ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
From relative security to the most appalling peril, and all in a moment
of time, was the unhappy position into which the three ambulanciers had
fallen. It was enough to drive the color from their faces, and send
cold chills sweeping one after another through their frames.
The startled cries were still on their lips, when, almost as if a
powerful spring had set them into motion, they began a race--a wild and
furious race toward their goal--the tree-crowned ridge where the sentry
stood. And each of the three ran as only people can run when the stake
is the greatest in all the world--life itself.
Zip! Zip! Zip!
A regular fusillade of bullets was wickedly singing and humming past
their heads and thudding dully into the turf close about them.
Like professional sprinters on the cinder path trying for a record the
ambulanciers exerted themselves to the utmost, sometimes one in the
lead, sometimes another. Now and then an obstruction made them swerve
aside or inequalities in the ground slacken their pace, but never for
a single instant did either of the trio cease his almost superhuman
efforts.
Zip! Zip!
Still the bullets came flying through the air, first to one side of
them, then to the other, now landing just behind, now just ahead.
Neck and neck, panting, perspiring, the three with their faces
exhibiting all the terror and strain which such a situation would
naturally create, kept doggedly on.
Neither Don, Dunstan nor Chase actually believed there was one chance
in a thousand of winning that race against the snipers' lead. All were
in the grasp of fear and despair. Yet, if the boys found their mental
faculties tending to yield to the terror of the moment they did not
allow that fact to interfere with their physical efforts.
It seemed as if that tree-crowned ridge were as far away as ever.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
No! It never could be reached in safety!
A sharp, startling snap sounded almost at the feet of the aviator's
son--a stone had been splintered--shattered, and the fragments narrowly
missed him.
Don Hale was puffing harder and harder with the strenuous exertion;
his heart seemed to beat with alarming force; a painful dryness had
come into his throat. The boy could see Dunstan on his left; Chase
on his right; both, like himself, striving with all the energy and
determination they possessed to get out of the danger zone.
Crack! Crack!
Suddenly Chase tripped and went sprawling--down he was on his knees,
his arms outstretched before him.
Don Hale groaned. To his excited, overwrought imagination, one of them
at least had ended his part in the game of life and death.
Notwithstanding an almost irresistible impulse to keep on running, a
desperate, flying leap sent him to the other side.
"Chase--Chase!" he gasped, hoarsely. "Chase!"
The other was beginning to scramble up.
"Are you hit, old man?" To Don's relief the other shook his head.
He seized Manning's arm, and, with that strength and vigor often given
to those who find themselves in terrible danger, dragged him to his
feet. The tension created by that momentary stoppage brought beads of
cold, clammy perspiration to the faces of each.
Dunstan had halted and was yelling frantically for them to come on. A
stream of bullets hummed past; a single shot struck the ground ahead.
The race was on once more.
It seemed almost miraculous that none of the runners was brought down
during the fusillade that immediately followed. Don Hale could scarcely
believe it possible. Renewed hope sprang into his heart; renewed
strength came into his body.
A dozen yards only--ten--five.
Breathless, almost exhausted, the aviator's son fairly flung himself
across the top of the ridge and down on the other side, and as he did
so:
Zip! Zip! Crack!
A branch of a sapling, cut cleanly off by a bullet, came tumbling at
his feet.
That final effort sent the boy in a heap. But he was
happy--extraordinarily happy--filled, indeed, with a gratitude
to providence so great that he could have found no words with
which to give it expression. He was safe. Dunstan and Chase were
safe--wonderful!--almost unbelievable!
It took the three some moments to recover their breath sufficiently to
speak, then Dunstan, with a very faint smile, addressed the poilu, or,
rather, the poilus, for quite an interested crowd had gathered about
them.
"Kindly pardon our haste in dropping over to see you," he exclaimed.
"But the Germans were urging us to hurry."
"You should have kept to the road, mes Americaines," declared an
artillery lieutenant who stood by the sentry's side. "Had you done so
this would never have happened."
"Ah?"
"Yes; there is a notice posted at the top of the hill which reads:
'Danger! Keep to the left!' In future beware of all short cuts. They
are apt to be short cuts to death!"
"Very true," acquiesced Don, grimly.
"The experience has been hard on your friend."
Chase Manning was clearly suffering from shock; a pallor had overspread
his face; his mouth and eyes were twitching; his strength seemed to
have deserted his trembling form. He leaned heavily against a tree
trunk for support.
"Not here very long, I suppose?" continued the lieutenant, in a lower
tone. "Otherwise----" He made an expressive gesture. "But he'll become
habituated in time; one always does."
In a few moments Don and Dunstan were kept busy answering various
questions, then the sentry spoke up, saying:
"The time was when the Boches didn't bother to fire at any one crossing
that field, but lately they have become quite mechant."[8]
[Footnote 8: Mechant: wicked.]
"The truth of the old saying 'All's well that ends well' has been
demonstrated to our satisfaction," declared Don, his features relaxing
into a faint smile. "Feeling all right now, Chase?"
"No! Who could?" counter-questioned the other, in a tremulous voice.
"It was frightful."
And after voicing this opinion young Manning became silent again.
The side of the hill facing the German trenches was absolutely
deserted, but the opposite slope the ambulanciers found densely crowded
with poilus. And these soldiers of the twentieth century had virtually
become modern cave men; for, imitating the example of their primitive
ancestors, they had burrowed into the earth and made for themselves
habitations. There were hundreds and hundreds of dugouts in the
immediate vicinity, all so skilfully concealed or disguised by various
devices that a German airman flying directly overhead would in all
probability not have discovered their presence.
A long time passed before Chase felt in any mood to join in the
conversation, and then, thoroughly disgusted at having allowed his
feelings to be so plainly seen, he became more than usually sullen.
Suddenly the ambulanciers discovered that there were other sounds in
the air besides the distant booming of cannon and the occasional
explosion of a shell.
"Music, as I live!" cried Don Hale. "Where in the world is that coming
from?"
He addressed the artillery lieutenant.
"The theatrical performance has just started," answered the officer,
with a smile. "Perhaps Messieurs would like to witness the comedy?
Plenty of bomb-proof shelters close by," he added, pleasantly.
"Should we like to see it? Yes, indeed," cried the aviator's son,
enthusiastically.
"And thus the scene shifts from near-tragedy to comedy!" laughed
Dunstan. "Coming, Chase?"
The latter had been showing no inclination to budge from his position,
but in answer to the question he gave a gruff assent, then slowly rose
to his feet, and Don, standing near by, heard him mutter:
"Awful, awful! I can scarcely believe I'm alive."
As the three Americans followed their soldier-guide along the
foot-path, which wound its way in a serpentine direction through the
forest, they were greeted everywhere with cordial salutations. The way
led past an amazing number of subterranean retreats, representing such
a vast amount of time and labor that Dunstan could not help remarking
thoughtfully:
"Too bad that so much energy had to be put into work of such a
character!"
"I guess that thought was in the mind of every one who helped to dig,"
growled Chase.
The artillery lieutenant smiled.
"This war has certainly proved as nothing else ever did the wonderful
ability of mankind to adapt itself to every sort of condition, no
matter how difficult or unusual. It has given tremendous impetus to
inventive genius all over the world, particularly in connection with
the science of aeronautics. The conquest of the air is almost complete."
"My father is an aviator in the American army," declared Don, proudly.
"Formerly he served with a French squadron. Some day I hope to be an
airman myself."
"Ah, indeed!" exclaimed the lieutenant, evidently very much pleased.
"But ma foi! You are very young."
"Yes. I've no objection to that, however," laughed Don. "I suppose,
Monsieur le Lieutenant, there are plenty of guns around here?"
"Do you see any?"
"No; and I don't expect to unless I should happen to find a muzzle
sticking right in my face."
"Ah! The art of camouflage is another thing I might have mentioned.
But, to change the subject, the Americans have proved themselves very
great friends of the French, and to show that I am among those who
are appreciative of it I am going to invite you all to pay a visit,
whenever it is convenient, to the battery to which I am attached. You
accept, n'est-ce pas?"
"I should say so!--eh, mes camarades?" exclaimed Don, enthusiastically.
He turned toward his companions.
The art student assented heartily, though Chase, who still looked pale
and haggard, merely muttered his thanks and shrugged his shoulders
non-committally.
As the Americans proceeded they became more and more surprised at the
immense number of men and dugouts to be seen on every side--indeed
they were passing over the top of a veritable underground village, with
little lanes running in all directions, so as to afford access to the
various quarters.
"Naturally, there isn't always so much life and activity on this hill,"
said the lieutenant, when Don mentioned the subject. He pointed to
the surrounding forest. Many of the trees had been snapped in twain
by high-explosive shells, while others lay prostrate on the ground;
indeed, but very few had escaped being scarred, gashed or broken by the
various bombardments. "Sometimes it is just as dangerous as you found
it back yonder."
At this reminder of their thrilling experience Chase Manning
perceptibly shivered.
"That's the kind of an experience which will stick in a fellow's memory
forever," he said, almost as if speaking to himself. The grim look
suddenly flashed away from his face. "Don, you're a brave kid."
"Oh, it wasn't anything!" broke in the aviator's son, lightly. "You
would have done the same."
The sound of music had been growing steadily louder, and now the
melodious strains of a song chanted by hundreds of voices were wafted
through the forest. It was very charming--very idyllic, and in strange
contrast to the sounds of warfare coming from the distance.
A rather sharp turn, and they arrived almost abruptly at a clearing. To
one side, at the very edge of the trees, the ambulanciers caught sight
of a little stage, where the soldier-actors were going through their
parts with considerable fervor. And they were playing before a large
and enthusiastic audience, to whom, apparently, thoughts of war were
the very last in their minds.
"The comedy is the work of one of our officers," explained the
lieutenant. "It is entitled 'The Poilu's Ten Days in Paris.' I hope,
mes Americaines, you will find it worth more than the price of
admission."
"No doubt about that," laughed Don.
"The last performance was abruptly terminated by a shell falling only a
short distance from the stage. We must trust that to-day the boys will
have better luck."
"You can just bet we do," mumbled Chase.
The artillery officer conducted them as close as he could to the
little improvised theater, then, after a brief conversation, during
which he reminded them of their promise to pay the battery a visit, and
stated that his name was Lieutenant D'Arraing, he bowed politely and
was speedily lost to view.
The ambulanciers found themselves quite the center of attraction,
and so much good humor and jollity around them went very far toward
effacing from the minds of all the remembrance of their recent peril.
Dunstan very aptly described the play presented by the amateur actors
as "rip-roaring farce." A great many most extraordinary things occurred
during the "Poilu's Ten Days in Paris," and the pleasure of witnessing
all these laughable episodes was considerably enhanced, at least
according to the ideas of the boys, by the choruses, in which the
audience generally joined. An orchestra of five did valiant service.
Altogether the Americans enjoyed the performance hugely, though several
times the explosions of shells sounded with unpleasant distinctness.
After it was all over Don, Dunstan and Chase met so many poilus
who were eager to converse with them, especially on the subject of
America's entrance into the great war, that their departure was
long delayed--so long delayed indeed that an idea came into the art
student's head.
"Fellows," he said, "there's a great deal in first impressions."
"What's the sequel to that remark?" asked Chase.
"It just occurred to me that we might tarry around here even longer, so
that we might get our first view of the famous Château de Morancourt by
the mystic light of the moon."
"'Peewee' should have heard that!" chuckled Don.
"If your artistic spirit craves that shadows and gloom should hover
over the old pile of stones and make it suggest a picture-postal, so be
it," grinned Chase.
"Very good!" said Dunstan.
Standing by the side of a tree, he began tapping on the bark.
The smiling Don translated the following message:
"Perhaps the castle by moonlight may be too much for our friend's
nerves."
The aviator's son replied:
"I wonder if he'll have an irresistible impulse to run."
"He wasn't cut out for this sort of life."
"No; an easy chair in an office for him."
"Bodkins' woodpeckers again!" broke in Chase, with a yawn. "A funny
kind of a habit, I call it."
"Maybe so," grinned Don.
The three began to stroll leisurely here and there, quite often
accompanied by one or more of the poilus. Down by a little creek they
came across a number lined up alongside the bank engaged in the prosaic
occupation of washing clothes and hanging them out to dry on convenient
saplings and branches.
"Another illustration of man's adaptability," laughed Don.
In the midst of congenial company, with much to interest them, time
passed rapidly, and finally the ambulanciers, who had brought supper
with them, took seats on a bit of turf and began their meal.
And though at times the mosquitoes and gnats made things decidedly
uncomfortable, there they remained until the sun had long since
disappeared beneath the horizon and the moonbeams were gaining
sufficient strength to reveal their presence upon the face of nature.
Then Dunstan jumped to his feet, exclaiming:
"It's time for us to be on the move."
"Hooray! Now for the last stretch!" cried Don.
"And the Château de Morancourt by moonlight!" added Chase.