A NARROW ESCAPE
How long his unconsciousness lasted Blake never knew.
When at last he came to himself, there was a roaring in his ears and a
shimmer of dancing green lights before his eyes. His brain was reeling
and his head ached horribly.
For a few moments he lay perfectly still, trying to figure out where he
was and what had happened to him. Gradually he pieced events together.
First he remembered that he had been at the foot of the long slope that
the Americans had stormed. Then he thought of Wentworth and the broken
leg that he had helped to bandage. There his recollection stopped for a
time, while his dizzy brain tried to recall the rest that tantalizingly
eluded him.
“Wentworth, Wentworth,” he kept repeating to himself, fearful that if
he lost that clue he could go no further.
Then it all came back to him like a flash--the climb up the hill, the
ranks of gray coming on to the attack, the shock when the two forces
met, and then the terrific explosion that had seemed like the knell of
doom and the end of the world.
He tried to rise, but felt as though a ton were resting on his legs. He
felt of his arms and chest, and was relieved to find that though they
were bruised and sore no bones seemed to be broken.
He raised his voice in a shout, but the sound was muffled and there was
no answering echo. He tried again with the same result. Then a great
fear came to him that made the sweat start from every pore of his body.
He was buried alive!
He had read of such things, heard of them, knew that they had happened.
Once in a nightmare he had dreamed of it, and he remembered now the
way he had struggled until he had awakened to find the blessed light
streaming through the window and realized that it was only a hideous
dream.
But he was not dreaming now. It was all too surely a reality. He was
shut out from the light of day, from the sight of men, held as though
by a vise in what might prove to be his tomb.
But it would not do to give way to gloomy imaginings. While there was
life there was hope. By a mighty effort he took a grip on himself, and
tried to control his dizzy brain so that he could think.
How had this thing come about? Had the explosion of a monster shell dug
a crater and engulfed him in the thrown-up earth? Had an ammunition
dump blown up?
He turned these thoughts over in his mind, only to dismiss them as
inadequate. No, it was something far more formidable than either of
these that had caused that tremendous upheaval of the earth.
Could it have been a mine? This seemed more probable. The Germans might
have mined the hill with the idea of blowing it up if the Americans
should gain possession of it. But if this was so, why had they waited
until their own men were on it, engaged in deadly struggle with the
enemy? Still that might have been due to a mistake in the timing.
But from these conjectures he brought himself up with a jerk. How this
had happened did not after all matter in the least. The dreadful fact
was that he was somewhere under ground and face to face with death.
His hand came in contact with his water bottle and he was rejoiced to
find that it was nearly full. He took a long draught and cooled his hot
lips and parched throat.
Although his legs were pinioned, he was able to move his arms and body
without much difficulty. Loose dirt in plenty was lying on him, but not
in a solid mass. Some timbers must have arched over him and protected
him from being crushed. But who knew at what moment these might give
way and let tons of earth and rock down upon him.
Hark! What was that? A sound, far away and faint, and yet a sound, came
to him. Would it come again?
He held his breath, and his heart almost seemed to stop beating while
he listened.
Again the sound came and this time it did not cease so quickly.
Gradually it developed into a series of tappings that seemed to be
coming nearer.
A gleam of hope shot into Blake’s tortured brain. Somebody, perhaps,
was taking steps toward rescue. He knew that if Joe and Charlie were
still in the land of the living they would work their hands off to get
to him.
But, in the meantime, the air was getting terribly close. He breathed
with more and more difficulty. His lungs were laboring and his brain,
which had cleared somewhat, again began to whirl.
It could not be long, a matter of minutes at the most in that confined
place, that he would be able to breathe at all.
He half twisted his body around so as to bring his face closer to the
earth where what little air remained was cooler and fresher than the
air above.
Would help never come? Or if it came would it come too late to do him
any good?
He had been close to death more than once in his adventurous career,
but that had been for the most part in the open where he could fight
and have a chance for his life. But to die helpless and alone in this
coffin of earth where all he could do was to hope and wait was too
horrible for words.
He was gasping now, opening his mouth as widely as possible to draw the
vitiated air that tasted like copper into his starved lungs. There was
a choking feeling in his throat. He felt that consciousness was leaving
him and he fought desperately to retain it.
Then suddenly a pick was thrust through the roof of his living grave,
and there came an inrush of cool, sweet air that Blake drank in with
great gulps as though it were so much nectar.
He could hear a confused murmur of voices now, growing more and more
distinct as the vigorous and repeated strokes of the pick enlarged the
hole and light as well as air rushed in.
He thought he could distinguish Joe’s voice, but he was not sure. He
tried to shout himself, but it was only after a third effort that he
could force his voice to utter a sound.
Then a face appeared at the hole.
“Hello!” shouted a voice that he now knew was Joe’s. “Is anyone there?
Are you there, Blake?”
“I’m here,” Blake managed to get out in little more than a whisper.
But Joe’s quick ear heard it.
“Glory hallelujah!” he shouted. “Charlie, come here, quick! I’ve found
him.”
Then he turned again to the aperture and asked anxiously:
“Are you hurt, old man?”
“I guess not,” replied Blake. “No bones broken as far as I can find
out. Can’t speak for my legs, though, for they’re pinned down by
something that feels as though it weighs a ton.”
“We’ll get you out in a jiffy,” cried Joe cheerfully, and reinforced
by Charlie and a number of soldiers who ran to help, the hole was soon
enlarged so that Joe could drop down beside his friend. Great care
was necessary to avoid dislodging rocks or timbers that might come
crashing down with serious results. But at last the work was done, the
weight that rested on Blake’s legs was removed, and a score of willing
hands were at his service to lift him out of the hole and lay him on a
stretcher that had been brought.
“Thank God that you’re alive!” exclaimed Joe with a tremble in his
voice, and Charlie echoed him.
“Oh, I’m worth a dozen dead men yet,” answered Blake with a queer
little smile. “I guess I won’t need this stretcher either, if you
fellows will just rub these legs of mine until there’s some feeling in
them.”
They rubbed his legs vigorously until gradually feeling returned to
them, and he was able, with their support, to rise to his feet and lean
against the side of a gun.
“And now tell me about yourselves,” he said to his friends when in
answer to their eager questions he had narrated his own experience.
“Oh, we had luck,” replied Joe. “We went flying into a heap of bushes
and got off with only a few scratches. But the shock made us woozy for
a while, and all we could do was to sit looking at each other like a
pair of boobs. Then we got to hunting round for you and I tell you
what, old boy, we went nearly crazy when we couldn’t see anything of
you. We were like a couple of wild men. A bunch of the soldiers helped
us dig and, as luck would have it, we hit upon the right place.”
“It was bully of you,” said Blake gratefully, “and you sure did come
just in the nick of time. I knew you’d be moving heaven and earth to
get at me if you could, but, of course, I didn’t know but what you
might be in the same fix as I was. How did the whole thing happen,
anyway? Was it a mine?”
“That’s what,” replied Joe. “The Heinies had mined the hill, but by
some mistake on their part they didn’t set it off as soon as they meant
to. The consequence was that they killed more of their own men than
they did of ours, though a good many of our poor fellows went West,
too. But it didn’t do the Huns any good, for our boys licked them good
and proper, and they’re chasing them now.”
“That’s fine and dandy!” exclaimed Blake, as he looked down the hill
where he could see the Germans in disorderly retreat. “I wish they’d
chase them off the map.”
“They’ll chase them back to the Rhine, anyway, before they get
through,” grinned Joe, “and that’ll do pretty well for a beginning.”
“But how about the camera?” asked Blake, as his mind came back to more
personal affairs.
“Pretty good,” Charlie answered. “The tripod was smashed, but the box
came through all right. We found it lying near us when we were trying
to get our wits back. Of course, we haven’t had time to examine it very
closely, but we can do that when we develop the film. I hope that film
hasn’t been hurt. I’d hate like the mischief to lose to-day’s work.
It’s the best chance we’ve had yet to take a big battle at close range.”
“Well, the only way to find out is to test it,” said Blake. “Let’s get
back to headquarters and put the film through its bath and see how it
comes out.”
“Are you sure you’re rested enough?” asked Joe solicitously.
“Sure thing,” replied Blake. “I’m a little shaky in the legs yet, but
that will wear off with walking. Come along.”
They passed on through groups of officers and men who were too busy to
say much, but many of whom found time for a word of congratulation to
Blake on his narrow escape, for the boys were general favorites with
all ranks.
They had soon reached their temporary quarters, which were in a little
cottage back of the lines. It was a matter of only a few minutes for
them to darken one of the rooms and arrange their developing and fixing
baths.
Then they took out their film and with fingers that trembled with
excitement put it in the developer.
“A little bit of ice, Charlie,” said Blake, as he tested the
temperature. “This water’s been standing and it’s a little too warm.”
Charlie complied, and at the end of five or six minutes they took out
the film and washed it off. Then they examined it and there was a
simultaneous exclamation of pleasure and relief as the picture showed
up strongly.
“It’s a dandy,” ejaculated Blake.
“A peach,” agreed Joe.
“All to the good,” added Charlie.
“Doesn’t need a bit of reducing or intensifying either,” exulted Blake.
“It’s just what the doctor ordered. Now we’ll give it the fixing bath,
wash it off, dry it, and wind it up.”
“Well,” observed Joe with a sigh of relief, when everything was done
and the precious film safely stowed away, “it’s been a pretty tough
day, especially for you, Blake, but we’ve got something mighty good to
show for it. The best film yet taken.”