THE UPLIFTED KNIFE
Even while Frank Sheldon spoke, the artillery of the enemy took on a
deeper note until it reached the intensity of drumfire.
But now the American gunners took a hand, and the shells came pouring
over the heads of the boys, searching out the line of the second enemy
trench and preparing the way for the advance.
In obedience to commands, the American soldiers had sought shelter
wherever they could find it, while they were recovering their wind.
Only a moment could be granted for this, however, for time was
everything just now. They had caught the enemy off his guard and must
take advantage of the opportunity.
"Line up, men!" cried the leader of Frank's detachment, and the high
state of discipline that the American forces had reached was shown by
the promptness with which the order was obeyed.
A signal was sent back to the supporting guns, and they opened up a
deadly barrage fire over the heads of Frank and his comrades, clearing
the ground before them of everything that dared to show itself in the
open.
Behind this curtain of fire, the boys advanced, slowly at first, but
gathering speed at every stride, until they were running at the double
quick.
Bullets rained about them from the machine guns of the enemy and great
shells tore gaps in the ranks. At Frank's left, a soldier suddenly
wavered and then pitched headlong into a shell hole and lay still.
Another toppled over with a bullet in his shoulder. But the lanes that
were made closed almost instantly.
Now they had reached the wire entanglements that had been battered by
the artillery until they hung in festoons around their posts, leaving
paths through which the American lads poured.
Then like a great tidal wave they struck the trench!
The Germans had clambered out to meet them, and when the two forces met
the shock was terrific. Back and forth the battle surged and swayed,
each side fighting with the fury of desperation. The cannon had ceased
now, for in that locked mass the shells were as likely to kill friends
as foes. It was man against man, bayonet against bayonet, each combatant
obeying the primitive law of "kill or be killed."
The opposing forces at this part of the line were nearly equal, with the
Germans having a slight advantage in numbers. But to make up for this,
the Americans had the advantage of the attack and the tremendous
momentum with which they had struck the enemy's line.
For a time victory hung in the balance, but then Yankee determination
and superior skill in bayonet work began to tell. The Americans would
not be denied. The German line was pierced, and the forces broke up into
a number of battling groups.
Frank and Bart, Billy and Tom, who all through the fight had managed to
keep together, found themselves engaged with a squad of Germans double
their number, two of whom were frantically trying to bring a machine gun
to bear upon them.
With a bound Frank was upon them. He toppled one over with his bayonet,
but while he was doing this the other fired at him point-blank with a
revolver. At such a close range he could not have missed, had not Bart,
quick as a flash, clubbed him over the arm with his rifle, making the
bullet go wild.
"Quick, Bart!" panted Frank, as with his comrade's help he slued the
machine gun around, gripped the trigger, and sent a stream of bullets
into a group of the enemy charging down upon him.
Before that withering fire they dissolved like mist, and a circle was
cleared as though by magic.
What Germans were left in that immediate vicinity leaped back into the
trench on the edge of which they had been fighting.
"Now we've got them!" cried Frank, as with his friends' assistance he
quickly wheeled the gun to the brink of the trench and depressed the
muzzle so that it commanded the huddled bunch below. "Come out of that,
you fellows. Hands up, quick!"
They may not have understood his words, but there was no
misunderstanding the meaning of that black sinister muzzle of the
machine gun with a hundred deaths behind it. They were trapped, and
their hands went up with cries of "_Kamerad!_" in token of surrender.
On that part of the line the battle was over, for the plan did not
contemplate going beyond the second trench at that time. The American
boys had won and won gloriously. From all parts of the trench, on a
two-mile front, groups of captives were coming sullenly out with uplifted
hands, to be herded into groups by their captors and sent to the rear.
"Glory hallelujah!" cried Bart, as he removed his mask and wiped his
streaming face. "And no gas, either."
"Some scrap!" gasped Billy, as he sank exhausted to the ground.
"Did them up to the Queen's taste," chuckled Tom.
"We certainly put one over on the Huns that time," grinned Frank
happily.
And while they stand there, breathless and exulting, it may be well for
the benefit of those who have not previously made the acquaintance of
the American Army Boys to sketch briefly their adventures up to the time
this story opens.
Frank Sheldon, Bart Raymond, Tom Bradford and Billy Waldon had all been
born and brought up in Camport, a thriving American city of about
twenty-five thousand people. They had known each other from boyhood,
attended the same school, played on the same baseball nine and were warm
friends.
Frank was the natural leader of the group. He was a tall, muscular young
fellow, quick to think and quick to act, always at the front in sports
as well as in the more serious events of life.
His father had died some years before, leaving only a modest home as a
legacy, and Frank was the sole support of his mother. The latter had
been born in France, where Mr. Sheldon had married her and brought her
to America.
Later, Mrs. Sheldon's father had died, leaving her a considerable
property in Auvergne, her native province. This estate, however, had
been tied up in a lawsuit, and she had not come into possession of it.
She had been planning to go to France to look after her interests, but
her husband's death and, later on, the breaking out of the European war,
had made this impossible.
She was a charming woman, with all the French sparkle and vivacity, and
she and her son were bound together in ties of the strongest affection.
Naturally her ardent sympathy had been with France in the great war
raging in Europe. But when it became evident that America soon would
take part, although she welcomed the aid this would bring to her native
country, her mother heart was torn with anguish at the thought that her
only son would probably join in the fighting across the sea.
But Frank, though he dreaded the separation, felt that he must join the
Camport regiment that was getting ready to fight the Huns. The deciding
moment came when a German tore down the American flag from a neighbor's
porch. Frank knocked the fellow down and in the presence of an excited
throng made him kiss the flag that he had insulted. From that moment his
resolution was taken, and his mother, who had witnessed the scene, gave
her consent to his joining the old Thirty-seventh regiment, made up
chiefly of Camport boys, including Billy Waldon, who had seen service on
the Mexican border.
Bart Raymond, Frank's special chum, a sturdy, vigorous young fellow, was
equally patriotic, and joined the regiment with Frank as soon as war was
declared. Tom Bradford, a fellow employee in the firm of Moore & Thomas,
a thriving hardware house, wanted to enlist, but was rejected on account
of his teeth, although he wrathfully declared that "he wanted to shoot
the Germans, not to bite them." In fact, almost all the young fellows
employed by the firm, except "Reddy," the office boy, who wanted to go
badly enough, but who was too young, tried to get into some branch of
the army or navy.
A marked exception was Nick Rabig, the foreman of the shipping
department, who, although born in the United States, came of German
parents and lost no opportunity of "boosting" Germany and "knocking"
America. He was the bully of the place and universally disliked. He
hated Frank, especially after the flag incident, and only the thought of
his mother had prevented Frank more than once from giving Rabig the
thrashing he deserved.
Frank's regiment was sent to Camp Boone for their preliminary training,
and here the young recruits were put through their paces in rifle
shooting, grenade throwing, bayonet practice and all the other exercises
by which Uncle Sam turns his boys into soldiers. There was plenty of fun
mixed in with the hard work, and they had many stirring experiences. A
pleasant feature was the coming of Tom, who although rejected when he
tried to enlist had been accepted in the draft. Not so pleasant, though
somewhat amusing, was the fact that Nick Rabig also had been drafted and
had to go to Camp Boone, though most unwillingly.
How the regiment sailed to France for intensive training behind the
firing lines; how their transport narrowly escaped being sunk by a
submarine and how the tables were turned; the singular chance by which
Frank met a French colonel and heard encouraging news about his mother's
property; how he thoroughly "trimmed" Rabig in a boxing bout; how the
Camport boys took part in the capture of a Zeppelin; how the old
Thirty-seventh finally reached the trenches; Frank's daring exploit when
caught in the swirl of a German charge; these and other exciting
adventures are told in the first book of this Series, entitled: "Army
Boys in France; Or, From Training Camp to the Trenches."
"Do you remember what that airship captain said the day we bagged him?"
chuckled Billy.
"About it being impossible for Americans to get to France?" asked Bart.
"You bet I do. I'll never forget that boob. I wonder if he still
believes it."
"He'd sing a different tune if he were here to-day," observed Tom.
"I don't know," laughed Frank. "The German skull is pretty thick. Still
you can get something through it once in a while if you keep on
hammering."
"I guess these fellows haven't any doubts about our being here,"
observed Billy.
"They've had pretty good evidence of it," confirmed Tom, as he watched
the enemy captives standing about in dejected groups, waiting to be sent
to the rear.
One thing that struck the boys forcibly was the disparity of age between
the prisoners. There was an unusual proportion of men beyond middle life
and of youngsters still in their teens.
"Grandpas and kids," blurted out Tom.
"The Kaiser's robbing the cradle and the grave," commented Billy.
"Germany's getting pretty near to the limit of her man power, I guess."
"That's true of France and England, too," observed Frank thoughtfully.
"They lost the flower of their troops in the early fighting and they all
have to do a great deal of combing to keep their ranks full."
"And that's where America has the Indian sign on the Huns," jubilated
Bart "We'll have our best against her second best."
"We'll trim her good and proper," predicted Frank. "Even at her best,
we'd down her in the end. But don't let's kid ourselves. She's full of
fight yet, and will take a lot of beating. And there are plenty of
huskies in her ranks yet. Look at that big brute over there. He looks as
though he could lift an ox."
He pointed to a massively built German corporal, who was evidently mad
with rage at his capture. He was gesticulating wildly to his fellow
prisoners and fairly sputtering in the attempt to relieve his feelings.
"Seems to be rather peeved," grinned Tom.
"I can't catch on to what he's saying," laughed Bart. "But I'll bet he
could give points to a New York truckman or the mate of a Mississippi
steamboat. They'd turn green with envy if they could understand him."
"He's frothing at the mouth," chuckled Billy. "I'd hate to have him bite
me just now. I'd get hydrophobia sure."
There was no time for further comment. The officers had had to give the
men a short breathing spell, for all were spent with their tremendous
exertions. But now after the brief rest, all was bustle and hurry.
"The Huns will be back for more," predicted Frank, as he and his friends
were set to work changing the sandbags from the side of the trench that
had faced the Americans to the other side that looked toward the German
third line.
"They must be hard to please if they haven't had enough for one
morning," growled Tom.
"They're gluttons for punishment," remarked Bart. "The first-line trench
is junk from the mine explosion, but they won't give this second one up
without making one mighty effort to get it back."
The young soldiers were working feverishly to organize the captured
position, when their corporal, Wilson, summoned them out and they
scrambled forth promptly and stood at attention.
"Fall in to take back the prisoners," he ordered.
A look of disappointment came over their faces and Wilson's eyes
twinkled when he saw it.
"Haven't you had enough fighting yet?" he demanded. "Well, I feel that
way myself, but orders are orders. Come along."
"Hard luck," muttered Frank in a low tone to Bart, as they obeyed the
command.
"We'll miss some lovely fighting," agreed Bart.
"I was just getting warmed up," mourned Billy.
"Don't worry," advised Tom. "We'll be sent back after we get these
fellows to headquarters, and we'll have a chance to get another crack at
them."
The prisoners, having been searched, were placed in double file between
the members of the guarding squad, who walked at a few paces interval on
either side of them.
"Fall in!" came the corporal's order. "Shoulder arms. March!"
They started out briskly.
Frank and Bart happened to be close beside the big German corporal whom
they had before observed. His wrath was not yet abated, and he kept up a
volley of epithets as he sullenly marched along.
"He's making as much fuss as though he were the Kaiser," chuckled Tom,
who was vastly amused at the prisoner's antics.
"Slap him on the wrist and tell him to be nice," counseled Billy with a
grin.
The captive glared at them with insane rage in his eyes.
"I think he's going nutty," remarked Bart. "It's lucky for him there
aren't any squirrels around."
"You want to keep your eye peeled for him," warned Frank. "He's bad
medicine."
"He's safe enough," replied Bart, carelessly. "He hasn't any weapon, and
if he started to run he wouldn't get far. He isn't cut out for a
sprinter."
"Even if he were, a bullet would catch him," chimed in Billy. "He'd make
a big target and it would be a pretty bad shot that would miss him."
When they reached the blown-up first trench they found it difficult to
keep in line, and had to pick their way over the heaped-up ruin that had
been made by the mine explosion.
Bart tripped over a strand of broken wire, and in trying to save himself
from falling, his rifle slipped from his hand.
The German corporal was within a foot of him and saw his opportunity.
Quick as a flash he drew from his clothing a trench knife that the
searchers had overlooked. The murderous blade gleamed in the air as the
corporal brought it down toward the neck of Bart, who had stooped to
pick up his rifle.