades. On toward the German lines they rushed, the half-darkness of the dawn now illuminated with the flashes from the big guns.
The Germans were not long in replying. They were not taken by surprise, and soon a rain of H. E. shells, as well as shrapnel, began to deluge the American positions. But through this storm of missiles the gallant lads of the 509th Infantry leaped forward. They yelled and shouted, but they, each one, only heard his own voice, so great was the din of the guns.
"Come on! Come on!" cried Bob hoarsely.
But Iggy and his comrades needed no urging. They were rushing at the Germans like human tigers. They had heard so much and seen so much of the cruelty of the Huns that each time the Sammies went into battle it was as though they were taking personal revenge on the Kaiser's troops.
Bob felt something, it was as if a great blast of air passed him. It lifted him from the earth and hurled him back, but he managed to regain his feet. Then came a terrible noise behind him—so far back that he was not harmed. But that could not be said for half a score of his comrades. A great shell exploded in their midst, and there were more than a score of casualties from it.
"Close call!" murmured Bob as he staggered on. He lost sight of Iggy in the rush, but hoped the Polish lad was following closely. Then Bob had his hands full, for he and his immediate companions encountered some German machine-gun crews, and there was hard fighting before the Boches were killed or thrown into complete disorder.
"Forward! Forward!" was the order, and well was it obeyed.
On over the German trenches went the Sammies. Now and again they were held up by the fierce firing of hidden weapons, and then squads would volunteer to clean out these frightful nests.
Bob volunteered for this perilous work more than once, and after one assault on a party of Huns entrenched in a ruined farmhouse Bob was slightly wounded. But he kept on fighting, and at last the Boches cried "Kamerad!" That is, those did who were able.
A party started back with the prisoners—about a dozen of them—while the rest of Bob's companions paused a moment to rest in the farmhouse, which was pretty well battered up.
"Well, we'd better get out of here—there's work ahead for us," said the second lieutenant who had led the assault on the machine-gun position. "Come along, boys!"
Just as they were leaving the house it seemed as if the very earth was disrupted. Bob felt himself being hurled through the air and he had a vision of the building being blown apart. The next thing he realized was that he was falling. Then came oblivion.
Bob Dalton slowly opened his eyes. The reason he did it slowly was because it seemed less painful that way. And the truth of the matter was that he ached all over. Later he said he felt as though some one had taken a club and pounded him from head to foot.
"I wonder what happened," mused Bob, and his brain seemed to work as slowly as did his eyes. Then came remembrance of the great blast, of the farmhouse blown into the air, and he himself being hurled along with at least part of it. Then came the fall and darkness. And it was from this darkness of unconsciousness that Bob was now gradually emerging.
He turned his head from side to side, and was glad to find that it was still attached to his body and that he could still move it.
Bob saw that he was lying in a field. Dirt was all about him, some scattered in such a way as to show that shells had landed there not very long before. Over his head Bob could see the sky and note that clouds were slowly floating along.
"Well, I'm out in the open, that's one sure thing," mused the Khaki Boy. "Now to see if I've got my legs and arms left. My head's as sore as a boil, though."
The best way to discover this was to use his hands, and he found, to his delight, that they were both attached to his arms, and that his fingers were intact. They were a little numb, but he managed to move them, convincing himself that at least the upper part of his body was still intact.
"Hum! Lump about as big as a hen's egg," murmured Bob, as he discovered a protuberence on his head. It was the blow which caused this that had rendered him senseless.
"Now if I can wiggle my legs maybe I'll be able to get up and see what happened and what's going on," thought Bob. He lay still for a moment longer, however, moving his feet only slightly, and he was glad to find that his legs seemed to be normal.
There was borne to his ears the distant sounds of war-the rattle of rifles and machine guns, and the boom of artillery. But it was so distant that he decided the tide of battle had passed beyond him, wherever he was.
"And that's the thing to find out—where I am," murmured Bob. "I can get up, I guess."
He was about to do this when he heard voices talking, and it needed but a hearing of the first few words to tell Bob that the talk was in German.
Bob lay still and listened. He wanted to make sure of his position before he arose. The next few words apprised him of the plight into which he had fallen, or rather, been blown. Bob understood enough German to enable him to know what was being said. And the first expression was, when translated:
"There is another dead American pig over there."
"You're right," came in rejoinder. "The mine hidden in the house worked to perfection. If they killed our machine gunners, we killed twice as many of them."
"It was a beautiful explosion," went on the first speaker. "How the swine-hounds did sail up."
"Blown to bits!" laughed the other.
"All but this one. He doesn't seem to have been hurt at all."
"Maybe he was too far outside. But he is dead, there is no need to bayonet him."
"Say, can they be talking about me?" was the thought that flashed through Bob's mind.
There seemed to be no doubt of it a little later, for he heard one of the Germans say:
"Well, we may as well search him. The pigs sometimes have gold money. And, anyhow, his shoes are better than mine. I'll take them off. Dead men need no shoes!" and he laughed.
"He takes a whole lot for granted," thought Bob grimly. And then, as he sensed the import of this talk, his real situation became apparent.
"They had that farmhouse mined," mused Bob. "After we wiped out the machine gunners some one of the Boches must have sprung the mine. That did for our fellows and sent me sailing through the air. I got the bump on the head that put me to sleep, and now, as soon as I wake up, they think I'm dead. But I'll show 'em——"
He brought his musings to a sudden end, for at that instant he felt a violent pull on one leg. His foot was wrenched to one side. But Bob did not mind the pain much, for it told him his feet and legs were in good shape.
"Here! Quit that!" he yelled, as he raised his head and saw a burly German soldier trying to unlace the shoes that were on Bob's feet.
If a bomb had dropped between the two Huns they could not have been more greatly disturbed. They leaped back and stared with wide-open eyes at Bob, who sat up. The man who had had hold of his foot dropped it.
"He—he is not dead!" this fellow cried, in German.
"No. But let's finish him!" said the other.
For a moment Bob gave up hope. He was unarmed. His rifle had blown out of his hands and his revolver was missing. And he saw, not far off, a number of Germans. It was evident there had been a shift in the lines during the time Bob was unconscious, and the Boches again occupied the position around the demolished farmhouse.
The Hun who had proposed to bayonet Bob raised his weapon, but the other interposed.
"We were told to take prisoners if we could get them," he said in German. "And this is one of their under-officers. He may tell us something."
"You've got another guess coming, Fritzie!" said Bob, aloud.
"The pig-dog says something," remarked the soldier with the rifle. "Do you know what it is, comrade?"
"Nein! How should I speak the rotten talk? Well, we'll search him and take him along with us. The lieutenant will be glad of the prisoner."
Poor Bob was in dire straits, but, still, being taken prisoner was infinitely better than being bayoneted on the spot; and Bob realized this even though he had heard many stories of the German prison camps.
For one wild moment he had an idea of leaping up and giving the best battle possible to his two captors. There were only two immediately near him, and Bob had a sort of patriotic notion that one American was better than half a dozen Germans. But cold facts stared him in the face as he slowly rose to his feet. Among these facts was the realization that he was weak and trembling from the effects of his being so nearly blown to death in the explosion. Another fact was, that though there were only two of the Huns close at hand, there were many others within signaling distance.
"Well, I guess I'll have to give up," thought poor Bob.
And then the Germans closed in on him. Bob could not resist. His pockets were turned inside out, and they took everything he had. They even took his shoes, and tossed him a pair of old, half-rotten ones which the tallest German discarded.
"Go ahead!" ordered the man who had expressed the wish to bayonet Bob, and the prisoner had no choice but to obey. They marched behind him with rifles held in readiness for instant use, and soon Bob was in the midst of a company of Germans, the officer of which showed great delight at the sight of the American.
"I wonder how many of our poor fellows they have," mused Bob. "Gee, but this is tough luck!"
He felt like giving way to despair, but his pride and grit kept him from doing so before the leering, exultant Germans. So Bob shut his teeth tight and marched on. It was not until late that evening that he was allowed to rest in a German camp, and then he found what the officer had meant by "others." There were a number of Americans who had been captured and were being herded together to be sent into the interior of Germany or to some of the conquered parts of France, where many of the German prison camps were located.
The days that followed Bob's capture were full of misery. He was packed into a filthy railroad car with wounded and distressed men, and then, by slow and jerky stages, he was taken away.
On this terrible journey to the German prison camp the poor captives had scarcely anything to eat and almost no water to drink. Many were ill, and several wounded, but no attention was given them, and their wounds were not dressed.
At times Bob thought he would go mad at the sights he saw. His own personal sufferings, once the pain in his head ceased, were not great; but, in common with the others, he lacked food and water.
And finally, after many weary days they were taken from the train and marched amid jeering lines of Germans to a wired stockade.
Bob dragged his unwilling feet into the stockade. He saw gathered in the enclosure many sad-eyed and sorrowful American and Allied prisoners. And then, to the great astonishment of Bob, he heard his own name shouted.
Some one was running toward him—a ragged figure—and at first he did not recognize who it was. Then the voice spoke again:
"Bob! Bob Dalton! And so they got you, too! Oh, but I'm glad to see you——No, I'm not either—not here!"
Bob rubbed his eyes. For a moment he thought it was all a dream and that this was but a phase of the explosion. Then as the face before him became more plain through a mist that seemed to fill his eyes, Bob gasped:
"Schnitz! If it isn't Franz Schnitzel!"
The long-sought, missing Brother had been found, and now the two Khaki Boys had strangely met to be companions in misery.
False-hearted and desperate as had been the two men who struck down and rendered Roger and Jimmy senseless, their last inhuman act—the tossing of the unconscious Khaki Boys over the cliff—defeated their intentions. For as the Brothers fell into the deep water, the shock and contact of it brought back their senses.
Roger and Jimmy splashed into the water at the same time, and at first they sank deep into the swirling depths of the river, which ran at the foot of the cliff, dotted here and there on its surface with black rocks.
The blows that they had received on their heads had not, fortunately, been sufficiently hard to make them unconscious for more than a few minutes. It was as if a pugilist had received a "knockout" of a little more than the usual severity.
The shock and chill of the water brought back the senses of the two lads, and their first, natural instinct, in common with that of every swimmer, was to hold their breath when they felt their heads submerged.
And then the boys came to the surface and struck out. Again this was almost instinct. They were both good swimmers, and among the feats they had practised at various times in summer pleasure camps had been to swim across a lake fully clothed. This exploit stood the lads in good stead now, though the garments they wore and the accoutrements they had to carry very heavily handicapped them.
But they knew how to get rid of their gas masks, and as their steel helmets had fallen off during the attack, and as they had no weapons, they were not as heavily burdened as a soldier on the battle front would have been.
So they managed to get to the surface and strike out, though they did not know in which direction to swim, save toward the nearest shore. But to reach that was a task more easily thought of than carried out. The current was swift, and they could make little progress against it.
"Don't try to breast it!" cried Jimmy to Roger. "Let yourself float down, and work your way over to the nearest bank."
"All right! How are you?"
"Pretty rotten. I got a bad jolt on the head, but the water makes it feel better," said Jimmy.
"What happened to us, anyhow?" asked Roger, as he managed to get to his companion's side. "All I remember is being struck down. Did the Germans make a counter-attack?"
"It wasn't the Germans," declared Jimmy. "It was those two Bixton fellows from the signal corps. They attacked us!"
"What for?" cried Roger. "Are they German spies?"
"Well, they're as bad as that, if not worse," declared Jimmy. "They're traitors, I believe. They must have attacked us, as they threatened to do, because they found out that we, in a way, were responsible for Mike Bixton's being sent to jail. They threatened to do us up, and they did it."
"They surely did!" assented Roger. "Why, they might have killed us."
"They tried to, hard enough," declared Jimmy.
"Do you really think so?" cried his companion.
"I'm sure of it! Why, they struck hard enough to kill. Only that we had on our tin hats, they'd have ended us. And then dumping us into this river—that was to be the end, they thought."
"And I'm not sure but what it will be yet," said Roger, as his swimming strokes seemed to lose power.
"What's the matter?" asked Jimmy anxiously. "Can't you keep it up?"
"Not much longer. I'm about all in. My head feels queer!"
Jimmy looked about him. They were in the midst of swirling waters that rushed in and out among the rocks. The two lads had a hard struggle not to be dashed against these.
"Do you see that flat rock over there?" cried Jimmy to his chum, pointing to one about a hundred feet down stream and nearer to the western bank than the boys then were.
"Yes, I see it," was the answer.
"Do you think you can reach it?"
"Maybe. But why?"
"Because it's a flat rock, and it stands well up out of the water. If we climb out on it we can take a rest and catch our breath. Then, maybe, we can get across to the shore."
"Go ahead!" said Roger desperately. "I'll follow you."
They had momentarily caught hold of a small projecting rock in the stream, but it was not large enough to afford a foothold. Jimmy now let go of this and struck out for the flat rock of which he had spoken. Roger followed as best he could.
It was no easy matter for the half-exhausted lads to scramble up the sides of the slippery rock. But their desperate situation seemed to give them additional strength, and at last they were out of the water. They sat down, little streams running from their clothes over the slanting rock, whence they dribbled into the river that flowed on either side of the boulder.
"Well, we're alive, anyhow," remarked Jimmy, as his breathing came back to somewhere about normal.
"That's about all we can say," rejoined his chum. "We'll never be able to swim to shore. The current is too swift," and he pressed his hands to his aching head.
"Oh, don't give up so easily!" exclaimed Jimmy. "We'll get to shore all right. What we are going to do when we get there is the only thing that's worrying me."
"Get back to our company as soon as we can," advised Roger. "The others can't be so very far away."
"They may be ten miles, as far as I can tell," went on Sergeant Jimmy. "I don't know a thing that happened after the Bixtons struck us until I woke up in the water. They certainly are scoundrels!" he declared bitterly.
"That's right," assented his chum. "You'd think, if they thought they had a real quarrel with us, that they'd have waited until the battle was over to attack us. I can't understand it all."
"Nor I," admitted Jimmy. "Unless they are afraid of us, as well as bearing us a grudge because of what we did to Mike. And I'm inclined to think they are afraid."
"What of?" asked Roger.
"That we'll tell on 'em. I believe the two Bixtons are the same fellows we saw in the dugout and who were seen later by the Twinkle Twins sending up smoke signals. The fact that the Bixtons belong to the signal corps makes it all the more suspicious."
"Yes, I guess it does," said Roger wearily. "Well, if we ever get out of this we'll have something against 'em all right. But how are we going to get across?"
"We'll have to swim for it," declared Jimmy. "Come on. No telling when we'll be under fire. I say, Roger, look at that!" he suddenly cried, pointing up stream.
Roger looked, and saw a raft made of tree trunks lashed together coming down the swift river, and on the raft were a number of German soldiers.
"That raft is going to come right close to this rock!" cried Jimmy, and Roger also decided that this would be the case.
"Are they coming after us?" he asked.
"No, I don't believe so," was Jimmy's rejoinder. "I guess they've been in a fight themselves. There are two or three lying down on the raft who look as if they were wounded."
On came the raft, urged by the swift current. The Germans aboard it saw the two lads on the rock in the middle of the river, and they seemed to be taking counsel among themselves.
"If we could get on that log outfit we could float down stream in safety until we came to a landing place, or to a better place to cross," suggested Jimmy.
"But we can't get on!" exclaimed Roger. "Those Germans don't seem to have any guns, but they're two to our one, not counting those lying down. We can't get on the raft, Jimmy."
"We've got to!" was the desperate answer. "We'll fight 'em with bare knuckles for a place there. It's our lives or theirs! Roger, we've got to fight!" and Jimmy rolled up his sleeves while the raft with the four live Germans and three dead ones swept nearer and nearer to the rock that formed a refuge for the two Khaki Boys.