THE KHAKI BOYS
FIGHTING TO WIN
OR
_Smashing the German Lines_
By
CAPT. GORDON BATES
Author of "The Khaki Boys at Camp Sterling," "The
Khaki Boys on the Way," "The Khaki Boys
at the Front," "The Khaki Boys
Over the Top," etc.
_ILLUSTRATED_
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
THE KHAKI BOYS SERIES
By CAPT. GORDON BATES
THE KHAKI BOYS AT CAMP STERLING
or Training for the Big Fight in France
THE KHAKI BOYS ON THE WAY
or Doing Their Bit on Land and Sea
THE KHAKI BOYS AT THE FRONT
or Shoulder to Shoulder in the Trenches
THE KHAKI BOYS OVER THE TOP
or Doing and Daring for Uncle Sam
THE KHAKI BOYS FIGHTING TO WIN
or Smashing the German Lines
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
THE KHAKI BOYS FIGHTING TO WIN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I BURIED ALIVE 1
II A STRANGE SIGHT 9
III ANOTHER PUZZLE 18
IV RECOGNITION 26
V BATTLING ONWARD 37
VI POOR SCHNITZ 44
VII DAYS OF SORROW 53
VIII STARTLING INFORMATION 60
IX UGLY THREATS 68
X DISQUIETING RUMORS 77
XI THE SIGNALS 85
XII NEWS FROM THE AIR 92
XIII A FORWARD RUSH 101
XIV UNSEEN MARKSMEN 108
XV OVER THE CLIFF 116
XVI ONLY TWO LEFT 125
XVII BLOWN UP 132
XVIII A STRANGE MEETING 140
XIX IN SWIRLING WATERS 148
XX THE CAVE FIGHT 155
XXI A DESPERATE RESOLVE 166
XXII THE ESCAPE 172
XXIII THE SECRET PACT 182
XXIV THROUGH THE LINES 194
THE KHAKI BOYS FIGHTING TO WIN
CHAPTER I
BURIED ALIVE
Distant rumbles, like those of some far-off thunderstorm, penetrated
even to the dugout, which was constructed under a greater depth of
earth than usual. At times some fearful, though far-removed, explosion
would cause the solid ground to tremble, while articles on the rude
shelves of the shelter would fall down with resultant crashes.
"Some bombardment--that!" exclaimed one of a number of khaki-clad
soldiers who were busying themselves in varying fashion in their
bomb-proof quarters.
"I should say so!" agreed another. "If our boys keep this up long there
won't be enough Germans left for us to have a scrimmage with!"
"Don't you fool yourself, Bob!" exclaimed Sergeant Jimmy Blaise. "There
are more Germans left alive than we have any idea of. There'll be
plenty left for you to tackle."
"Now your mind's relieved on that score, would you mind passing that
oil can, Bob?" requested Roger Barlow. "There's a spot of rust on my
gun, and if we're going to have another big fight soon I don't want the
lock to jam at a critical time."
"Another big fight, eh?" mused Robert Dalton, as he complied with his
bunkie's request. "That's about all we've been doing lately."
"That's what we're here for," suggested Sergeant Jimmy. "And the more
big fights we have the sooner it will be over."
"You said something!" chimed in Franz Schnitzel, who, in spite of his
Teutonic name, was one of the best of Uncle Sam's doughboys. "It's
the only way to make the stupid Germans, not to call them anything
worse, realize that we're not here to play tag with them. The heavier
the fighting, the quicker they'll be ready to give up. But what's the
use of talking about more fighting? Here we are, relieved of duty for
to-day, at least, and let's enjoy it while we can. We'll be back in the
trenches soon enough."
"That's so!" agreed Jimmy. "Hello over there, Iggy!" he called to a lad
sitting at a table on which glowed an electric light. "Are you writing
in Polish or English?" he asked, for the lad he addressed as "Iggy,"
but whose name was Ignace Pulinski, was laboring with pen, ink and
paper.
"It is English I am writ him, an to my mothar," was the answer. "No
more Polish do I him write. I am a 'Merican now and for always."
"That's the way to talk, Iggy!" cried Bob. "Do you want any help with
that letter? It seems to be more important than usual."
"Sure him is reportment," agreed Iggy, looking up and drawing in
his tongue, which, while writing, had been stuck out of his mouth,
following every laborious movement of his pen. "I am to my mothar
sending my share of the money that Sergeant Jimmy broke up on us."
"Oh, you mean the five thousand francs he whacked up with us, Iggy,"
laughed Franz. "That's the word, 'whacked,' not broke, though no matter
how much money someone whacks up with you, you'll be broke as soon as
you haven't any."
"English him is a queer talk," sighed Iggy. "But I am writ to my mothar
that I send her the two hundred dollars Sergeant Jimmy gave me. By
jolly, that's a heap of money!" and his eyes glistened. "My faothar--he
work many a days and he never get so much. But I no send this to my
faothar--he is of no good. To my mothar this money goes, and she will
kick for joy."
"You mean she'll dance for joy!" laughed Jimmy. "That's all right,
Iggy. No offense meant," he went on as he saw his Polish friend look
at him rather sharply. "You want to learn English, you know, even if
it is a queer language, and you told us to correct you when you made
mistakes."
"Sure. So I did. I am of a thanks to you. But my mothar, she will of
joy have a lot when she gets this money. It--it is more as she haf ever
seen of a once," and there was something in Iggy's tone that put a stop
to further joking on this line.
The Polish lad went on with his letter-writing. As he had said, he was
enclosing a money order for two hundred dollars. This was his share of
a reward of five thousand francs which Sergeant Jimmy Blaise won for
putting out of the way a certain "Charles Black," who, it turned out,
was an Austrian spy named Adolph von Kreitzen. Jimmy, who in private
life was wealthy, had insisted on sharing his reward with the other of
the "Five Brothers," as the Khaki Boys were often called.
"Need any help, Iggy?" asked Bob, as he saw the Polish lad shake his
head as if in despair over some knotty point in the letter.
"Well, I maybe do," was the answer. "I should tell my mothar about how
I was out on night-work, and I of help capture that Russian spy of
the name Alexandraiovitch Tarbotchanitzitschi. That is a hard name to
spell."
"Spell! You can't spell that name!" and Jimmy Blaise exploded in a
laugh. "You can get your tongue around it a whole lot better than any
of us, but it can't be spelled. Just put in a wheeze, a couple of
sneezes and a hiccough. Then you'll have the name, Iggy."
"Well, I guess maybe you got it right," assented the Polish lad.
"I just tell my mothar I of capture a Russian spy what the Germans
have--what you call made bad. I tell her the name when I get home."
"That's the idea!" agreed Bob. "Home!" he exclaimed. "Say, fellows,
where have I heard that word before?"
"That's what I was wondering," chimed in Roger Barlow. "It sort of
rhymes with bath-tub, pie, broiled steaks----"
He was interrupted by a dog-eared magazine which Jimmy tossed at him,
narrowly missing hitting the electric lamp by which Iggy was writing
his letter.
"Here! Cheese it! Do you want to douse the glim?" expostulated
Schnitzel. "We won this dugout from the Germans after too much hard
work to let you put it on the blink now. It's the best place we've had
to rest in for some time. Don't go putting it on the kazook!"
"I apologize," said Sergeant Jimmy, humbly enough. "It's great to have
electric light, isn't it? Those Huns certainly went to a lot of work to
make this place like home for their officers. Electric lights, decent
berths, and places where you can take it easy and write letters."
"They never thought we'd get this far, I guess," remarked Bob.
And what he said was true. There had been a sudden and substantial
advance on the part of the American army, and they had overwhelmed the
German lines at this sector, running the Boches several miles back.
Thus long lines of well-made German trenches, including a number of
dugouts fitted up rather more elaborately than usual, were left in the
hands of the Allies in general and the Americans in particular.
The one in which the five Brothers were taking their rest after some
severe fighting had been arranged with electric lights, and after the
battle the wires were repaired, the dynamo hitched on again, and the
place rendered habitable. It was an exceptionally deep dugout, and
was safe from all but the very heaviest bombardments of the German
guns. And there had been bombardments from time to time ever since the
Americans had swept irresistibly and victoriously over the Boche lines.
"Well, this can't last forever," remarked Bob, as he nibbled at a bit
of chocolate.
"What we want to do," declared Franz, as he slyly took a bit of Bob's
confection, "is to wallop the Huns good and hard, and then put 'em
where they can't do any more harm. Then it's us for the good old U. S.
A."
"Yes, and it'll be you for the outside if you snibby any more of my
lollypop!" exclaimed Bob, with a grin as he moved away from Schnitzel.
"I got this off a Salvation Army lassie this morning, and she said I
wasn't to give any of it away."
"Pity you didn't get some for all of us," commented Roger. "Did they
open a fresh box?"
"Yes, just got a new lot in," said Bob. "I was going to tell you about
it and advise you to go out and get your share when we got to talking
about Iggy's letter."
"Him is all done now--my letter," declared the Polish lad. "I can for
the chocolate go!"
"We'll all have a go at the chocolate!" put in Jimmy. "Come on,
fellows. We've been in here long enough. Let's get a bit of fresh air
without running danger of poison gas. No telling how soon we'll be sent
to the front again. Me for a large, juicy slice of chocolate!"
"We're with you!" cried his four chums.
"Well, I wish I could of see my mothar when she open this letter and of
the two hundred dollars take out," said Iggy, as he gave the epistle to
a messenger to see that it was mailed, together with cards and letters
previously prepared by the other Khaki Boys. "She will hop--no, that is
not the word--she will dance for of joy."
"Well, let us dance out and get the chocolate while the going's good!"
cried Jimmy.
As he spoke a deeper boom from some distant, great gun came to their
ears, and the ground trembled.
"Sounds as though they were coming nearer," commented Bob.
"Or else they're using longer range cannon," added Roger.
"Well," said Jimmy, "as long as we----"
He never finished the sentence. In the midst of it the words were
drowned, swallowed up, obliterated in one great crash. It seemed to be
exactly on top of the dugout of which the five Khaki Boys were now the
only occupants.
And coincident with the crash there came complete darkness, while the
deafening noise was followed by smaller concussions.
"It's a cave-in! The walls are collapsing!" cried Bob.
"I'm covered with dirt!" came Roger's voice faintly from the darkness.
"Fellows, we're buried alive! Buried alive!"
And the echoes seemed to send back, mockingly:
"Buried alive! Alive!"