TRAPPED
The effect of Tom’s words was electric.
It was unexampled. It was a flagrant breach of discipline that under
ordinary circumstances would be unforgivable. A non-commissioned
officer sprang forward to thrust him back into the ranks. But the
major, after a lightning glance at Tom and then at the strange officer,
intervened.
“Just a minute,” he said. “Bradford, come here.”
Tom stepped up in front of the major and saluted.
The newcomer here made a protest. His face had flushed a fiery red when
Tom had shouted his accusation. Then he became as white as chalk. But
he pulled himself together and took on an air of assurance.
“Upon my word, Major,” he said arrogantly, “the discipline in your
command is deplorable. Kindly send this young madman to the guardhouse
and obey the order I gave you. You disobey it on your peril.”
He turned as though to mount his horse, but Frank was too quick for
him. Like a flash he tore the reins from the orderly and held them. The
strange officer made as though he would snatch them from him.
“Stop!” ordered Major Willis. “Sergeant,” he went on, addressing a
non-commissioned officer, “stand ready with a squad of men. Take that
orderly into custody and surround this officer. Now, Bradford,” he went
on turning to Tom, “what made you say what you did?”
“Because it is true, sir,” replied Tom. “That man is an officer in the
German army. I saw him when he was wearing a German uniform in the
German lines and plotting with an American traitor.”
There was a stir in the group, and the accused man gave a start that
was not lost on the major, who was watching him intently.
“That is a serious accusation--a terrible accusation,” said the major
gravely. “If it is true, it means death to this man. If it is false, it
means severe punishment for you. Are you sure of your facts?”
“Perfectly sure, sir,” affirmed Tom. “It was after I had been captured
by the Germans and was trying to escape. I was hiding up a tree in
the woods. Rabig--you know Rabig, sir, the man we’re holding for
court-martial?”--the major nodded--“Rabig came into the woods and
sat down under the tree I was hiding in. This man”--pointing to the
accused--“met him there and they talked for a long time together.
Money passed between them. Then this man went away and I dropped down
on Rabig, overpowered him, took away the pass the German had given
him--and got back to our own lines.”
The alleged German here interposed.
“Is it possible,” he exclaimed, “that you attach any weight to a mere
resemblance, admitting that this fellow is telling what he believes to
be true? There may be a thousand men in either army that look like me.
Let us have done with this nonsense.”
There seemed some force in this and the major looked inquiringly at Tom.
“There’s no mistake, sir,” persisted Tom. “I’d know his face among a
thousand. But there’s one thing that will prove I’m right and that even
he himself can’t deny. The man who was talking to Rabig had the end of
the third finger missing from his left hand.”
Every eye went to the stranger’s left hand. It was encased in a riding
glove and there was nothing to indicate that it was maimed.
“Will you kindly remove your glove?” asked the major with ominous
politeness.
“I refuse,” objected the strange officer hotly. “This is an indignity.
I shall report these proceedings at headquarters.”
“Remove your glove,” demanded the major sternly, and at the same time
the sergeant and his detachment crowded about the accused, ready for
instant action.
There was no help for it and the officer obeyed. _The first joint of
the third finger of the hand was missing._
A shout went up, increasing to a roar, as the detected spy made a
sudden dash through the guard surrounding him, reached his horse, and
with surprising agility vaulted upon his back and dug his spurs into
his sides.
The horse reared high in the air with sudden fright and pain, and
started to run, dragging Frank with him. The latter had been startled
by the unexpected action of the spy, but he held on to the reins with
desperation and refused to be shaken off.
The spy drew a pistol from his belt and fired pointblank at Frank, the
bullet grazing his ear. But he still hung on, and a moment later a
score of his comrades had caught up to them and dragged the German from
the horse’s back.
He fought desperately, for he knew that he was fighting for his life,
and considerable force was necessary to subdue him. He was a sadly
battered object when at last he was half dragged, half carried into
the presence of the major and other officers.
The major looked at him, and his eyes had the glint of steel.
“So this is the way you play the game of war,” he said, in tones of
biting irony. “Is there anything to which your country will not stoop?”
The prisoner looked at him sullenly but made no reply.
“Take him away,” the major directed. “A court-martial will attend to
his case before sundown.”
The man was marched off, accompanied by his orderly who had also been
secured, and as he passed Tom he favored him with a glance that was
full of venom and malignity.
The major turned to Tom.
“You have done well, Bradford,” he said, “and you deserve the thanks
of the regiment. Had that man’s trick succeeded it might have led to a
serious situation. I will see that your name is mentioned in the order
of the day. You can return to your place.”
Tom saluted and retired, and a murmur of approbation went up from the
men as he passed them.
Quick orders passed down the line, for now that the trick had failed an
enemy attack could be expected at any moment.
“Good stuff, Tom!” exclaimed Frank approvingly as he clapped his
comrade on the shoulder. “You were Johnny-on-the-spot that time for
fair.”
“You were the real goods, old boy,” agreed Billy. “My heart was in my
mouth for fear you might have made a mistake. And it’s mighty lucky
that Frank had those reins, or the fellow might have got away after
all.”
“Not a chance,” replied Frank lightly. “A dozen bullets would have got
him anyway. The game was up with him the minute he had to take off his
glove.”
“It was a regular Hun trick,” said Tom disdainfully.
“And he nearly got away with it,” commented Billy. “He nearly had the
major going. Why, he spoke English just as well as I do.”
“That isn’t saying much,” chaffed Frank, and dodged the pass that Billy
made at him.
“Well, he didn’t put it over, and a miss is as good as a mile,”
remarked Tom.
“Did you see the look he shot at you as he went past?” said Billy. “If
looks could kill you’d have died on the spot.”
“There go the guns,” interrupted Frank, as the enemy artillery opened
up in chorus with a roar that shook the ground, and a storm of shells
came shrieking toward them. “They’re getting ready to charge and the
guns are laying down a barrage. We’ll have another hack at them soon.”
They crouched lower and clutched their rifles tightly. And while these
fearless young Americans are waiting for the onset, it may be well, for
the sake of those who have not read the preceding books in this series,
to tell who Frank and his comrades were and what they had been doing up
to the time our story opens.
Frank Sheldon was a stalwart young American who had been born and
reared in Camport, a prosperous city of about twenty-five thousand
inhabitants. He was a bright, likable fellow, a leader in athletic
sports and a general favorite. Above all he was a hundred per cent.
American. His father had died some years before our story opens,
and Frank was the only son and support of his mother to whom he was
devotedly attached. She was a French woman whom Mr. Sheldon had
married while on a business visit to France. She was the heiress to a
considerable estate left by her father, but on account of the war had
not been able to go to France to claim the property, the settlement of
which had been held up by some legal complications.
Frank had secured a good position with the firm of Moore and Thomas,
and had excellent prospects for the future when the war broke out.
His blood was on fire at once and he was eager to enlist, although
for a time he was held back because of his mother’s dependence on
him. An insult to the flag, however, which Frank promptly avenged by
knocking down the guilty German, decided him, and he joined the old
Thirty-seventh, the local regiment that had already seen service in
other wars. With him enlisted his special chum, Bart Raymond, who was
as ardent a patriot as Frank himself. Billy Waldon, another close
friend, was already a member. Tom Bradford wanted to join, but was
rejected on account of his teeth, though afterward he was accepted in
the draft, and the four friends to their great delight found themselves
together.
The only discordant element was Nick Rabig, born in America but of
German parents, who had been with them in the same firm in Camport,
and had made himself thoroughly disliked because of his bullying
disposition and pro-German sentiments. He and Frank had been more than
once on the point of blows, and finally, after Rabig had been caught
in the draft and placed in the Thirty-seventh, Frank gave him the
thrashing that he richly deserved.
How the Army Boys went through their period of training; how they
sailed for Europe and narrowly escaped being torpedoed by a submarine,
what exciting adventures they met with in their first contact with
the enemy--these things are told in the first volume of this series,
entitled: “Army Boys in France; Or, From Training Camp to Trenches.”
Once in the battle zone, thrilling experiences came thick and fast.
The boys were not confined in their activities to the trenches, for
the operations soon developed into open fighting. They were caught
in a swirl of the fighting, pursued by Uhlan cavalry, compelled to
leap from a broken bridge and finally captured by the Germans. From
this captivity they were rescued by their aviator friend, Dick Lever,
and carried back to their lines in his aeroplane. Frank had some
encouraging news about his mother’s property from a Colonel Pavet whose
life he had saved on the battlefield. How rapidly the boys developed
into veteran soldiers is told in the second volume of the series,
entitled: “Army Boys in the French Trenches; Or, Hand to Hand Fights
with the Enemy.”
The great German drive was now preparing and the enemy in his first
successes drove the Allies back and threatened to seize Paris and the
Channel Ports. The old Thirty-seventh was thrown into the breach with
the other American forces and did valiant work in holding the Germans
back. Tom was captured and had a series of stirring adventures before
he rejoined his comrades. Nick Rabig, who had been under suspicion,
from the start, was unmasked as a traitor. The boys had many
hairbreadth escapes in desperate fighting, as will be seen from the
third volume of the series, entitled: “Army Boys on the Firing Line;
Or, Holding Back the German Drive.”
The great counter-attack of Marshal Foch in July, 1918, put an end to
the enemy attempt to advance and sealed the doom of Germany. After that
time the Huns were steadily on the retreat, although they still put up
some bitter battles. Frank and his comrades were in the front rank of
the jubilant American army that was helping to drive the enemy back to
the Rhine. In the battle of St. Mihiel, the Army Boys did their full
share of the fighting. By an unfortunate chain of circumstances, Frank
for a time seemed to be mixed up with the robbery of a paymaster’s
messenger, but he was triumphantly cleared of the charge and Nick Rabig
was discovered to be the real culprit. The story of the part the Army
Boys played in the beating of the Huns is narrated in the fourth volume
of the series, entitled, “Army Boys in the Big Drive; Or, Smashing
Forward to Victory.”
The artillery fire that was searching out the American positions
increased in intensity, and indicated that the attack when it did come
would be a determined one.
“Fritz is sore,” remarked Tom grimly.
“Yes,” chuckled Billy, “he’s peeved because his little game didn’t
work. He had it all framed up that he was going to get this position
for nothing and now he finds he’ll have to fight for it.”
“It’s going to be a lovely scrap,” said Frank, peering through a chink
in the log barricade that they had erected in consolidating their
position. “I only wish that poor Bart could be here to share it with
us. That boy would rather fight any time than eat.”
“Maybe some of us will be with Bart sooner than he will be with us,”
muttered Tom, who, though he had the heart of a lion, was usually
seeing the darker side of things.
Just then a shell came screaming through the air and dropped on the
ground within ten feet of them.
“Duck!” cried Billy, and like a flash they all threw themselves flat on
the ground, turning their helmets in the direction of the shell to give
their heads as much protection as possible.
But the explosion they had nerved themselves to hear did not take
place, and after a few seconds they raised their heads and looked
curiously in its direction.
The shell lay harmlessly imbedded in the earth. From some defect, it
had failed to explode.
The boys scrambled to their feet and looked rather sheepishly at each
other.
“A dud!” exclaimed Tom in profound disgust and yet with a certain
measure of relief.
“A false alarm,” remarked Billy as he brushed the dirt from his uniform.
“It put one over on us that time for fair,” admitted Frank, as he
picked up his rifle. “But it’s a good sign, fellows. It shows the
Heinies are running short of good powder and they have to use an
inferior brand. You can bet that there aren’t very many of our shells
that don’t explode when they fall into their lines.”
“Here they come,” warned Billy. “Gee, but those lines are thick!
They’re putting all their eggs in one basket this time.”
“The more that come the more to fall,” muttered Frank, the light of
battle coming into his eyes.
It seemed indeed as though the Germans were staking all the day’s
results on a single throw, for they were in much greater force than
before and they fell on the American lines like an avalanche. It was a
form of fighting in which they were especially proficient and against
weaker fighters they might have prevailed. But the old Thirty-seventh
and the regiments to the right and left of it had met these men before
and beaten them, had beaten them that very day, had seen their backs,
and in their hearts they knew that they were their masters.
So that when the attack came it beat upon granite. A withering fire
from machine guns tore through their ranks, and then from the rifles of
the Americans, many of whom wore marksmen’s medals, leaped a sheet of
flame that was the very blast of death.
The thick enemy lines wavered, broke and retreated. But under the
urging and revolvers of their officers they formed again and came on
only once more to be driven back with tremendous losses. This time they
broke utterly and fled.
The American officers saw their opportunity and gave the order to
charge. Over their log shelter with a cheer went the American boys,
and pursued the beaten enemy, gathering up prisoners as they went
along. The rout was complete, and only ended when the enemy reached and
crossed a canal which was in their rear. They blew up the bridges after
they had crossed and there for a time the American pursuit came to an
end.
“Gee, but this has been some day!” panted Frank happily, after it was
all over and the regiment was resting after its well-earned victory.
“This is the end of a perfect day,” hummed Billy.
“The biggest day the old Thirty-seventh has had yet,” declared Tom.
“There’s just one thing lacking,” said Frank, “and that is that Bart
isn’t with us. I’m going to try to get leave the first thing in the
morning and get over to the hospital.”
Just then Corporal Wilson, whom they knew well, came up to them.
“Been to mess yet?” he asked.
“Sure thing,” grinned Billy, “and what we did to that chow was a sin
and a shame.”
The corporal smiled.
“That’s good,” he said. “I’m looking for a few volunteers. And when
I say volunteers you fellows know that the work I have in mind is
dangerous, so dangerous in fact that I wouldn’t feel justified in
ordering men to do it.”
All three sprang to their feet.
“Bring on your job,” cried Frank.
“Trot it out,” said Billy.
“Count me in,” added Tom.
Warm approval shone in Wilson’s eyes.
“I didn’t think I’d have to look much farther,” he said. “I’ve been on
scouting trips with you fellows before and there’s nobody I’d rather
have at my back if it came to a scrap. Go and get your black scouting
suits and blacken your faces too. It’s going to be a black night but we
can’t take too many precautions. When you’re ready, report to me and
I’ll give you your instructions. Of course I’m going with you.”
He passed on and the boys looked at each other.
“Wonder what the corp has on his mind?” remarked Frank.
“Something risky you can bet,” said Billy.
“Well, you have to hand it to Wilson,” observed Tom. “You notice he
said he was going with us. He doesn’t ask anyone to go where he won’t
go himself.”
In a few minutes they had donned their scout suits and blackened their
faces and reported to the corporal. They found him at his quarters
dressed like themselves. By this time it was fully dark and time to
start.