A STRANGE MEETING
Bob Dalton slowly opened his eyes. The reason he did it slowly was
because it seemed less painful that way. And the truth of the matter
was that he ached all over. Later he said he felt as though some one
had taken a club and pounded him from head to foot.
"I wonder what happened," mused Bob, and his brain seemed to work as
slowly as did his eyes. Then came remembrance of the great blast, of
the farmhouse blown into the air, and he himself being hurled along
with at least part of it. Then came the fall and darkness. And it
was from this darkness of unconsciousness that Bob was now gradually
emerging.
He turned his head from side to side, and was glad to find that it was
still attached to his body and that he could still move it.
Bob saw that he was lying in a field. Dirt was all about him, some
scattered in such a way as to show that shells had landed there not
very long before. Over his head Bob could see the sky and note that
clouds were slowly floating along.
"Well, I'm out in the open, that's one sure thing," mused the Khaki
Boy. "Now to see if I've got my legs and arms left. My head's as sore
as a boil, though."
The best way to discover this was to use his hands, and he found, to
his delight, that they were both attached to his arms, and that his
fingers were intact. They were a little numb, but he managed to move
them, convincing himself that at least the upper part of his body was
still intact.
"Hum! Lump about as big as a hen's egg," murmured Bob, as he discovered
a protuberence on his head. It was the blow which caused this that had
rendered him senseless.
"Now if I can wiggle my legs maybe I'll be able to get up and see what
happened and what's going on," thought Bob. He lay still for a moment
longer, however, moving his feet only slightly, and he was glad to find
that his legs seemed to be normal.
There was borne to his ears the distant sounds of war-the rattle of
rifles and machine guns, and the boom of artillery. But it was so
distant that he decided the tide of battle had passed beyond him,
wherever he was.
"And that's the thing to find out--where I am," murmured Bob. "I can
get up, I guess."
He was about to do this when he heard voices talking, and it needed
but a hearing of the first few words to tell Bob that the talk was in
German.
Bob lay still and listened. He wanted to make sure of his position
before he arose. The next few words apprised him of the plight into
which he had fallen, or rather, been blown. Bob understood enough
German to enable him to know what was being said. And the first
expression was, when translated:
"There is another dead American pig over there."
"You're right," came in rejoinder. "The mine hidden in the house worked
to perfection. If they killed our machine gunners, we killed twice as
many of them."
"It was a beautiful explosion," went on the first speaker. "How the
swine-hounds did sail up."
"Blown to bits!" laughed the other.
"All but this one. He doesn't seem to have been hurt at all."
"Maybe he was too far outside. But he is dead, there is no need to
bayonet him."
"Say, can they be talking about me?" was the thought that flashed
through Bob's mind.
There seemed to be no doubt of it a little later, for he heard one of
the Germans say:
"Well, we may as well search him. The pigs sometimes have gold money.
And, anyhow, his shoes are better than mine. I'll take them off. Dead
men need no shoes!" and he laughed.
"He takes a whole lot for granted," thought Bob grimly. And then, as he
sensed the import of this talk, his real situation became apparent.
"They had that farmhouse mined," mused Bob. "After we wiped out the
machine gunners some one of the Boches must have sprung the mine. That
did for our fellows and sent me sailing through the air. I got the bump
on the head that put me to sleep, and now, as soon as I wake up, they
think I'm dead. But I'll show 'em----"
He brought his musings to a sudden end, for at that instant he felt a
violent pull on one leg. His foot was wrenched to one side. But Bob did
not mind the pain much, for it told him his feet and legs were in good
shape.
"Here! Quit that!" he yelled, as he raised his head and saw a burly
German soldier trying to unlace the shoes that were on Bob's feet.
If a bomb had dropped between the two Huns they could not have been
more greatly disturbed. They leaped back and stared with wide-open eyes
at Bob, who sat up. The man who had had hold of his foot dropped it.
"He--he is not dead!" this fellow cried, in German.
"No. But let's finish him!" said the other.
For a moment Bob gave up hope. He was unarmed. His rifle had blown out
of his hands and his revolver was missing. And he saw, not far off, a
number of Germans. It was evident there had been a shift in the lines
during the time Bob was unconscious, and the Boches again occupied the
position around the demolished farmhouse.
The Hun who had proposed to bayonet Bob raised his weapon, but the
other interposed.
"We were told to take prisoners if we could get them," he said in
German. "And this is one of their under-officers. He may tell us
something."
"You've got another guess coming, Fritzie!" said Bob, aloud.
"The pig-dog says something," remarked the soldier with the rifle. "Do
you know what it is, comrade?"
"_Nein!_ How should I speak the rotten talk? Well, we'll search him and
take him along with us. The lieutenant will be glad of the prisoner."
Poor Bob was in dire straits, but, still, being taken prisoner was
infinitely better than being bayoneted on the spot; and Bob realized
this even though he had heard many stories of the German prison camps.
For one wild moment he had an idea of leaping up and giving the best
battle possible to his two captors. There were only two immediately
near him, and Bob had a sort of patriotic notion that one American was
better than half a dozen Germans. But cold facts stared him in the face
as he slowly rose to his feet. Among these facts was the realization
that he was weak and trembling from the effects of his being so nearly
blown to death in the explosion. Another fact was, that though there
were only two of the Huns close at hand, there were many others within
signaling distance.
"Well, I guess I'll have to give up," thought poor Bob.
And then the Germans closed in on him. Bob could not resist. His
pockets were turned inside out, and they took everything he had. They
even took his shoes, and tossed him a pair of old, half-rotten ones
which the tallest German discarded.
"Go ahead!" ordered the man who had expressed the wish to bayonet Bob,
and the prisoner had no choice but to obey. They marched behind him
with rifles held in readiness for instant use, and soon Bob was in
the midst of a company of Germans, the officer of which showed great
delight at the sight of the American.
"I wonder how many of our poor fellows they have," mused Bob. "Gee, but
this is tough luck!"
He felt like giving way to despair, but his pride and grit kept him
from doing so before the leering, exultant Germans. So Bob shut his
teeth tight and marched on. It was not until late that evening that
he was allowed to rest in a German camp, and then he found what the
officer had meant by "others." There were a number of Americans who
had been captured and were being herded together to be sent into the
interior of Germany or to some of the conquered parts of France, where
many of the German prison camps were located.
The days that followed Bob's capture were full of misery. He was packed
into a filthy railroad car with wounded and distressed men, and then,
by slow and jerky stages, he was taken away.
On this terrible journey to the German prison camp the poor captives
had scarcely anything to eat and almost no water to drink. Many were
ill, and several wounded, but no attention was given them, and their
wounds were not dressed.
At times Bob thought he would go mad at the sights he saw. His own
personal sufferings, once the pain in his head ceased, were not great;
but, in common with the others, he lacked food and water.
And finally, after many weary days they were taken from the train and
marched amid jeering lines of Germans to a wired stockade.
Bob dragged his unwilling feet into the stockade. He saw gathered
in the enclosure many sad-eyed and sorrowful American and Allied
prisoners. And then, to the great astonishment of Bob, he heard his own
name shouted.
Some one was running toward him--a ragged figure--and at first he did
not recognize who it was. Then the voice spoke again:
"Bob! Bob Dalton! And so they got you, too! Oh, but I'm glad to see
you----No, I'm not either--not here!"
Bob rubbed his eyes. For a moment he thought it was all a dream and
that this was but a phase of the explosion. Then as the face before
him became more plain through a mist that seemed to fill his eyes, Bob
gasped:
"Schnitz! If it isn't Franz Schnitzel!"
The long-sought, missing Brother had been found, and now the two Khaki
Boys had strangely met to be companions in misery.