IN HIDING
The first day of freedom for the escaped prisoners of war in the land of
their captivity was spent midway between two lines of communication that
ran from the boche armies back to their bases of supply. One of these
routes lay about a mile to the north and the other about a mile to the
south of the group of farm houses in which the fugitive Americans and
French were concealed. At points in both of these routes they could see
numerous motor vehicles rushing in both directions, probably bearing
wounded and reserves as well as supplies. A little nearer to the north
also could be seen crews of men at work repairing a railroad bed and
tracks that undoubtedly had been blown up by the French in their
retreat.
It was agreed that the men should move about very little in their
quarters during the day. Lookouts were stationed at certain windows and
doors of the farm buildings, although these positions were camouflaged
as much as possible with articles of furniture, farm implements, straw,
et cetera, to prevent any chance betrayal of the hiding place of the
escaped prisoners.
These lookouts also inspected as best they could the harvest
possibilities of the agricultural vicinity, and it was estimated that
even in the dark a considerable supply of vegetables and nearly ripened
apples could be gathered. In a bin in one of the barns was discovered
several bushels of year-old barley.
In the course of the day, between sleeps, Phil, Tim and Evans, from the
loftiest viewpoint attainable in the cupola of one of the barns, made a
studied survey of the country to the west. They found that they had
approached to within a mile and a half of a small village directly in
their course of advance, and that perhaps not more than two miles beyond
this were the (probable) ruins of another French town. Phil had not been
in France long before he observed that the municipalities, large and
small, are situated much more closely together than are the cities and
towns of even the most thickly populated portions of America.
Phil and Tim also had opportunity during this day to recount in detail
their experiences to each other since their separation in Belleau Woods.
Phil also questioned his friend regarding the wound that had rendered
him unconscious for fifteen or twenty minutes on the scene of the novel
battle in the ravine. In reply, Tim pulled off his overseas cap and
disclosed a small crudely-made plaster-bandage, that was held in place
by the cap.
“It wasn’t a bad wound,” he explained; “but it might easily have
fractured my skull. The bullet hit the side of my head a good hard rap,
but glanced and cut a furrow in my scalp.
“I came to just as that funny looking bunch o’ boches were leading you
off through the timber. The sight o’ that put a thrill of life into me
and I staggered to my feet and started after you. The boches had left my
gun lying on the ground, thinking, I suppose, that I was dead and would
be unable to use it.
“I was just waiting until I could get control of myself before I opened
fire on those pesky Huns. If I’d not felt quite so shaky on my pins I’d
’a’ blazed away as soon as I waked up, for I figured the firing would
attract friends our way. But I guess that fellow that jumped onto your
back was the smartest one in their crowd, for he must ’a’ figured we
were likely to have comrades in the neighborhood and been on the lookout
for ’em. Anyway, before long he played the same game on me that he
played on you, sneaking around and jumpin’ on me from behind.
“Well, they took me along with you only a short distance behind, and you
never knew I was trailing along. I walked back behind with a couple of
boches and jollied them along the best I could. I guess I succeeded
pretty well, judging from results.
“It seems that this squad were part of a regular crew that made trips
with prisoners back behind the lines and took part in the fighting while
waiting for a bunch of prisoners large enough for a trip. At least,
that’s what I gathered from their conversation. You know I learned to
talk German pretty well while living with a German family in
Pennsylvania, and I made good use of it with these fellows. Camouflaging
my boasts with all the modesty I could put into words, I told ’em all
about my accomplishments. I guess I hit ’em about right when I told ’em
I could cook as well as any Pennsylvania-Dutch grandmother, and they set
me to work on a mess truck right away. That’s why you didn’t see me
during the trip, Phil. But I picked you out in the line.”
“I don’t admire your cooking very much,” his friend commented with a
smile. “Is that what you call Pennsylvania-Dutch cooking?”
Tim grinned ruefully.
“’Tisn’t my fault,” he said. “Those parsimonious Prussians stood over me
and told me how much oil I could burn to warm a barrel o’ stew. And if
the first match didn’t light the burner, you folks ’u’d have to eat your
meal cold, they said. Oh, they’ve got everything down to an efficiency
and conservation basis for winning the war, they have.”
“How did you get away from them?” Phil asked.
“Just walked away,” Tim replied in a matter-of-fact manner. “It was
really funny. I guess they were all interested in that wine cellar that
one o’ them discovered, but I didn’t know it at the time. Anyway, they
seemed to lose all interest in me, and several times I found myself all
alone. I was so astonished that I didn’t have sense to cut stick until I
concluded that I was an everlasting fool if I didn’t, and I don’t
believe they know I’m gone yet.”
“They’ll know about the time they’ve sobered up,” Phil returned with a
prophetic grin. “And by the time the whole truth of developments dawns
on them, there’ll be something doing, believe me.”