A Fight to a Finish
A growl came from the man seated at the breech end of the machine-gun:
"Bah! It is smashed! That grenade has burst the casing and shaken the
whole apparatus. Give me a rifle, one of you."
He searched in the darkness for the weapon, and indeed there were
enough and to spare now, for the bomb which had lit in the chamber, and
had exploded in that confined space, had damaged not a few of the
defenders. It had stunned the majority of them, in fact, so that now,
as they manned the barricade, they were half-stupid, more than
half-deafened, and hardly knew what had happened. Henri and Jules,
leaning against the bags and peering out into the darkness, could see
the flash of men's rifles as they fired from below, and caught a
glimpse of dusky figures. Then they felt the wall wobble, while
something struck Henri a blow on the arm, and, stretching out his hand,
he gripped first a pole and then an iron hook at the end of it. But it
was only one of half a dozen such implements, which German cunning had
suggested. They were at work then all about him. Those hooks caught
in the upper layer of bags, and at once they were dragged outwards;
Others followed, and even the storm of bullets from the rifles of the
defenders could not stop them. Indeed, in quite a short space of time
the better part of the barricade on which the defenders had counted had
been swept away, dragged down the stairs, and flung into the passage.
"Bayonets ready!" shouted Henri grimly. "We have got to cut our way
out of this place and through the Brandenburgers. Make ready!"
He could feel men swarming up beside him, and heard Jules at his left
shouting encouragement to them. Then one of the poles armed with an
iron hook, failing to catch a bag, became entangled in his clothing,
and in a trice, before he knew where he was, Henri was dragged over the
remnants of the wall, and found himself floundering down the stairway.
A minute later, with a loud shout, the _poilus_ charged over him,
making play with their bayonets to right and to left, and driving the
Germans backward. Then, in that narrow gallery at the foot of the
stairway, and at the wide exit from the hall, there took place as
desperate a combat as had ever been in the whole of this desperate
warfare. Men used their bayonets till the weapons were beaten out of
their hands, or clubbed their rifles and swung them overhead. Then,
undefeated though outnumbered, they gripped their enemies about the
waist and wrestled with them, while some, a few only, for the art does
not come naturally to the _poilu_, dealt swinging blows with their
fists, and, driving a way through the Germans, escaped into the
passage. It was a melee in which all was confusion, in which shouts
deafened the combatants, a pack of struggling, bellowing men, which
seemed as if it would fill the place for ever, and which, as so often
happens, suddenly burst asunder and scattered.
An hour later, when Henri recovered consciousness--for he had been
stunned by his fall--he found himself lying at the foot of the
stairway, his legs still resting on the last steps and his head on the
narrow railway. A man lay across his body--a huge, beefy individual of
extraordinary weight, who pressed him hard against the concrete. There
were other men lying all about him--dead men, no doubt, for they made
no movement--while the stairs themselves, what was left of the parapet
of bags which he and his comrades had erected, and the entrance to the
gun chamber above, were littered with soldiers, French and German.
Strangely enough, though the place had been sunk in darkness during
that last desperate attack, it was now illuminated, not brilliantly, it
is true, but sufficiently for him to be able to make out his
surroundings and to discern objects.
With a desperate effort, Henri contrived to throw off the dead weight
which lay across him, and, raising his head slowly, peered in all
directions, feeling dazed and shaken, and as yet hardly appreciating
what had happened. Then, little by little, he realized the situation,
realized that his band of noble _poilus_ had broken up, that many,
indeed, lay dead about him, and that the rest had scattered, perhaps
had been dragged off as prisoners, and perhaps--and how he hoped
it--had gained the open and had made their way back to the French lines.
"Better be careful. Better be a little cautious," he told himself,
beginning to peer over the broad back of a man who lay beside him.
"That's that hall in which the Brandenburgers had taken up their
quarters. Why, they've a fire burning, and are eating a meal round it.
And--and--who's that? I've seen that chap before; who is he?"
In his semi-dazed condition he was horribly puzzled, and, shading his
eyes with one trembling hand, peered round the corner of the entrance
to that hall at the group occupying its centre. There were perhaps a
hundred Brandenburgers seated in a wide straggling ring round a fire
which blazed in their midst, and which lit up their surroundings and
threw long shadows upon what was left of the concrete walls of the
fortress. The beams from those flickering flames fell too upon another
group--a group, it seemed, of officers--occupying a retired corner, and
upon two solitary individuals who stood near by under the eye of a
sentry squatting on a block of masonry not far from them. It gave, no
doubt, some indication of the strenuous time through which Henri had
passed, and of his stunned condition, that it was quite two minutes
before in one of those figures he recognized Jules--the jovial Jules,
sadly dishevelled now, his helmet gone, his clothing torn, and a
blood-stained handkerchief round his forehead. Yet it was the old
Jules--that cheery, optimistic, unconquerable individual--looking about
him with a careless air and watching the Brandenburgers as they laughed
and smoked and chatted as if he would have gladly joined them. That,
indeed, was one of the characteristics of the gallant Jules; he could
fight like a tiger if need be, though always with a smile on his lips,
and, when the time for fighting had gone, no more friendly individual
could have been discovered. Yes, it was Jules, a prisoner, and with
him another of the _poilus_ who had formed one of Henri's party.
"Wait a moment! Jules right enough!" said Henri, still inclined to be
doubtful; for his limbs shook, his head wobbled badly, and his eyes
were bloodshot and almost incapable of seeing. "But, who's that other
fellow--the chap up in the corner, with his helmet tilted back, that
swaggering beggar who's laying down the law to the officers with him?
Jingo! That man! Good Heavens!"
No wonder that he gave vent to such an exclamation, for now, as his
shaken brain slowly cleared, and his eyes, becoming more accustomed to
the flickering light, enabled him to see better, he realized that not
only was his old friend a prisoner amongst the Brandenburgers, but that
one of their officers--their commanding officer it seemed--was indeed
none other than that individual whom he had accosted earlier. The man
seemed to be dogging Henri's footsteps. For, consider: it was he who
had followed the two young Frenchmen and the bulky Stuart along that
tunnel when they were escaping from Ruhleben; it was he again with that
party of officers into whose midst Henri and Jules had stumbled the
other evening when out on a reconnaissance; and, once more, it was he
who had demanded the surrender of the garrison manning that gun-chamber.
"Bah! He again!" growled Henri. "When lots of other
Brandenburgers--better Brandenburgers, I should say--have been killed
by our fire, he is still living, and he's the man who wanted to shoot
us out of hand down in the forest. Wonder whether he's recognized
Jules already?"
He had no need to wonder for very long, for hardly had he made this
last discovery when the officer in question--that arrogant, snappy
little individual, who peered about him with an indefinite something
which stamped him as a man of lower caste, one who had gained promotion
from the ranks--rose to his feet, a cigarette in the corner of his
mouth, and swaggered towards the prisoners, his hands thrust deep in
his pockets, his head pushed forward, and a truculent, domineering,
brutal air about him. Halting in front of the two prisoners, he gave
them the benefit of a stare which would have been rude at any time, and
which even warfare hardly excused, and then, without the smallest
warning, so swiftly in fact that Henri was staggered, he suddenly drew
one hand out of his pocket and dealt Jules a blow across the jaw with
his open hand which sent that young fellow staggering.
"Ha, ha! That moved you," the German laughed, turning his head over
his shoulder to make sure that his brother officers had watched the
movement. "That's stirred you up, my friend! Yes, my friend--for
don't forget we have met before, haven't we? What, you don't remember?
Then let me tell you: at Ruhleben, my friend, my Frenchman--at
Ruhleben, where I happen to remember very thoroughly the manner in
which you treated me. Do you forget, then? Do you deny that it was
you who crept through that tunnel, and, breaking a hole through the
earth beyond the entanglements, reached the open; and later, when I
followed--having dared the journey along the tunnel--you and that huge
brute of an Englishman--that swine of an Englishman--who was with you,
pulled me up as if I were a puppy and threw me back again, shaking the
teeth out of my head almost? Burr!"
The little dried-up German officer's eyes flashed vengefully as he
spoke of the matter, and he was all the more incensed an instant later
when, rather anticipating some fun--for to the German comrades of this
officer the ill-treatment of a prisoner was certainly fun--these men
drew nearer, and, hearing his words, one of them--a huge, fat, unwieldy
person, with flabby cheeks and pendulous chin, to say nothing of the
huge girth which he presented--giggled and chortled loudly, and
suddenly placed a heavy hand on the lieutenant's shoulder--a hand the
weight of which caused him to stagger.
"Drew you out like a puppy, ho?" he shouted. "Drew our dear Max up out
of the earth as a bird draws a worm; and then had the daring, the
effrontery, to dash our immaculate, if not extremely dignified friend
backward till his teeth shook. Ho! That's fun! And how one would
like to see the thing repeated!"
The steely-grey eyes of Lieutenant Max turned towards this hulking
German, and shot at him a glance which was angry and threatening, a
glance, however, which failed altogether to impress the man who had
addressed him. For this hulking officer roared with laughter, and
shook to such an extent that the wreaths of fat on his body wobbled.
"But this is fine!" he shouted, "We have roused the lion in our little
Max, and he is angry--angry with me, mark you, my friends--because I
would like to see repeated something which no doubt was most
entertaining. But, surely, Max, you were not defeated by this fellow,
this puny Frenchman?"
The big German ran a pair of critical eyes over the dishevelled figure
of Jules, standing helpless before him, eyes which nevertheless did not
fail to note the determined look of this young man, his unflinching
attitude, and the gleam of anger which came from behind his eyes, and
which threatened retaliation. Yes, at that very moment the impetuous
Jules, stung by the blow which Max had dealt him, and understanding
every word that passed, was on the eve of throwing himself upon the
German; and then, as he glanced from one to the other, and helplessly
round the hall at the backs of the Brandenburgers--indifferent to what
befel their prisoners--to the exit from that hall and the stairway
beyond it, at the summit of which he and Henri and those other comrades
had put up such a fight, his wandering eyes lit upon the figures of
Germans and Frenchmen--the fallen men who had grappled at the foot of
the stairs--and, passing from one to another, came upon a face, an
eager face, wherein two eyes were set--eyes which were staring hard in
his direction. The face moved, while the owner of it sat up a little
and held up a warning finger.
"Henri!" exclaimed Jules, and at once took command of himself, and
pulled his somewhat shaken frame up at attention.
"What's that?" demanded the big German abruptly. "See, Max, he is
defying you, this fellow. And you say that he drew you out of the
earth and threw you back, almost shaking the teeth out of your head?
Unbelievable! Yet, if it is true, why, no Brandenburger will sit still
under such an insult."
The jeering laughter of this giant, the covert smiles and the outspoken
remarks of other German officers, sent the blood flaring again to Max's
cheeks. He scowled, first at one and then at others of his comrades;
and, turning once more to the prisoner, and catching at that moment a
gleam of defiance from his eyes, struck out again with one hand and
almost floored the unfortunate and helpless Jules.
"That to commence with," he told him, "and then to finish the matter.
I don't forget, mind you, the blow that you landed on my body in that
forest the other night. No, believe me, I, Max, forget nothing of that
sort. Then I would have had you shot out of hand, though the occasion
was not convenient; but now there is no reason why the execution should
not be carried out. You are an escaped prisoner of war; you have
assaulted a German officer in the execution of his duty; and here you
are, captured, defying the captors of the Fort of Douaumont. March him
to the far end of the hall, and call out half a dozen of those guzzling
fellows to shoot him."
The armed sentry, who had stood by all this while, taking but little
notice of the scene, looking tired and bored and as if he longed to
join his comrades, pulled himself together, and, shouldering his rifle,
gave a husky order.
"Over there!" he called. "Stand up against the wall! Sergeant Huefer,
the officer requires a shooting-party."
The selfsame Sergeant Huefer, at that moment engaged in finishing a
hasty meal, looked round and scowled; and then, seeing the snappy
little German officer, called Max, looking at him, stood up promptly.
"A shooting-party, sir?" he asked.
"A shooting-party," came the abrupt answer. "Draw them up in front of
those two prisoners."
"Two!" exclaimed the big German officer, who with the others was
watching the scene.
"Yes, two," snapped Max, swinging round upon him, ready to vent his
anger on any one of them.
"But wait! Not two; one only--the escaped prisoner of war, who struck
you."
The big German and this snappy little fellow, Max, stared at one
another, the former looking urbane and jovial and unconcerned, whilst
Max was trembling with rage. He could have kicked this big German who
ventured to obstruct him, and who seemed about to thwart his purpose.
Yet Max was a careful individual, who had indeed worked his way upwards
in the German army, and obtained slow if certain promotion, by constant
observation of the regulations. The shooting of captured Frenchmen was
one thing--a common enough thing no doubt--but disobedience, defiance
of a senior officer, was an altogether different matter, and this big,
hulking German happened to be Max's senior by a very slender margin.
So slender, indeed, that the position was almost doubtful. Indeed, at
that moment neither Max nor this big German could say which of the two
was the senior in rank, and entitled to command this party, though it
happened that the bigger of the two was not a Brandenburger, but
belonging to some other corps, who had by chance fallen in with the
party told off to attack the fort of Douaumont, and so found himself
amidst its captors. For a moment, then, the two regarded one another,
Max flaming with anger, defiant, on the point of abruptly ordering this
hulking individual to mind his own business. And then that sense of
discretion which had helped him in the past came to his assistance, and
he forced a smile--an unwilling smile--while his eyes flashed a
vengeful glance at his opponent.
"Then you object?" he asked sharply. "Well, then, let it be one--the
prisoner of war. We will shoot him, and get it over quickly.
Sergeant, march the firing-party forward, I will give the word to
shoot."
Still shaken, his head swimming yet after that struggle on the
stairway, his bloodshot eyes fixed upon the figures of Jules, of the
officers, and of Sergeant Huefer and the party of men he was now
parading, Henri never felt more helpless in all his life before. He
felt pinned to the spot, incapable of action; and, indeed, common
sense--what little of it he still possessed after the blow which had
rendered him unconscious--told him that action of any sort was useless.
Yet, could he see a friend, an old chum, a comrade as dear to him as
any brother, shot down in cold blood in front of these leering men?
Could he watch him put up as a target, to be butchered by these
unfeeling Germans? No. The thought that Jules's fate hung heavily in
the balance, that some desperate action on his part might bring him
assistance, spurred Henri to movement, and, rising to his knees, he
groped his way towards the entrance to the hall wherein the
firing-party were then assembling. As he crawled across the bodies
then littering the gallery along which the tiny railway ran, and
crossed the foot of the stairway, his hand lit upon a rifle, which he
seized instantly and raised to his shoulder. Then he dropped it again,
for the movement was too much for him, and, stumbling forward, fell on
his face, his head swimming once more, his brain in a whirl, and his
pulses beating in his ears till he was deafened. It was just at the
moment when Sergeant Huefer, undisturbed by the task allotted to him,
in fact, eager to finish off the prisoner and get back to his meal,
gave a short, sharp order and set his firing-squad in motion, that
Henri's outstretched fingers came into contact with another object--a
round, cylindrical object attached to a short stick, a hand-grenade,
one of those bombs which had helped to blow in the barricade which he
and his gallant _poilus_ had erected at the top of the stairway.
With an effort he pulled himself together, and, gripping the stick,
felt for the safety-pin, removal of which would allow explosion of the
grenade once it came into contact with any body. Then, rising to his
knees, and unsteadily to his feet, he stretched out his left hand to
the wall, while with his right he swung the hand-grenade backwards and
forwards. By then the firing-party had been halted in front of Jules,
who, head in air and arms folded, stood against the far wall.
"Load!" he heard the command ring out and echo down the gallery.
"Present!"
Up went the rifles to the shoulders.
Henri gave a sharp jerk to the handle of the grenade as he loosened his
hold of it, and sent it flying forward into the hall, where it landed a
moment later--landed, indeed, within a foot of the fire which the men
had built in the centre of this big place, and about which they had
been seated. There followed a blinding flash, a thundering detonation,
and then shouts and shrieks and groans, and clouds of dust and falling
debris. An instant later, Henri had fallen backward into the gallery,
and lay, much as he had lain before, among the bodies of those who had
taken part in the fight on the stairway.
[Illustration: "THE GRENADE LANDED WITHIN A FOOT OF THE FIRE ABOUT
WHICH THE MEN HAD BEEN SEATED"]