GILL PERFORMS
THE young Pennsylvania mountaineer, with his eyes, followed Don until
the boy disappeared among the dense bushes; then Gill turned again to
his grim duty--that of keeping the long gun out of action. The two Huns
who had got away evidently had recognized that to attempt to work the
piece in its present position, with enemy marksmen concealed where they
could pick off the gunners, was a much too risky business.
Gill knew that these conditions would be reported at once to the
nearest officer and that very soon men would be sent to hunt the
mountaineer out and others to work the gun again.
Well, let them come; he would endeavor to give as good as they sent,
or better, even if he were only one against many. He had about thirty
cartridges left; they ought to be enough for a couple of dozen Heinies,
if they didn’t crowd him too fast. And then he had his automatic; he
had hardly needed so far to fire a shot from it, but he knew how to use
it. Also he had his bayonet as a last resort.
Probably in the end they would get him, but it didn’t matter very much
now that his buddy, Jennings, was dead. To be sure, he would love again
to get back to the dear old hills of his native state and again follow
the plow or the hounds. Going after raccoons, foxes, deer and bear was
milder sport than this, with no danger in it, but it didn’t inflict
upon one’s mind that primitive desire to destroy an enemy; it didn’t
stir the blood as did this war game.
Quite calmly, but without relaxing for an instant his keen watchfulness
on all his surroundings, Gill began cleaning his rifle, examining
his cartridge clips and pistol ammunition, looking to his general
well-being, even to the extent of re-tying his shoe lacings. He had
little to wish for, except that Jennings were with him and that he had
something to eat and a cup of good water. This going hungry and thirsty
for so long was not calculated to put a fellow on his best edge. But
still his eyes and nerves were good and his stanch muscles all there.
If his buddy had not been killed and were to share his fortunes now,
he might get into really far greater misery than the grave: long
imprisonment. It wouldn’t be exactly desirable to be seriously wounded,
either, and to lie for hours in these bushes. But Gill promised himself
that if he were hit and not knocked out completely, the Huns would have
no little trouble finding him.
He remembered rather vaguely that Don had told him to come back in
twenty minutes. Gill’s watch had been smashed, he had thrown it away
and how long was twenty minutes? There would be more Huns at the field
piece before half that time and there was no telling how long it might
take to further impress upon them that its mere vicinity was fatal
ground.
Gill was right in this conjecture. He had hardly finished his task and
shoved a new cartridge clip into his gun before he saw a half dozen men
come running up the hill. He recognized one of them as belonging to the
gun squad and this fellow was evidently protesting to the young officer
at the head of the new bunch.
They came boldly into the little space, the member of the old squad
trying almost to hold the officer back. Suddenly that smirk-faced
leader turned and struck the well meaning man a blow across the face.
The sheer brutality, the nasty ingratitude of this act impressed the
watcher in the bushes much as when he had once seen a drunken coon
hunter kick his dog when the beast was doing his best to make known the
whereabouts of a hunted animal.
It was well now to get busy and the rule was to get an officer, if
possible, so as to upset the morale of a fighting force, big or little.
The Hun leader was still glaring at the man who would dare to try to
tell him his business or interfere with his duty; he had also a thing
or two to say about it, judging from the way he flung out his chest and
pounded it with his fist. Suddenly he bent forward, placed both hands
upon his stomach and sank to the ground. Gill hoped that his bullet had
not done enough damage to keep the fellow from repenting his meanness.
The other Huns had all rushed for cover; one was a little slow and
the mountaineer’s next shot did not permit him to gain shelter. One
fellow, from behind a tree, began shooting at where he must have noted
the flash of Gill’s gun and the bullets were cutting low over the
mountaineer’s head as the latter drew a fine bead to the left of that
tree. The Hun marksman stopped shooting, but Gill knew the man had only
been nicked a little; hurt only enough to render him unable to keep on
worrying the Yank.
But others were shooting now and the spot that Gill occupied was
getting to be uncomfortable. A bullet struck and split a stout scrub
oak sapling right in front of his face, the missile going off at a
tangent, else the mountaineer would have been done for. Therefore, he
moved, and quickly, backing out on hands and knees, and when screened
completely he slipped into the friendly shelter of some other bushes
where, back of a sprout-grown tree stump he was still better hidden.
The bullets continued to cut and to tear through the thicket he had
just left, all of them wasted, of course, and Gill smiled grimly.
“No good, Heinie,” he thought, “though if I’d ’a’ stayed there you’d
’a’ got me, I reckon.”
Presently he observed that only one gun was blazing away at his
supposed position and he suspected a ruse. This fellow was trying to
keep Gill’s attention, or to draw his fire; others would make a detour
and try to surprise him from behind. Well, he’d be ready to give them
a warm reception.
He had not long to wait. Directly back of the place that he had just
occupied he saw the bushes sway a little. He did not take his eyes from
the spot and presently a German cap came slowly up above the mass of
foliage, followed by a pair of staring eyes that spied Gill just as the
latter fired. The cap flew into the air, the eyes disappeared from the
mountaineer’s view and he ejaculated, half aloud:
“Sho! I done missed him. Here’s fer gettin’ him, though.” With that,
not having rifle cartridges to waste, Gill drew his automatic and sent
a half dozen bullets into the bushes, low down. The only immediate
result, as far as he could be aware, was some Hun language and the
sound of hasty retreat, evidently of at least four or five men who had
been advancing close together upon him. They must have either imagined
themselves outnumbered, or else the leader or several of them had been
hit.
Gill chuckled to himself and remarked _sotto voce_:
“Guess my ol’ buddy Jen was about right in thinkin’ he could ’a’ licked
the whole Hun army, give him a show.” Then he turned his attention
again to the sniper down the hill and at last, locating that fellow
behind a fallen tree, he set himself to stopping him, which his third
bullet effectually did. Having the habit of talking to himself, as
probably without exception every lone hunter has, Gill further indulged
in it now.
“Reckon my twenty minutes is up, but I got t’ wait here a bit an’ see
they don’t try fer to work that field piece some more. They will try it
an’ groun’ hog shootin’ ain’t no touch t’ the sport o’ stoppin’ these
fellers. Reckon they ain’t goin’ t’ try t’ come after me again right
off.”
The mountaineer lay there for fully fifteen minutes longer and nothing
occurred as far as he could see. The cannon was as lonesome as though
in the middle of the Desert of Sahara; no one approached it. Gill
worked himself down into a comfortable sort of nest amid dry moss and
leaves in the warm sunshine and still waited.
It is hard to believe that under stress of such circumstances sleep
would come to one unawares. But the mountaineer had not closed his eyes
for more than forty-eight hours and outraged nature must assert its
natural protest. Before the poor fellow was conscious of the danger to
himself his head dropped on his outstretched arm and he was actually
snoring.
He awoke after a time at the sound of a gruff voice above him and
glancing up he beheld the muzzle of a gun not six inches from his head.
Words that he did not understand followed. His rifle was snatched away.
But with the quickness of a wildcat the Yank was half on his feet,
reaching for his automatic and meaning to kill or be killed.
A blow descended upon his head; he dodged it in part, but it struck the
pistol from his hand. He leaped at the fellow who was striking at him
with the butt of his gun, catching the Hun a wood wrestling grip around
the waist. The two went down together, Gill on top, and no sooner
had he thrown his man than he tried to get away from him. But his
antagonist was a big chap, with muscles like iron and hands like hams;
he held to Gill with a grip that seemed impossible to break. In doing
this, however, both hands were kept so busy for a time that a weapon
could not be used.
[Illustration: THE TWO WENT DOWN TOGETHER]
Gill got a hold on his antagonist’s throat and the Hun began to
choke. Not being able to break that hold and to save himself, the big
fellow tried to reach around under him for his pistol and Gill tore
loose, flung himself over the ground and got his own automatic. The
two men fired almost at the same instant, the German’s bullet tearing
through Gill’s blouse not six inches from his heart, but without even
scratching the skin. Gill’s shot was better placed. Without another
glance at the dead Hun the mountaineer remarked to himself.
“They’re onto me here. Reckon I’ve got t’ move again.” He crept back
into the bushes once more and made another detour, coming out at the
edge of the thicket farther away from the field piece, but an increase
of distance did not worry him much regarding his certain marksmanship.
Again he took up his vigil and pinched himself to keep awake, but the
need of sleep was even greater than before and he made the same mistake
of getting into a comfortable position. A few flies and mosquitoes
aided his efforts to maintain wakefulness, but apparently nothing short
of a Hun charge upon him could have sufficed.
When he awoke again not one, but five, grinning Huns stood over
and around him. Gill got to his feet and made an instant mental
reservation not to surrender. He would not go into Germany as a
prisoner. Finding his weapons taken, he did the only thing he could:
rush at the nearest man, get him in the stomach with his shoulders and,
upsetting him, fetch another a blow on the jaw that put him down and
out. There is no telling what the Yank would have succeeded in doing
next had not all light and sense been blotted out. The well directed
butt of a gun proved harder than his head.