AID FROM THE AIR
A bullet through his own body would not have given Phil as intense a
pain as the one that struck Tim and apparently ended his career. But he
was too good a soldier to let even so distressing an incident delay him
in the duty of speedy self preservation.
And yet, swift though he was in springing behind a tree and bringing his
rifle into position for firing, there were others just as speedy as he.
Six men in gray uniforms, but decidedly un-uniform as to size and grace
of physique, were standing out in full view with guns leveled at him.
Instinctively Phil’s hand moved an inch or two toward his hand-grenade
sack. But it stopped almost with the impulse. He had used the last of
his grenades half an hour before in the squad’s last fight that resulted
in the extermination of one of the most obstinate of all the machine-gun
nests in the woods. How he wished he had been more mindful of his supply
while hurling those missiles at the enemy. Two of them, he recalled
distinctly, had gone wide of their marks and represented a sheer waste
of powder and shell. Oh, if he had only one of those grenades! With it
he could produce such execution in that group of snipers that he could
easily capture or finish with his rifle those not slain by the explosion
of the hand missile. He was sure he could hurl a grenade accurately and
at the same time keep his head and body fairly well protected from the
enemy’s rifles behind the hole of the tree.
But there was no use now of mourning over spilled milk or exploded
shells, and an attempt to engage in battle, alone, with six
Hohenzollernites, all of whom had the drop on him, could mean nothing
more hopeful than death.
One of the snipers called out an order in German, but Phil did not
understand it, although he had studied the language one year at school.
Then all six men advanced toward him with their guns ready to fire the
instant the Marine showed a disposition to fight.
The boy was on the verge of offering to surrender when a new
interruption of proceedings produced one of those spectacular thrills
that relieve the carnage of battle of some of its dreadfulness. Almost
without warning, save for a heavy, momentary rushing sound in the
atmosphere, there was an explosion and upheaval of earth midway between
the boches and the American Marines.
Phil did not see what occurred. For the moment he could see nothing but
confusion. His first thought was that the explosion was caused by a
shell from either American or boche artillery. But this could hardly be.
He had heard no shrill scream that always heralds the approach of such
missiles. Sound travels more rapidly than even a cannon projectile, and
soldiers often comment with grim amusement on their acquired skill at
“dodging” shells whose approach is announced by their own shrieks
piercing the air ahead of them.
Suddenly Phil recalled that, in the midst of the excitement attending
his and Tim’s excursion into the ravine, he had heard faintly a familiar
noise in the upper atmosphere—caused by the powerful gyrations of an
aeroplane. As the echoes of the explosion of the shell died away, he
heard the super-sonorous buzz of the “great mechanical bee” again and
looked upward.
It was a French aeroplane, from which the bomb had fallen. Apparently
the flyer had seen the unequal combat going on below and dropped an
explosive in the hope of incapacitating the opponents of the boy in
khaki to do him any harm. The overhead foliage was not heavy at this
point and it was not inconceivable that the aviator might have seen even
more of the activities of the six snipers than Phil and Tim had seen.
None of the advancing enemy was killed, although it seemed well-nigh
miraculous that all of them were not at least fatally injured. However,
Phil saw two of them picking themselves up after the cloud of flying
earth, stones, and sticks had fallen back to earth. Blood was trickling
from the face of each of these and all of the others were nursing severe
cuts or bruises.
Phil saw his opportunity. Every one of the boches had dropped his gun in
order the better to pet his smarting wounds. The boy, protected by the
hole of the large tree which he was endeavoring to keep between himself
and the enemy’s bullets, had not been touched by even the smallest of
the flying stones, sticks, bits of earth or pieces of shell. Springing
out from behind the tree he ran toward the panic-stricken sextette, with
rifle ready to be brought to his shoulder at a moment’s warning.
“Halt!” he cried; “Halt, or I’ll shoot!”