jerking dangerously at intervals. But he thought of what one of those
soldiers had said banteringly to another--_Stick around at the other end
of it and listen to what you hear_, and he was resolved that if limited
horse power and unlimited will power could get this wire to those brave
boys who were surging and battling in the trenches ahead of him, could
drag it to them wherever they went, for the glorious message they
intended to send back across it, it should be done.
There was not another soul visible on that road now nor in the
shell-torn area of No Man's Land through which it ran. But the lone
rider forged ahead, zig-zagging his course to escape the bullets of that
unseen sharpshooter and because it seemed to free the dragging, catching
wire, affording him little spurts of unobstructed speed.
Then suddenly the wire caught fast, and his machine stopped and strained
like a restive horse, the power wheel racing furiously. Hurriedly he
looked behind him where the sinuous wire lay along the road, far
back--as far as he could see, across the trampled entanglements and
trenches. Where were the others who were to help carry it over? Killed?
Alone in the open area of No Man's Land, Tom Slade paused for an instant
to think. What should he do?
Suddenly there appeared out of a shell hole not twenty feet ahead of him
a helmeted figure. It rose up grimly, uncannily, like a dragon out of
the sea, and levelled a rifle straight at him. So that was the lair of
the sharpshooter!
Tom was not afraid. He knew that he had been facing death and he was not
afraid of what he had been facing. He knew that the sharpshooter had him
at last. Neither he nor the wire were going to bear any message back.
"Anyway, I'm glad I wrote that letter," he muttered.
[Illustration: TOM WAS SURPRISED TO FIND HIMSELF UNINJURED, WHILE THE
BOCHE COLLAPSED INTO HIS SHELL HOLE.]
CHAPTER SEVEN
A SHOT
Then, clear and crisp against the sound of the great guns far off, there
was the sharp crack of a rifle and Tom was surprised to find himself
still standing by his machine uninjured, while the Boche collapsed back
into his shell hole like a jack-in-the-box.
He did not pause to think now. Leaving his machine, he rushed pell-mell
back to the barbed wire entanglement where the line was caught,
disengaged it and ran forward again to his wheel. Shells were bursting
all about him, but as he mounted he could see two figures emerge, one
after the other, from the American trench where it crossed the road, and
take up the burden of wire. He could feel the relief as he mounted and
rode forward and it lightened his heart as well as his load. What had
happened to delay the carriers he did not know. Perhaps those who
followed him now were new ones and his former companions lay dead or
wounded within their own lines. What he thought of most of all was his
extraordinary escape from the Boche sharpshooter and he wondered who and
where his deliverer could be.
He avoided looking into the shell hole as he passed it and soon he
reached the enemy entanglements which the tanks had flattened. Even the
flat meshes had been cleared from the road and here several regulars
waited to help him. They were covered with dirt and looked as if they
had seen action.
"Bully for you, kid!" one of them said, slapping Tom on the shoulder.
"You're all right, Towhead!"
"Lift the machine," said Tom; "they always put broken glass in the
roads. I thought maybe they'd punctured my tire out there."
"They came near puncturing _you_, all right! What's your name?"
"Thatchy is mostly what I get called. My motorcycle is named _Uncle
Sam_. Did you win yet?"
For answer they laughed and slapped him on the shoulder and repeated,
"You're all right, kid!"
"Looks as if Snipy must have had his eye on you, huh?" one of them
observed.
"Who's Snipy?" Tom asked.
"Oh, that's mostly what _he_ gets called," said someone, mimicking Tom's
own phrase. "His rifle's named _Tommy_. He's probably up in a tree
somewheres out there."
"He's a good shot," said Tom simply. "I'd like to see him."
"Nobody ever sees him--they _feel_ him," said another.
"He must have been somewhere," said Tom.
"Oh, he was _somewhere_ all right," several laughed.
A couple of the Signal Corps men jumped out of the trench near by and
greeted Tom heartily, praising him as the others had done, all of which
he took with his usual stolidness. Already, though of course he did not
know it, he was becoming somewhat of a character.
"You've got Paul Revere and Phil Sheridan beat a mile," one of the boys
said.
"I don't know much about Sheridan," said Tom, "but I always liked Paul
Revere."
He did not seem to understand why they laughed and clapped him on the
shoulder and said, "You'll do, kiddo."
But it was necessary to keep moving, for the other carriers were coming
along. The little group passed up the road, Tom pushing his wheel and
answering their questions briefly and soberly as he always did. Planks
had been laid across the German trenches where they intersected the road
and as they passed over them Tom looked down upon many a gruesome sight
which evidenced the surprise by the Americans and their undoubted
victory. Not a live German was to be seen, nor a dead American either,
but here and there a fallen gray-coat lay sprawled in the crooked
topsy-turvy ditch. He could see the Red Cross stretcher-bearers passing
in and out of the communication trenches and already a number of boys in
grimy khaki were engaged in repairing the trenches where the tanks had
caved them in. In the second line trench lay several wounded Americans
and Tom was surprised to see one of these propped up smoking a cigarette
while the surgeons bandaged his head until it looked like a great white
ball. Out of the huge bandage a white face grinned up as the little
group passed across on the planks and seeing the men to be wire
carriers, the wounded soldier called, "Tell 'em we're here."
"Ever hear of Paul Revere?" one of the Signal men called back cheerily.
And he rumpled Tom's hair to indicate whom he meant.
Thus it was that Thatchy acquired the new nickname by which he was to be
known far and wide in the country back of the lines and in the billet
villages where he was to sit, his trusty motorcycle close at hand,
waiting for messages and standing no end of jollying. Some of the more
resourceful wits in khaki even parodied the famous poem for his benefit,
but he didn't care. He would have matched _Uncle Sam_ against Paul
Revere's gallant steed any day, and they could jolly him and "kid" him
as their mood prompted, but woe be to the person who touched his
faithful machine save in his watchful presence. Even General Pershing
would not have been permitted to do that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IN THE WOODS
Beyond the enemy second line trench the road led straight into Cantigny
and Tom could see the houses in the distance. Continuous firing was to
be heard there and he supposed that the Germans, routed from their
trenches, were making a stand in the village and in the high ground
beyond it.
"They'll be able to 'phone back, won't they?" he asked anxiously.
"They sure will," one of the men answered.
"It ain't that I don't want to ride back," Tom explained, "but a
feller's waiting on the other end of this wire, 'cause I heard somebody
tell him to, and I wouldn't want him to be disappointed."
"He won't be disappointed."
The road, as well as the open country east and west of it, was strewn
with German dead and wounded, among whom Tom saw one or two figures in
khaki. The Red Cross was busy here, many stretchers being borne up
toward the village where dressing stations were already being
established. Then suddenly Tom beheld a sight which sent a thrill
through him. Far along the road, in the first glare of the rising sun,
flew the Stars and Stripes above a little cottage within the confines of
the village.
"Headquarters," one of his companions said, laconically.
"Does it mean we've won?" Tom asked.
"Not exactly yet," the other answered, "but as long as the flag's up
they probably won't bother to take it down," and he looked at Tom in a
queer way. "There's cleaning up to do yet, kid," he added.
As they approached the village the hand-to-hand fighting was nearing its
end, and the Germans were withdrawing into the woods beyond where they
had many machine gun nests which it would be the final work of the
Americans to smoke out. But Tom saw a little of that kind of warfare
which is fought in streets, from house to house, and in shaded village
greens. Singly and in little groups the Americans sought out, killing,
capturing and pursuing the diminishing horde of Germans. Two of these,
running frantically with apparently no definite purpose, surrendered to
Tom's group and he thought they seemed actually relieved.
At last they reached the little cottage where the flag flew and were
received by the weary, but elated, men in charge.
"All over but the shouting," someone said; "we're finishing up back
there in the woods."
The telephone apparatus was fastened to a tree and Tom heard the words
of the speaker as he tried to get into communication with the village
which lay back across that shell-torn, trench-crossed area which they
had traversed. At last he heard those thrilling words which carried much
farther than the length of the sinuous wire:
"Hello, this is Cantigny."
And he knew that whatever yet remained to be done, the first real
offensive operation of the Americans was successful and he was proud to
feel that he had played his little part in it.
He was given leave until three o'clock in the afternoon and, leaving
_Uncle Sam_ at the little makeshift headquarters, he went about the town
for a sight of the "clean-up."
Farther back in the woods he could still hear the shooting where the
Americans were searching out machine gun nests and the boom of artillery
continued, but although an occasional shell fell in the town, the place
was quiet and even peaceful by comparison with the bloody clamor of an
hour before.
It seemed strange that he, Tom Slade, should be strolling about this
quaint, war-scarred village, which but a little while before had
belonged to the Germans. Here and there in the streets he met sentinels
and occasionally an airplane sailed overhead. How he envied the men in
those airplanes!
He glanced in through broken windows at the interiors of simple abodes
which the bestial Huns had devastated. It thrilled him that the boys
from America had dragged and driven the enemy out of these homes and
would dig their protecting trenches around the other side of this
stricken village, like a great embracing arm. It stirred him to think
that it was now within the refuge of the American lines and that the
arrogant Prussian officers could no longer defile those low, raftered
rooms.
He inquired of a sentinel where he could get some gasoline which he
would need later.
"There's a supply station along that road," the man said; "just beyond
the clearing."
Tom turned in that direction. The road took him out of the village and
through a little clump of woods to a clearing where several Americans
were guarding a couple of big gasoline tanks--part of the spoils of war.
He lingered for a few minutes and then strolled on toward the edge of
the denser wood beyond where the firing, though less frequent, could
still be heard.
He intended to go just far enough into this wood for a glimpse of the
forest shade which his scouting had taught him to love, and then to
return to headquarters for his machine.
Crossing a plank bridge across a narrow stream, he paused in the edge of
the woods and listened to the firing which still occurred at intervals
in the higher ground beyond. He knew that the fighting there was of the
old-fashioned sort, from behind protecting trees and wooded hillocks,
something like the good old fights of Indians and buckskin scouts away
home in the wild west of America. And he could not repress his impulse
to venture farther into the solitude.
[Illustration: TOM SLIPPED BEHIND A TREE AND WATCHED THE MAN WHO PAUSED
LIKE A STARTLED ANIMAL.]
The stream which he had crossed had evidently its source in the more
densely wooded hills beyond and he followed it on its narrowing way up
toward the locality where the fighting seemed now to be going on. Once a
group of khaki-clad figures passed stealthily among the trees, intent
upon some quest. The sight of their rifles reminded Tom that he was
himself in danger, but he reflected that he was in no greater danger
than they and that he had with him the small arm which all messengers
carried.
A little farther on he espied an American concealed behind a tree, who
nodded his head perfunctorily as Tom passed, seeming to discourage any
spoken greeting.
The path of the stream led into an area of thick undergrowth covering
the side of a gentle slope where the water tumbled down in little falls.
He must be approaching very near to the source, he thought, for the
stream was becoming a mere trickle, picking its way around rocky
obstacles in a very jungle of thick underbrush.
Suddenly he stopped at a slight rustling sound very near him.
It was the familiar sound which he had so often heard away back in the
Adirondack woods, of some startled creature scurrying to shelter.
He was the scout again now, standing motionless and silent--keenly
waiting. Then, to his amazement, a clump of bushes almost at his feet
stirred slightly. He waited still, watching, his heart in his mouth.
Could it have been the breeze? But there was no breeze.
Startled, but discreetly motionless, he fixed his eyes upon the leafy
clump, still waiting. Presently it stirred again, very perceptibly now,
then moved, clumsily and uncannily, and with a slight rustling of its
leaves, along the bank of the stream!
CHAPTER NINE
THE MYSTERIOUS FUGITIVE
Suddenly the thing stopped, and its whole bulk was shaken very
noticeably. Then a head emerged from it and before Tom could realize
what had happened a German soldier was fully revealed, brushing the
leaves and dirt from his gray coat as he stole cautiously along the edge
of the stream, peering anxiously about him and pausing now and again to
listen.
He was already some distance from Tom, whom apparently he had not
discovered, and his stealthy movements suggested that he was either in
the act of escaping or was bent upon some secret business of importance.
Without a sound Tom slipped behind a tree and watched the man who paused
like a startled animal at every few steps, watching and listening.
Tom knew that, notwithstanding his non-combatant status, he was quite
justified in drawing his pistol upon this fleeing Boche, but before he
had realized this the figure had gone too far to afford him much hope of
success with the small weapon which he was not accustomed to. Moreover,
just because he _was_ a "non-com" he balked at using it. If he should
miss, he thought, the man might turn upon him and with a surer aim lay
him low.
But there was one thing in which Tom Slade felt himself to be the equal
of any German that lived, and that was stalking. Here, in the deep
woods, among these protecting trees, he felt at home, and the lure of
scouting was upon him now. No one could lose him; no one could get away
from him. And a bird in the air would make no more noise than he!
Swiftly, silently, he slipped from one tree to another, his keen eye
always fixed upon the fleeting figure and his ears alert to learn if,
perchance, the Boche was being pursued. Not a sound could he hear except
that of the distant shooting.
It occurred to him that the precaution of camouflaging might be useful
to him also, and he silently disposed one of the leafy boughs which the
German had left diagonally across his breast with the fork over his
shoulder so that it formed a sort of adjustable screen, more portable
and less clumsy than the leafy mound which had covered the Boche.
With this he stole along, sometimes hiding behind trees, sometimes
crouching among the rocks along the bank, and keeping at an even
distance from the man. His method with its personal dexterity was
eloquent of the American scout, just as the Boche, under his mound of
foliage, had been typical of the German who depends largely upon
_device_ and little upon personal skill and dexterity.
The scout from Temple Camp had his ruses, too, for once when the German,
startled by a fancied sound, seemed about to look behind him, Tom
dexterously hurled a stone far to the left of his quarry, which diverted
the man's attention to that direction and kept it there while Tom,
gliding this way and that and raising or lowering his scant disguise,
crept after him.
They were now in an isolated spot and the distant firing seemed farther
and farther away. The stream, reduced to a mere trickle, worked its way
down among rocks and the German followed its course closely. What he was
about in this sequestered jungle Tom could not imagine, unless, indeed,
he was fleeing from his own masters. But surely open surrender to the
Americans would have been safer than that, and Tom remembered how
readily those other German soldiers had rushed into the arms of himself
and his companions.
Moreover, the more overgrown the brook became and the more involved its
path, the more the hurrying German seemed bent upon following it and
instead of finding any measure of relief from anxiety in this isolated
place, he appeared more anxious than ever and peered carefully about him
at every few steps.
At length, to Tom's astonishment, he stepped across the brook and felt
of a clump of bush which grew on the bank. Could he have expected to
find another camouflaged figure, Tom wondered?
Whatever he was after, he apparently thought he had reached his
destination for he now moved hurriedly about, feeling the single bushes
and moving among the larger clumps as if in quest of something. After a
few moments he paused as if perplexed and moved farther up the stream.
And Tom, who had been crouching behind a bush at a safe distance, crept
silently to another one, greatly puzzled but watching him closely.
Selecting another spot, the Boche moved about among the bushes as
before, carefully examining each one which stood by itself. Tom expected
every minute to see some grim, gray-coated figure step out of his leafy
retreat to join his comrade, but why such a person should wait to be
discovered Tom could not comprehend, for he must have heard and probably
seen this beating through the bushes.
An especially symmetrical bush stood on the brink of the stream and
after poking about this as usual, the German stood upon tiptoe,
apparently looking down into it, then kneeled at its base while Tom
watched from his hiding-place.
Suddenly a sharp report rang out and the German jumped to his feet,
clutched frantically at the brush which seemed to furnish a substantial
support, then reeled away and fell headlong into the brook, where he lay
motionless.
The heedless current, adapting itself readily to this grim obstruction,
bubbled gaily around the gray, crumpled form, accelerating its cheery
progress in the narrow path and showing little glints of red in its
crystal, dancing ripples.
CHAPTER TEN
THE JERSEY SNIPE
Tom hurried to the prostrate figure and saw that the German was quite
dead. There was no other sign of human presence and not a sound to be
heard but the rippling of the clear water at his feet.
For a few moments he stood, surprised and silent, listening. Then he
fancied that he heard a rustling in the bushes some distance away and he
looked in that direction, standing motionless, alert for the slightest
stir.
Suddenly there emerged out of the undergrowth a hundred or more feet
distant a strange looking figure clad in a dull shade of green with a
green skull cap and a green scarf, like a scout scarf, loosely thrown
about his neck. Even the rifle which he carried jauntily over his
shoulder was green in color, so that he seemed to Tom to have that
general hue which things assume when seen through green spectacles. He
was lithe and agile, gliding through the bushes as if he were a part of
them, and he came straight toward Tom, with a nimbleness which almost
rivalled that of a squirrel.
There was something about his jaunty, light step which puzzled Tom and
he narrowed his eyes, watching the approaching figure closely. The
stranger removed a cigarette from his mouth to enable him the better to
lay his finger upon his lips, imposing silence, and as he did so the
movement of his hand and his way of holding the cigarette somehow caused
Tom to stare.
Then his puzzled scrutiny gave way to an expression of blank amazement,
as again the figure raised his finger to his lips to anticipate any
impulse of Tom's to call. Nor did Tom violate this caution until the
stranger was within a dozen feet or so.
"Roscoe--Bent!" he ejaculated. "Don't you know me? I'm Tom Slade."
"Well--I'll--be----" Roscoe began, then broke off, holding Tom at arm's
length and looking at him incredulously. "Tom Slade--_I'll
be--jiggered_!"
"I kinder knew it was you," said Tom in his impassive way, "as soon as I
saw you take that cigarette out of your mouth, 'cause you do it such a
swell way, kind of," he added, ingenuously; "just like the way you used
to when you sat on the window-sill in Temple Camp office and jollied
Margaret Ellison. Maybe you don't remember."
Still Roscoe held him at arm's length, smiling all over his handsome,
vivacious face. Then he removed one of his hands from Tom's shoulder and
gave him a push in the chest in the old way.
"It's the same old Tom Slade, I'll be---- And with the front of your
belt away around at the side, as usual. This is better than taking a
hundred prisoners. How are you and how'd you get here, you sober old
tow-head, you?" and he gripped Tom's hand with impulsive vehemence.
"This sure does beat all! I might have known if I found you at all it
would be in the woods, you old pathfinder!" and he gave Tom another
shove, then rapped him on the shoulder and slipped his hand around his
neck in a way all his own.
"I--I like to hear you talk that way," said Tom, with that queer
dullness which Roscoe liked; "it reminds me of old times."
"Kind of?" prompted Roscoe, laughing. "Is our friend here dead?"
"Yes, he's very dead," said Tom soberly, "but I think there are others
around in the bushes."
"There are some enemies there," said Roscoe, "but we won't kill them.
Contemptible murderers!" he muttered, as he hauled the dead Boche out of
the stream. "I'll pick you off one by one, as fast as you come up here,
you gang of back-stabbers! Look here," he added.
"I got to admit you can do it," said Tom with frank admiration.
Roscoe pulled away the shrubbery where the German had been kneeling when
he was struck and there was revealed a great hogshead, larger, Tom
thought, than any he had ever seen.
"That's the kind of weapons they fight with," Roscoe said, disgustedly.
"Look here," he added, pulling the foliage away still more. "Don't touch
it. See? It leads down from another one. It's poison."
Tom, staring, understood well enough now, and he peered into the bushes
about him in amazement as he heard Roscoe say,
"Arsenic, the sneaky beasts."
"See what he was going to do?" he added, startling Tom out of his silent
wondering. "There's half a dozen or more of these hogsheads in those
bushes. As fast as this one empties it fills up again from another that
stands higher. There's a whole nest of them here. See how the pipe from
this one leads into the stream?"
"What's the wire for?" said Tom.
"Oh, that's so's they can open this little cock here, see? Start the
thing going. Don't pull away the camouflage. There may be another chap
up here in a little while, to see what's the matter. _Tommy'll_ take
care of them all right, won't you, _Tommy_?"
"Do you mean me?" Tom asked.
"I mean your namesake here," Roscoe said, slapping his rifle. "I named
it after you, you old glum head. Remember how you told me a feller
couldn't aim straight, _kind of_" (he mimicked Tom's tone). "You said a
feller couldn't aim straight, _kind of_, if he smoked cigarettes."
"I got to admit I was wrong," said Tom.
"You bet you have! Jingoes, it's good to hear you talk!" Roscoe laughed.
"How in the world did you get here, anyway?"
"I'll tell you all about it," said Tom, "only first tell me, are you the
feller they call the Jersey Snipe?"
"Snipy, for short," said Roscoe.