TOM LOSES HIS FIRST CONFLICT WITH THE ENEMY
"Down!"
For the first time in Tom Slade's life a sensation of utter despair
gripped him and it was not until several seconds had elapsed, while he
was tossed at the mercy of the storm, that he was able to get a grip on
himself. He struck out frantically and for just a brief minute was
guilty of a failing which he had never yielded to--the perilous weakness
of being rattled and hitting hard at nothing. In swimming, above all
things, this is futile and dangerous, and presently Tom regained his
mental poise and struck out calmly, swimming in the direction in which
the wind bore him, for there was nothing else to do. Not that his effort
helped him much, but he knew the good rule that one should never be
passive in a crisis, for inaction is as depressing to the spirit as
frantic exertion is to the body. And he knew that by swimming he could
keep his "morale"--a word which he had heard a good deal lately.
His heart was sick within him and a kind of cold desperation seized him.
Archer, whom he had known away back home in America, whom he had found
by chance in the German prison camp, who had trudged over the hills and
through the woods with him, was lost. He would never see him again.
Archer, who was always after souvenirs....
These were not thoughts exactly, but they flitted through Tom's
consciousness as he struggled to keep his head clear of the tempestuous
waters. And even in his own desperate plight he recalled that their last
words had been words of discord, for he knew now (generous as he was)
that _he_ was to blame for this dreadful end of all their fine
hopes--that Archer had been right--they should have stayed at Melotte's
hovel. Amid the swirl of the waters, as he swam he knew not where, he
remembered how Archer had said he ought to think of his duty to Uncle
Sam and not imperil his chance to help by going after Florette Leteur.
He was sick, utterly sick, and nearer to hopelessness than he had ever
been in his life; but he struck out in a kind of mechanical resignation,
believing that the wind and the trend of the water must bring him to one
shore or the other before he was exhausted. There was no light anywhere,
no clew or beacon of any sort in that wild blackness, and since he
therefore had no reason to oppose his strength to the force of the storm
he swam steadily in the direction in which it carried him. It made no
difference. Nothing mattered now....
After a while the noise of the lashing changed to that lapping sound
which only contact with the land can give, and soon Tom could
distinguish a solid mass outlined in the hollow blackness of the night.
He had no guess whether it was the Baden or the Alsatian shore that he
was approaching nor how far north or south he had been carried. Nor did
he much care.
His foot touched something hard which brought him to the realization
that he must lessen the force of his advance or perhaps have his life
dashed out upon a rocky shore; and presently he was staggering forward,
brushing his hair away from his eyes, wondering where he was, and
scarcely sensible of anything--his head throbbing, his whole body on the
verge of exhaustion.
"It's my fault--anyway--I got to admit it----" he thought, "and--it
serves--me--right."
One firm resolution came to him. Now that Providence had seen fit to
cast him ashore, if he was to be permitted to continue his flight alone,
he would go straight for his goal, the Swiss border, and not be led
astray (that is what he called it, _led astray_) by any other
enterprise. His duty as a soldier, and he thought of himself as a
soldier now, was clear. His business was to help Uncle Sam win the war
and he must leave it to Uncle Sam to put an end to the stealing of young
girls and to restore them to their homes. He saw himself now, as Archer
had depicted him, in the silly role of a "story book hero" and he felt
ashamed. He knew that General Pershing would not have sent him rescuing
girls, and that the best way he could help France, and even the Leteurs,
was to hurry up and get into the trenches where he belonged. Yes, Archer
was right. And with a pang of remorse Tom remembered how Archer had said
it, "rescuing a girrl!" He would never hear Archer talk like that any
more....
He had more than once been close enough to death to learn to keep his
nerve in the presence of it, but the loss of his companion quite
unnerved him. It had not occurred to him that anything _could_ happen to
Archer, who claimed himself that he always landed right side up because
he was lucky. Tom could not realize that he was gone.
Still, comrades were lost to each other every day in that far-flung
trench line and in that bloody sea of northern France friends were
parted and many went down.
"_Down_----"
How that awful word had sounded--long drawn out and faint in the storm
and darkness!
He stumbled over a rocky space and ran plunk into something solid. As he
looked up he could distinguish the top of it; uneven and ragged it
seemed against the blackness of the night. Whatever it was, it seemed to
be slender and rather high, and the odd thought came to him that he was
on the deck of some mammoth submarine, looking up at the huge conning
tower. Perhaps it was because he _had_ once been rescued by a submarine,
or perhaps just because his wits were uncertain and his nerves unstrung,
but it was fully a minute before he realized that he was on solid
earth--or rock. It afforded him a measure of relief.
What that grim black thing could be that frowned upon him he did not
know, and he staggered around it, feeling it with his hands. It was of
masonry and presently he came to what was evidently a door, which opened
as he leaned against it. Its silent hospitality was not agreeable to
him; the very thought of a possible German habitation roused him out of
his fatigue and despair, and with a sudden quick instinct he drew
stealthily back until presently he felt the water lapping his feet
again.
Here, at a comparatively safe distance, he paused for breath after what
he felt to be a worse peril than the storm, and felt for the one trusty
friend he had left--the little compass. The precious rubber glove
containing this and the flashlight was safe in his pocket, and he held
both under his coat and tried to throw the light upon the compass and
get his bearings. But the glove must have leaked, for the battery was
dead. The little compass, which was to prove so useful in days to come,
was probably still loyal after its immersion, but he could not
distinguish the dial clearly.
He knew he must go southeast, where the dim woods seemed now to beckon
him like a living mother. Never had the thought of the mountains and the
lonely forest been so grateful to this scout before. If only he had
strength to get there....
"What you _got_ to do--you do," he panted slowly under his breath,
frowning at the compass and trying in the darkness to see which way that
faithful little needle turned. Once, twice, he looked fearfully up
toward that grim building.
Then he decided, as best he might, which direction was southeast and
dragged his aching legs that way until presently he was stumbling in
the water again.
Surely, he thought, the river ran almost north and south, and southeast
_must_ lead on into the mountains. But perhaps he had not read the
compass aright or perhaps he was on the edge of a deep bay, which would
mean water extending still westward. Or perhaps he was on the Alsatian
shore.
For a moment he stood bewildered. Then he tried to read the compass
again and started forward in the direction which he thought to be west.
If he were on the Alsatian shore, this should take him away from that
black, heartless Teuton ruin.
But it only took him into a chaos of broken, shiny rock where he
stumbled and fell, cutting his knee and making his head throb cruelly.
And then Tom Slade, seeing that fate was against him, and having used
all the resource and young strength that he had, to get to the boys
"over there," gave up and lay among the jagged rocks, holding his head
with one bruised hand and thinking hopelessly of this end of all his
efforts.