PHIL A PRISONER
Although this overpowering attack from behind was doubtless almost as
much a surprise to Phil’s six prisoners as it was to the boy himself, it
did not take them long to recover and seize advantage of the situation.
Like a football team they rushed forward to tackle their recent captor,
but their assistance was scarcely needed, for the fellow who had leaped
on Phil’s back was a powerful 200-pounder, and the shock that resulted
when earth and the boy came together half stunned the latter.
But it was not enough to deprive him entirely of his senses, and as he
was being jerked to his feet, he had the hazy gratification of hearing
an answering whistle to his own “siren shriek.” The boches evidently
were alarmed by the same sound, for they put greater energy and speed in
their actions in order to get out of the ravine as soon as possible.
First they raced about and gathered up their guns, which lay strewn
around the crater-like hole made by the explosion of the bomb dropped
from the aeroplane. Then they gathered up their uniforms, but did not
stop to put them on, and darted into the thick of the timber in the
direction of the retreating boche lines, two of them half carrying, half
dragging their boy prisoner between them.
But Phil was not the kind of lad who would attempt to hinder the
progress of his captors by hanging back and pretending to be unable to
keep pace with them. He preferred to conduct himself as thoroughly
able-bodied as soon as he had recovered from the shock that attended his
capture. In a few minutes he won just a slight manifestation of
good-will from the two who had hold of his arms by “going them one
better” and actually leading them slightly in the race through the
timber.
In a short time the dusk was so heavy in the woods that it was difficult
for them to make progress at more than a slow walk. Efforts to push
ahead rapidly were sure to result in trouble with tripping underbrush,
scratching branches, and bruising boles of trees.
Phil realized that it was next to vain to hope that they would be
overtaken by the comrade Marines of his squad; for although answering
calls from them had reached his ears, indicating that they had almost
arrived at the scene of his capture, there was small likelihood, indeed,
that they would be able to hit the trail of the fleeing boches and
overtake them and rescue him. He was tempted several times to repeat his
whistle and yell out information as to his predicament, but vicious
threats from the officer of big girth in charge of the squad now in
“underclothing uniform,” accompanied by a significant pressing of a
rifle muzzle now and then against his head, advised him convincingly
against any such proceeding.
Sergeant Speed’s one hope of rescue was that they might run into a body
of Americans who had advanced farther into the timber in their search
for retreating snipers and machine gunners. But this hope was only
remotely reasonable, for the instruction from the commanding officer had
been that the entire raiding force return by nightfall. Undoubtedly he
and Corporal Tim, and perhaps the other members of the squad as well,
were being reckoned among the missing. It was hardly probable that the
latter had yet given up their efforts to rejoin him after hearing and
answering his siren whistle. Possibly they had discovered Tim lying on
the ground and even now were doing their best to revive him or were
bearing him back toward the American lines.
Phil and his captors had by this time advanced some distance into this
wooded battle ground, most of which had until recently been occupied by
the enemy. But the heavy shell fire and attacks by the air fleet of the
allies had driven the main boche division back a considerable distance,
and after the Marines had routed out the nests of machine guns and
sharpshooters that were concealed in the woods and rendered perilous any
further attempt on the part of the enemy to hold these positions, the
captured timber terrain was a desolate waste indeed.
No doubt there would be no attempt on the part of the Marines to move
much farther toward the enemy’s lines that night. In the morning
probably the commanding officer would order another advance unless the
enemy anticipated him with a counter attack.
The effects of the shelling of the woods by the American artillery was
evident to some extent almost to the very front of the boche new
positions. In spite of the darkness, Phil could see with the aid of the
stars that peeped down through the foliage, torn, twisted and splintered
branches and tree trunks, while every now and then they stumbled into or
narrowly avoided a jagged shell-hole in the ground.
But at last they reached the objective of the young non-com’s captors,
which was a position of safety behind their own lines, and Phil found
himself confronted with the prospect of remaining a prisoner in the
hands of the enemy for the duration of the rest of the war.