JOHN BIG BEAR AVENGES
IT was breaking daylight, the rain had ceased and the sky was clearing
when stretcher-bearers arrived to remove the unfortunate Frenchman from
the squalid shed which had been the roof of his dungeon prison.
A steady and terrific pounding of the big guns in the rear had begun.
And as though the first shot had been the signal for general activity,
the vast area occupied by the American troops became suddenly peopled
with thousands of khaki-clad men. They swarmed here, there and
everywhere, apparently springing to life and action from nowhere.
The individuals formed into small groups, and these in turn rapidly
mingled with and became parts of larger units; and thus uninterruptedly
the process continued until, in the briefest conceivable time and with
remarkable system and precision, and even before the sun was well above
the horizon, an army had been reassembled and was ready to follow the
creeping barrage which would be laid down by hidden artillery, as soon
as its present firing had mowed away wire entanglements and other
obstructions which aerial observers already had reported the Germans as
having left behind them as they began another day’s retreat.
The direction of the firing indicated that it was along a line
stretching far to the northward, and as time wore on it became apparent
that the extreme upper end was swinging eastward in a movement of which
the section of line where Company C remained was the pivotal point. Nor
was the object of this strategy, and the part to be played in it by
those surrounding the pivot, long in doubt.
For four miles almost due east of Company C, the American lines
stretched out unbrokenly where they had smashed back the southern leg of
the St. Mihiel salient. Not only had this line remained invincible to
each successive effort of the Huns in counter attack, but it had slowly
but steadily advanced northward, in absolute keeping with the
prearranged schedule by which every unit was to go forward.
This line, and the troops around the pivot on which the turn was being
made, were to hold firm for a time, and then advance but slowly, if at
all, until it had been fully determined whether the enveloping movement
being swiftly carried out by the left wing was a success or failure.
If it accomplished its aim, and closed in, or pocketed, the retreating
Germans before they could make their escape, then but two courses would
remain open to them—suicidal battle, which must mean ultimate
annihilation, or surrender.
The big question of the day was whether the already routed Germans could
get through the neck of the bottle-shaped line in which their pursuers
now were closing in upon them, before even that escape was cut off.
But if that section of the line in which the lads were stationed was not
to advance at once, at least no man there was inactive, for there was
more than enough to keep everyone busy during every moment of the time
that they were waiting for the word that would send them again into the
life and death struggle in which the contending armies were engaged.
Red Cross units which had not been able to keep pace with the rapid
advance now were coming up and making ready to go forward with the first
of the doughboys to carry on the offensive.
Trucks in apparently never-ending line were replenishing the company
kitchens, bringing up more men and munitions; wireless tractors were
pushing to the very front of the lines to maintain complete
communication between the foremost and division and brigade headquarters
when once the drive in that sector should begin.
Tractors, and mules only a little less powerful, were bringing forward
some of the heavy guns, new field hospitals were being set up, and in
every department of the great game of war big preparations were under
way.
“Doesn’t look as though it was intended we should loaf around here very
long,” said George Harper to Phil Godwin, another member of Company C,
who came hurrying up at that moment.
“That looks like a pretty safe prediction,” the other man responded,
“but where on earth have you been. I’ve been hunting you and Ollie Ogden
for half an hour. Major Barton, down at the hospital, sent me after you
two and Tom Walton. Just found Tom, but do you know where Ogden is?”
“Right there,” answered Harper, for Ollie had at that moment arrived
from another direction and was standing almost directly behind the man
who bore the message.
“Major Barton wants to see us at the hospital,” Harper explained. “I
wonder what he wants us for.”
“Why,” Ollie answered quickly, “Major Barton was the surgeon who treated
that Frenchman we found under the cow-shed. Do you suppose it is in
reference to that?”
“It must be,” said George, “although at the time I did not connect the
two things. Do you know where Tom is? The summons also included him.”
“Yes, just down the line here,” Ollie replied, at the same time leading
the way toward where Major Barton awaited them.
“Maybe that poor Frenchman has died,” was Harper’s comment, after they
had told Tom their own speculations as to the call for their presence at
the hospital.
“I sincerely hope not,” said Tom, “although it wouldn’t be much of a
surprise if he failed to survive such barbarous punishment as that. He
was more dead than alive when we reached him. By the way, where is Buck
Granger?”
“Captured,” answered Ollie Ogden, without an instant’s hesitation.
“What’s that?” the other two demanded of him in unison, coming to an
abrupt halt and turning to face the bearer of this rather startling
news. “What did you say?” Harper asked again, unable to believe that he
had heard right.
“Captured,” Ollie repeated briefly.
“Well holy cats, when and where?” Tom exploded. “I didn’t know there
were any Germans in this immediate vicinity, except those who are our
prisoners.”
“I don’t believe there are,” answered Ollie, making desperate efforts to
repress a grin.
“Look here,” George Harper exclaimed impatiently, at the same time
grasping Ollie by the shoulder, “quitcherkiddinow, wadayamean, Buck
Granger’s captured?”
“You talk like a machine gun,” Ollie responded, sparring for time. “I
meant exactly what I said—Buck was captured.”
“When?” Tom Walton demanded.
“About an hour ago.”
“Where?”
“Oh, only a short distance from where I was.”
“Who captured him?”
Ollie made ready for a quick dive away from the immediate reach of his
two companions.
“One of the field hospital outfit,” he answered quickly, at the same
time jumping to safer quarters. “Said he had no business out for another
day or two, with his wound.”
Whatever pleasant hostilities Tom and George may have contemplated were
abandoned with their arrival at that moment at the place to which Major
Barton had summoned them. They entered in silence, and the major met
them at the door.
“I’m glad you came when you did,” he greeted them, “but weren’t there
four of you? Where is the other man?”
“Cap—,” Ollie began, but Tom, with a quick frown and a surreptitious
kick which made Ollie wince, squelched him before the word was finished.
“Buck Granger is his name, sir,” Tom answered. “But he was suffering
from a slight wound himself, and he got out earlier than was intended.
They sent him back to the hospital this morning, to remain for another
day or two.”
“I see,” Major Barton replied, with the flicker of a smile playing about
the corners of his mouth for an instant. “Wouldn’t stay put, eh?”
“I guess that was about it,” Tom answered.
“But they captured him,” added the irrepressible Ollie, and the surgeon
joined in the laugh.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose you can imagine why I sent for you boys.
It’s in reference to that Frenchman you rescued from the death dungeon.
I believe he will pull through all right, but he is in for a long siege,
and what he needs most, of course, is nourishment and rest. So, when he
responded to treatment a while ago and regained consciousness I
determined to send him back to the base hospital, where he will get just
the sort of treatment he requires. I think he can stand the trip without
any bad results.
“But when he realized where he was he regarded it as nothing less than a
miracle, for he had given up all hope of escape from his underground
prison. He insisted upon knowing how his rescue had been accomplished,
and as he showed wonderful vitality and recuperative powers, we told
him. When we informed him we were about to send him back to a base
hospital he insisted that he see you boys before he went. So, if you are
ready, we will go in.”
As they passed down the double row of cots in the improvised
hospital—that mercy station where men receive first aid before, if their
wounds are sufficiently serious, being sent back to the base hospital,
where better facilities and attention are possible, they saw many men
whom they knew personally, others whom they recognized by sight. Brave
fellows, at least temporarily incapacitated for further battle, they lay
there weak and helpless, smiling wanly and wistfully as the lads, with a
nod and a kindly, cheering word for each, passed by.
When they came to the cot of the Frenchman they recognized an
improvement already. Hair and beard that had been matted and tangled had
been combed out. He had been bathed and clothed in fresh linen, and the
mental relief that came with finding himself safe was reflected in his
countenance. But he was pitifully weak, as the lads realized when he
feebly grasped the hand of each.
As the French soldier began to speak, Tom saw John Big Bear standing
just a few feet away from them, evidently waiting for them, obviously
listening to all that was said. He had just received a second treatment
of his slight wound in the shoulder.
“I never expected to get out of that place alive,” the Frenchman gasped
weakly. “They tell me I must not talk much, but I wanted to thank you
before they took me away from here. If it had not been for you lads I
probably would be dead now. The other man who was in there with me died
twenty-four hours before I lost consciousness, and I could not have held
out much longer.”
The man spoke almost perfect English. And this was explained in his next
remark.
“I lived for ten years in your country,” he said, “and now I owe my life
to the intelligence and courage of four of its bravest sons.”
He moved restlessly, and the lads saw for the first time that the four
fingers and thumb of his left hand were gone. He saw them looking at the
disfigured member.
“Not by a bullet or shell,” he said, by way of explanation, “but cut off
with a hatchet, one at a time over a period of ten days, by the same
Germans who finally thrust me into that hole to die. They were enraged
because I refused to give them military information. They cut off the
little finger, and gave me forty-eight hours in which to think it over.
They repeated the process every two days until only the hand remained.
Why they did not start in on the other I do not know.”
The grunt of rage which came from directly behind the lads caused all to
turn, and the Frenchman to look inquiringly. John Big Bear had heard
enough. He was striding away toward the door. And while his only
language at the time was a series of deep grunts, could they have been
interpreted they would have been to the effect that while his ancestors
might have scalped a few whites, they never cut men’s fingers off to
force a secret, and it was a pity, after all, that the Indian nation had
not survived and prospered, to scalp every German who had the slightest
warlike disposition.
“Our friend,” Tom explained to the mystified Frenchman. “And a brave and
loyal fellow he is, too, although he seems a trifle queer to strangers.”
The Frenchman nodded, and, seeing the attendants approaching with a
stretcher, to convey him to the waiting ambulance, he asked them to
remain until he was actually started away.
The lads walked beside the emaciated officer, and as they emerged
through the wide doorway they saw John Big Bear standing outside,
apparently in deep and unpleasant meditation.
Looking beyond him Tom saw a group approaching—half a dozen German
prisoners being taken to the rear under two American soldiers as guards.
A moment later and he realized the first prisoner to be one of those
whom they and John Big Bear had brought in. His exclamation attracted
the Indian’s attention, and also that of the man on the stretcher.
John Big Bear looked at them without the slightest change in expression,
but the effect upon the man who had been rescued from the dungeon was
instant and startling.
With a cry that was almost a shriek he pointed at the big German in the
lead. The recognition was apparently mutual, for the latter’s face went
as white as chalk, his step wavered, and even though it was apparent he
was making a tremendous effort to maintain his self-possession, his
hands shook.
“The beast!” the Frenchman shouted, his weak voice breaking into an
hysterical sob. “It was he—he—who cut off my fingers. It was he who
threw me into that pit to die.”
In that tense instant a shot rang out. The big German crumpled and went
down in a heap without so much as a sound. If anyone there knew from
whence that shot had come, he made no mention of it, and there was no
investigation.
The others gathered about the German who had gone down, but he had died
instantly—shot directly through the heart. John Big Bear, with just a
perceptible grunt, turned and walked away.
Tom Walton, glancing after him, saw the Indian push something down into
his pocket; that was all. The tortured Frenchman had been avenged.
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