THE FIGHT IN THE CELLAR
Phil returned at once to the prison from which he and his companions had
just escaped. He had one purpose in this move. The excitement of their
departure had caused him to forget one very important thing that he had
planned to do before leaving the place. That was to transfer the guard’s
pistol cartridges to his own person. While engaged in his good-by
conversation with Tim, he placed his hand on the pocket containing the
weapon he had taken from the captured guard, and this reminded him of
his neglect to take possession of the available supply of ammunition.
The candles had been snuffed out just before the prisoners stole away
through the tunnel and down the path by the sandpit. Phil was not
exactly certain whether he was pleased or displeased with this fact. If
the bound and gagged boche guard still lay in the south-east corner of
the cellar where he had been left, the returning Marine would have no
trouble finding him; but if he had rolled away in his efforts to
liberate himself, undoubtedly a light would be a very desirable aid in
locating him.
Phil crept back through the tunnel cautiously; not that he anticipated
trouble from any source just now, but his every act under present
circumstances must of necessity be stealthy and careful. And so, in
spite of his caution, he was totally unprepared for what took place as
he reentered the cellar.
He scarcely realized what happened, too, for the blow that fell on him
half stunned him. It was a vicious blow, and if it had not glanced from
the side of his head, it must surely have knocked him out. As it was,
the spade, or shovel, which was the weapon in the hands of his
assailant, bounded from his head to his shoulder and thence with a dull
metallic clang on the clayey floor.
Phil staggered, but struggled desperately to keep from falling, and then
made a dive for the dark form whose outlines he could faintly
distinguish by the starlight that came in through the window from which
several of the prisoners had removed their coats before departing. But
the fellow undoubtedly expected this move and, having, under the
circumstances, better control of his wits, got a better hold on the
returning Marine and quickly threw him on his back.
The latter, meanwhile was rapidly recovering from the effects of the
blow on his head, and realizing that his enemy would fasten his fingers
on the throat of his victim as soon as possible, pressed his chin hard
against his chest, threw his left arm over his face for protection and
passed his right hand down to his right hip pocket.
He was thankful now that it was dark for there was no possibility of the
boche’s seeing what he was doing. Meanwhile, Phil affected to be trying
to throw off his assailant, while in fact he was merely elevating his
right hip in order that he might draw the pistol that he had taken from
the captured guard less than an hour before.
The ruse was successful. In a few moments the muzzle of the weapon was
pressed against the side of the boche, who was struggling hard to get
his fingers around Phil’s throat. The boy sergeant set his teeth as he
had never set them before and pulled the trigger.
The explosion was well muffled by the burying of the muzzle in the
clothing of the desperately vicious fellow, who probably was bent on
having a full revenge for the treatment he had received at the hands of
the Yank prisoners. Doubtless none of the other guards in the vicinity
could hear the sound of the discharge of the weapon, in spite of the
vent afforded by the tunnel. Phil felt not the least uneasiness on this
score after hearing the dull thud against the body of the man on top of
him.
The latter collapsed with scarcely a groan. Phil rolled him off and got
up, returning the firearm to his pocket and saying to himself:
“Awful sorry for you, boche, but I couldn’t help it. Maybe you weren’t
so much to blame after the kind of training you fellows ’ave had. I
wonder what Tim would say about me now—would he think I’m a mollycoddle?
Really I’m beginning to believe that he was right when he predicted that
I’d be successful in my mission. I feel at this moment as if I could
lick the whole boche army all alone.
“But I mustn’t stop to philosophize or Tim ’u’d call me a worse fool
than ever. First I must have that belt o’ yours. It probably holds
pistol cartridges for me and gun cartridges for Tim. Yes, there it is
and off it comes—and—around me it goes. Now, what next? I wonder if I
ought to take it. Yes, I believe I will. He’s a bigger fellow than I am
and his uniform’ll go over mine very snugly. That’ll camouflage me for
immediate purposes, and when I don’t want it any longer I can skin it
off. So here goes.”
Twenty minutes later Phil was creeping out of the cellar again
“super-clad” with the guard’s uniform which he had removed from the
apparently lifeless form and transferred over his own khaki.
“I wonder how he ever freed himself of those bonds,” the boy muttered as
he moved crouchingly toward the bushes at the head of the descending
pathway. “I suppose we didn’t tie his wrists as securely as we thought
we did and he worked loose. Anyway, I don’t believe he’ll ‘work loose’
again. But I’m sorry for him and hope he’s only wounded enough to keep
him helpless till he can’t do us any more harm. Say, wouldn’t it be
glorious if everybody shot in this war were only wounded and would get
well again after it’s all over? But war ’u’d be only a game o’ ten pins
then, wouldn’t it?
“Gee! I’m a bum soldier. If I confessed such a sentiment as that to Tim,
he’d shoot me on the spot for a Prussian propagandist.”