Jack, too, had seen from the manner of the British officer that the
kodak picture looked familiar to him.
“Would you say there was a resemblance between this face and that of
the birdman who drove his aeroplane through the Rhine country?” he
asked.
The soldier nodded his head again.
“It answers to the description given me,” he told them. “My informant
was very particular to mention the heavy head of black hair, the
strong look on the face, and the arched eyebrows. My word! but I
really believe you are on the right track, young fellow. If this Frank
Bradford, who threw the old city of Cologne into a panic, turns out to
be your brother I heartily congratulate you.”
Further talk followed. Amos hoped to be able to pick up more or less
information concerning the present whereabouts of the one he fully
believed must be his brother.
In this endeavor, however, he was doomed to disappointment, for the
officer could give him no further clue. Whether Frank Bradford still
drove his wonderful machine in the service of the Allies, or had been
brought low during some later air raid by the gunfire of the Germans he
could not say.
So Jack took it upon himself to change the subject. He was not as well
posted with regard to the roads of this battle-scarred section of
Belgium as he would like to be.
The colonel, once he had been thawed out by the sight of that inspiring
signature at the bottom of the letter Amos carried, proved very
affable. It has always been the way with these icy Britishers--get
behind the reserve they throw up as they would breastworks, gain
their confidence, and there is nothing they will refuse in the way of
accommodation.
So Jack was permitted to look at a map of the country which the soldier
had in his possession. He even made notes from it which might serve to
assist them on their way to Ypres, that hotbed of fighting, a salient
the Germans seemed bent on recapturing.
So the two boys finally thanked the colonel, who heartily wished them
all possible success in their undertaking.
“At the same time,” he told them at parting, “deep down in my heart I
am hoping you may fail to induce your brother to throw up his job as
one of King George’s boldest fliers. We shall need all the outside help
we can get from our cousins across the sea, before this bloody business
is over with, for these Germans are born fighters, every man-jack of
them.”
When the two boys had proceeded some distance along the muddy road, on
reaching a slight rise they stopped for a minute to look back.
Evidently the order to move had been passed along the line just after
they parted from their new-found friends, for, like a great serpent,
the column of khaki-clad territorials was passing along the road, a
battery of field guns in the van and another bringing up the rear.
It was an inspiring spectacle. No wonder the two American boys felt
their hearts beat with aroused sentiments. At the same time Jack shook
his head sadly as he went on to say:
“How many of them will never go back again to the homes they have left
over in old England? War may seem glorious to those who look on, but it
is terrible. Already we’ve seen some of the destruction that follows in
its track, and I reckon that before we cross the Atlantic again we’ll
have our fill of its horrors.”
Truer words were never spoken. When Jack Maxfield said this he meant it
only in a general way. He could not have possibly foreseen what a wide
stretch of territory their search for Frank Turner would cover, and
what amazing scenes they were fated to gaze upon before the end came.
Once more the chums trudged forward.
Amos was feeling quite “chipper” as he called it, and there was
certainly good cause for this high hope. They had accidentally run
across what seemed to be a strong clue, and the uncertainty of the
past was being relieved. Jack, on his part, was figuring out what he
might get through the hands of the censor in his next letter home. It
was Jack’s avowed intention to become a newspaper man when he entered
the business world, and already he had shown great aptitude along the
line. The descriptions he sent over to a paper which he had arranged
to represent while abroad were graphic and thrilling. His pen pictures
of conditions as he saw them gave an accurate view of the situation.
Although the stern military censor might blue pencil all names, he
could not destroy the vivid word painting as set down by Jack.
Besides this, Jack had contrived a clever little dodge whereby he hoped
to snap off some stirring pictures. His camera was the smallest ever
designed, but it had an expensive lens, and that meant more than half
the battle.
Jack had it concealed, and so arranged matters that he could press the
bulb and snap off a minute picture without any one being the wiser;
and after being developed this could be enlarged to any size required.
No doubt, eventually, that clever little contrivance would get him
into what Amos called a “peck of trouble.” It would doubtless be
confiscated, but Jack hoped he might be able to secure a series of
views well worth working for, ere that catastrophe came about.
As they walked on, the boys were continually coming upon fresh works
of recent strenuous warfare. The army of invasion had held stubbornly
to this region, and an unexpected drive on the part of the reinforced
British had carried the Germans back some five miles or so to where
they had prepared a second line of wonderful trenches.
Here a stone wall had been used as a breastworks, as was proven by the
devastation caused by bursting shells. Great holes yawned in the ground
where monsters from the German siege guns had buried themselves and
exploded. And the boys looked in awe at the piled-up earth, in places
marked with small, rudely fashioned wooden crosses, which told where
late combatants lay side by side, their battle fever forever stilled.
Hardened soldiers might have gazed upon such things unmoved, but these
boys were all unaccustomed to war’s devastation, and many times their
hearts beat in sympathy with the people they saw in the desolated
cottages by the way.
The afternoon was now wearing away and it was only natural for the two
chums to begin to wonder where they were fated to pass the night.
Jack had roughed it many times in the past, when on the cattle range.
He knew what a lone camp under the stars meant, and could stand
exposure about as well as the next one.
All the same Jack was ready to confess that if given a choice he much
preferred a roof over his head. The air felt raw and there was even a
chance that a cold rain might set in before morning, which would be
pretty disagreeable all around.
“I think we’re coming to a village,” he told Amos, who had begun to
lag a little as though leg weary; “or rather what is left of one, for
when the Germans were thrown back they used every house as a barricade,
and before they could be ejected there would often be hardly one stone
left on another, or a wall standing.”
“Yes, you’re right about that, Jack, because I can see houses ahead of
us. I only hope we find some sort of shelter, and a bite to eat, that’s
all. Jack, don’t you think we’ve made good progress since sun-up?”
“We’ve done splendidly, for a fact,” the other readily admitted, “and
there’s good reason you should feel hopeful. On my part I’ve seen and
heard a lot of things today that will make up the liveliest letter I’ve
been able to send across to the _Times_. On a dozen different accounts
I’m glad I came over with you, Amos; and chief of all is the fact that
I can be of assistance.”
“Why, I never could have gotten on without you, Jack. You’ve cheered
me up when I felt blue; you’ve shown me how to ride rough-shod over
difficulties; and if ever I do manage to find my brother Frank,
nine-tenths of the credit will lie at your door. You’re the best chum a
fellow could ever have, and that comes straight from my heart.”
“Well, here we are at the village,” said Jack, to change the
conversation, though he would not have been human if he had not been
touched by these warm-hearted sentiments on the part of his cousin.
“And I guess,” remarked Amos, “they must have pressed the Germans so
closely through here that they had no chance to stop in any numbers,
because you can see the houses are not badly shattered by shells.”
They found a scene of desolation around them, however, after they
entered the village. Once it had undoubtedly been a pretty hamlet, but
this was before the rush of hostile armies across Belgium’s borders.
Fugitives from less favored localities had sought safety among those
who still had roofs over their heads. Curious eyes followed the boys
as they passed along. Doubtless their coming and their well-fed
appearance aroused the wonder and envy of these hapless people who all
through the storms of the winter season had fought against starvation
and freezing.
Soldiers, rumbling artillery trains, galloping horses, and all the
brave trappings of new levies going to the front to become food for
the cannon they were accustomed to see day after day. Then would come
the ambulances and motor vans laden with the groaning victims who were
being taken to field hospitals in the rear of the fighting line. But
when two sturdy lads, one of them wearing a little American flag in his
buttonhole, walked into their village, the natives became interested at
once.
It was known throughout the length and breadth of Belgium that
charitable America had fed their suffering millions all through the
winter. On this account any one who claimed to be a citizen of the
generous republic beyond the sea was welcome in their midst.
So Jack and Amos found smiles upon some of the wan faces around them
as well as wonder and curiosity.
“If we can only run across some one who speaks English I’d call it
lucky,” Amos was saying as they reached the center of the village.
“Here comes the man we want to see, then,” Jack told him. “The rest
are pushing him along as if they knew he could talk with us. My French
isn’t all it should be, and I have to depend on signs half the time so
as to make myself understood. But it’s going to be all right now.”
Jack proved to be a good prophet, for the old man with the white beard
addressed them in very fair English. He told them he had worked in an
American arms factory for several years, and considered that he knew
Yankee customs very well indeed.
“If you wish to spend the night with us,” he continued, “we will do
the best we can to entertain you. In these sad times most of us are
content to find a roof over our heads, and have something to satisfy
our hunger. I will take you to my own poor house, though it is already
crowded with relatives from other parts of our distracted country. Such
accommodations as we have you are quite welcome to.”
Of course the boys thanked him, and hastened to say they would be
satisfied to sleep in a shed, if there was no other place vacant. He
asked them to accompany him, and with quite a procession tagging at
their heels they started off.
It turned out that their host was really an important man in the
village. Jack guessed he must be the mayor or burgomaster, since every
one seemed to defer to his judgment.
One of the first things they noticed as they drew near the cottage
for which they were headed, was a small boy parading up and down
bearing a Belgian flag proudly over his shoulder. He seemed a very
determined-looking youngster, and Amos openly commented on his manifest
patriotism, at which the old man shrugged his shoulders, and then
remarked:
“Of such material are the Belgian people composed. Like the Dutch they
have never been conquered. They dared even to defy the Kaiser and his
millions of fighting men. Belgium will rise again, and be a greater
nation than ever.”
“And the boy?” said Jack, deeply interested.
“He is a wonderful child, whose brave father, Jean Larue, my cousin,
fell fighting in defense of Antwerp. Little Jacques dreams of the day
when he may strike a blow in memory of the father he loved. His mind is
full of plans for trapping the hated Germans, if ever they come this
way again, which Heaven forbid.”
The boy stopped in his military walk to solemnly return the salute Jack
gave him. His face was unusually grave and they could see that the
horrors of war by which little Jacques had been surrounded had done
much to make him older than his years.
Everybody tried to be kind to the American boys, though it was little
they could do after that late pinching winter. But they were given a
small room with a bed in it, which apartment Jack imagined had been
hastily evacuated by some of the kind old burgomaster’s relatives, now
thrown upon his bounty.
“What better could we ask than this?” Amos wanted to know, as he washed
his face and hands in a convenient tin basin.
“I’m not saying a word,” Jack told him. “Fact is I reckon we’re in
clover, when you think of those poor ground hogs we saw yesterday
wallowing in the mud of the trenches, and half frozen at that.”
It was not long before they knew cooking was going on, and, being a
pretty hungry pair of boys, they exchanged pleased glances as they
sniffed the appetizing odors.
The meal was limited, so far as variety went, but there seemed an
abundance for all. Only the old burgomaster sat down with them, though
there were a dozen women and children to be served later on under the
hospitable roof.
Upon making inquiry Jack learned that there was not a single
able-bodied man left in the village.
“All them are fighting alongside our beloved King Albert,” exclaimed
the old man, proudly, “or else have already laid down their lives in
defense of their country.”
All these things made a deep impression on the two American boys. They
wondered how much of the same kind of patriotism would be found over
in their country should an occasion ever arise when hostile armies
occupied the cities and towns of the republic.
After sitting in their little room for an hour, where, by the dim light
of a taper, Jack wrote an account of stirring things he had seen that
day, Amos finally begged him to “close up shop” and go outside a while
to take the air before turning in.
To this Jack offered no objection, for he was feeling very much that
way himself.
The village seemed almost deserted at this hour, for the night was
cloudy as well as raw, and every one had sought shelter. Even the dogs
answered each other with mournful howls, as though they, too, partook
of the general gloom that had fallen upon poor Belgium since that
day early in August when the Teuton horde broke across her neutral
territory and began the most terrible war in all history.
The boys walked out of the quiet village and along the road for a
little distance. It was about this time that Amos drew the attention of
his chum to something that appeared to have caught his eye and puzzled
him. As usual, Amos depended on Jack to solve the mystery.