THE LOST FILMS
The moving picture boys rushed to the mouth of the dugout and peered
out into the downpour. Now there was a great deal to be seen besides
rain.
Smoke from enemy bullets and exploding shells curled in a sinister mist
close to the ground, and now and then a star shell lit up the weird
scene luridly.
There was no doubt about it. Charlie had been right. They had, indeed,
wandered within the enemy lines and now--they were trapped!
Then simultaneously they remembered the precious films and turned
to reënter the dugout. They would make one desperate effort to get
themselves and the films back to safety----
Crash! Involuntarily they staggered back. Before their horrified eyes
the dugout was caving in!
With a yell they turned and ran, out into the storm, amid the rain
of bullets and exploding shells, out into the din and confusion of
Pandemonium.
Running, staggering, falling, on, on through an eternity of horror,
pieces of shell tearing up the ground before them in jagged, uneven
rents, bullets fanning their foreheads with a ghostly breeze, never
knowing what instant might be their last, they made their way--on, on
in the direction of the Allied lines and safety.
They had covered about half the distance when a party of Huns saw them
and with shouts of delight started in pursuit.
“It’s all up, I guess,” panted poor Macaroni, almost at the end of his
strength. “We might as well say--good-bye, fellows----”
“Save your breath,” Blake commanded curtly, at the same time slipping
an arm through the helper’s and dragging him on. “We’re not dead yet.”
On, on, through more eternities, while their breath came shorter and
shorter, hundred pound weights seemed to drag at their limbs and even
their splendid courage felt the end was near.
Then came a sharp exclamation from Joe and they turned in time to catch
him as he fell.
“Let me go, fellows!” he cried, his face drawn with pain. “I’m done
for. Save yourselves. Hurry----”
“Don’t be a fool,” rasped Blake, gathering all his strength for one
last, mighty effort and slinging Joe over his shoulder. “It’s going to
hurt you, old man, but it--can’t--be helped. How about it, Mac?”
“I’m all right,” panted Charlie, gallantly, finding new strength from
the great emergency to fight on. “Come on,--we must be--pretty near----”
The nightmare of that struggle! Blake, staggering under his heavy
burden, kept from falling again and again by Charlie’s arm--Joe,
gritting his teeth to bear the agony in his leg and make no sound--the
Germans coming nearer and nearer--almost upon them!
“It’s no use,” groaned Blake at last, the breath coming sobbingly
through his teeth. “I--can’t--go on--Mac----”
Then suddenly Macaroni began yelling like a maniac.
“Blake--they’re coming,” he panted, hysterically. “They’re coming--the
boys--in--kha-ki---- Three--cheers----”
Then, with eyes dimmed with exhaustion, Blake saw them, wave after
wave of khaki-clad boys, springing from the mist like knights of
deliverance. They were saved!
Then, in the great reaction that followed, one thought struck Blake
like a thunderbolt. They were safe--_but the films were gone_!
“Well, you’ve done it now,” commented Macaroni, as, two days later,
they made their way to the division hospital.
“Done what?” queried Blake, coming out of a gloomy reverie, wherein the
lost films were being displayed at some German headquarters amid great
rejoicing.
“Why, told C. C. about Joe’s having his leg shot up,” Macaroni
explained. “Now he’ll be coming to cheer poor Joe and we might just
as well send up an undertaker with orders to get measurements for his
casket.”
Blake laughed in spite of his despondency.
“Perhaps it was kind of thoughtless of me,” he admitted. “But if I
hadn’t told him, someone else would. Say Mac,” he added, changing the
subject suddenly, “we’ve got to get those films back some way.”
“I’ve heard that joke before,” responded Charlie, crossly. “We’ve got
about as much chance of rounding up those films as we have of capturing
the Kaiser single-handed, and you know it. Besides, they were probably
ruined when the dugout caved in.”
“I suppose so,” sighed Blake. “And I suppose there’s no use crying over
spilled milk, either--only----”
“Yes, I know,” Macaroni finished bitterly. “It was the best fight we’ve
ever seen or are ever likely to see. The light was just right--which
is nothing short of a miracle--and all that sort of thing. But what’s
the use of making our young lives miserable over it? Perhaps you
remember the little ditty that runs something like this: ‘What can’t be
cured, must be borne with’--or words to that effect?”
Blake laughed at him and felt better.
“You’re hopeless, Macaroni,” he summed up. “Anyway, I suppose when
all’s said and done, we ought to consider ourselves the most fortunate
fellows in the world for getting out of that scrape with whole necks
and enough life left in us to make a mess of.”
“You said it,” agreed Charlie with emphasis. “Do you know what I did?
Don’t laugh, because it was really a solemn occasion. The first mirror
I could get hold of after reaching civilization, I used to scan my
classic brow for signs of greying locks. Yes, I knew you’d laugh at
me,” he added, sadly, “but such things do happen you know, and that
last stretch across No Man’s Land was enough to turn your hair green.”
“And you have to hand it to Joe,” added Blake, the light of admiration
in his eyes. “We know from the condition his leg was in what he must
have suffered, and yet not a word out of him. I call that nerve!”
“You said it,” commented Charlie again. “I guess he went through more
than the two of us put together. Say,” he interrupted himself to add
excitedly, “didn’t I tell you old C. C. would be right on the job? Gee,
it’s lucky we came, or poor old Joe wouldn’t have a chance for his
life.”
“Here come the girls, too,” Blake added, as the two pretty leading
girls of the moving picture company rounded the corner. “Looks as if
Joe were going to have quite a reception.”
“Gee, now I know why he got all shot up,” Macaroni commented enviously.
“It would be almost worth it, having pretty ladies bringing you
bouquets and weeping on your shoulder. Pardon me a moment----”
“Where are you going?” queried Blake, grabbing him.
“Leggo of me,” the assistant responded, impatiently shaking off the
hand. “I’m going to find some accommodating Boche to cut me up. Want to
come? Then the girls will bring us flowers too.”
“No, thanks,” grinned Blake. “I’d rather wait and let events take their
course. They’ll probably have enough chances before we get through.”
“Hello boys!” greeted Miss Shay, as they came within hailing distance.
“I suppose Joe’s the object of interest with you as well as with us.”
“Lucky dog,” grinned Macaroni. “Some fellows just can’t help being
fortunate!”
The girls laughed and Miss Lee added suddenly:
“And here comes C. C.! Goodness, perhaps we’d better not go up just
now. So much attention may make poor Joe worse.”
“Please don’t leave us,” Blake implored. “We’re counting on you to
help keep C. C. in order. If he starts to tell Joe about all the
poor doughboys who had to lose their legs for lots less hurts than
the one he’s got, why it will be your cue to jump in with a spirited
description of the latest dance step. Don’t you get me?”
“Perfectly,” laughed the girl; and a moment later they all entered the
hospital together.
Something about the smell of drugs and the thought of all the wounded
boys who were enduring untold suffering for the sake of their country,
sobered the young folks and they entered Joe’s ward in a rather serious
frame of mind.
But when the nurse led them to the white cot upon which their own
particular patient was lying, they made a brave effort to regain their
good spirits and greet him cheerfully.
In this Joe helped them considerably. He favored them all with a
cheerful grin, looking so altogether like himself in spite of all he
had been through, that their hearts grew light again and they laughed
and chatted with him merrily.
“So you went and made a hero of yourself,” said Miss Shay, during a
lull in the conversation.
“I wasn’t any hero,” Joe disclaimed with sincere modesty. “I didn’t
get my leg shot up on purpose and it was Blake who did all the hard
work--and Mac, too, giving him a helping hand. If it hadn’t been for
them----”
“Nonsense,” broke in Blake hurriedly. “It was you that had the nerve,
being lugged along like that with your leg dangling----”
“That reminds me,” C. C. broke in lugubriously, “of a fellow----”
“Oh, Joe, have you heard the latest?” Miss Shay broke in hastily, while
C. C. looked astonished and the others grinned appreciatively. “They
say that after the war there’s going to be a reaction, and----”
“Say, what do you call this, anyway?” interrupted C. C. in high
dudgeon. “Breaking in on what a fellow is saying and never even saying
‘excuse me.’ And the rest of you grinning like Cheshire cats----”
“It’s all right, C. C.,” purred Miss Lee, stroking his coat sleeve
soothingly. “We were only trying to play the good Samaritan----”
“And I,” broke in C. C. with frigid dignity, “was trying to tell about
the fellow that had his leg amp----”
“Say, cut it out, will you?” cried Macaroni indignantly. “Haven’t you
got any sense, C. C.?”
“Oh, let him rave,” interrupted Joe good-naturedly. “The doc said my
leg had been taken in time and I’d be as good as ever in a couple of
weeks, so I sha’n’t worry. The only thing that _is_ worrying me,” he
added, while a shadow crossed his face, “is losing those films. It was
a shame.”
“It sure was,” agreed Blake. “We’ll never get any more like them. They
were the best ever!”
“Gee, they’re at it again,” sighed Macaroni. “Some way I’ll have to
rescue those films--in self defense!”