A PERILOUS JOURNEY
The shock was a heavy one. For an instant both combatants were
stunned. The flying arms and legs straightened out and lay quiet.
Then Frank staggered painfully up to his hands and knees.
Luckily he had fallen on top, and the breath had been knocked out of
his opponent's body. But even as Frank looked down upon him, his foe
showed signs of reviving. His eyes opened, and a glare of rage came in
them as they rested on Frank.
He put his hand to his belt, but Frank was the quicker and in an
instant his knife was out and pointed at the German's throat.
"Say 'Kamerad,'" he commanded.
The German hesitated, but a tiny prick of the knife decided him.
"Kamerad," he growled sullenly.
"That's right," said Frank, "but just to make sure that you won't stick
your knife into me when I'm not looking, I guess I'll take care of it.
No, you needn't take the trouble of handing it to me," he continued, as
he saw a vicious expression in his captive's eyes. "You just keep your
hands stretched above your head and I'll find your knife myself. And
don't let those hands come down until I tell you, or something awkward
is likely to happen."
If the prisoner did not understand all that was said to him, there was
enough in Frank's gestures to indicate his meaning, and the hands went
up and stayed up, while Frank searched his prisoner and removed his
knife, which he put in his own belt. Then he bound the fellow's hands.
The attack had been made late in the afternoon, and dusk had fallen
while the fight was still going on. Now it was quite dark, and Frank
rose to his feet, intending to clamber out of the shell hole, taking
his prisoner with him.
But what was his consternation, on lifting his head to the level rim of
the crater, to hear about him commands shouted in hoarse guttural
accents. The sounds of battle had died down and it was evident that
the fight for that day was over. And that part of the field had been
left in German hands!
Reinforcements coming up in the nick of time had halted a retreat that
was threatening to become a rout. The battle would probably be resumed
on the morrow, but for the present both forces were resting on their
arms.
The tables were turned with a vengeance. A moment before he had been
holding a prisoner and getting ready to take him into the American
lines. Now he was himself in the enemy lines, liable at any moment to
be discovered and dragged out roughly, to be questioned by German
captors.
All this passed through Frank's mind in a twinkling. But then another
thought came to him. He must silence his prisoner.
The thought came not a moment too soon, for as Frank dropped down
beside him a shout arose from the German's lips. He too had heard and
understood the sounds about him.
In an instant Frank had thrust his handkerchief into the prisoner's
mouth. The man squirmed and struggled, but his bound hands made him
powerless, and Frank soon made a gag that, while allowing the man a
chance to breathe comfortably, would keep him silent.
Then he settled back and tried to think. And his thoughts were not
pleasant ones.
He had had a brief taste of German imprisonment, and he was not anxious
to repeat the experience. Yet nothing seemed more probable. Little
short of a miracle would prevent his capture if he stayed there much
longer. In the morning, discovery would be certain. He must escape
that night, if at all. But how could he make his way through that
swarm of enemies?
And while he is cudgeling his brain to find an answer to the question,
it may be well, for the sake of those who have not read the preceding
volumes of this series, to tell briefly who Frank and his chums were
and what they had done up to the time this story opens.
Frank Sheldon had been born and brought up in the town of Camport, a
thriving American city of about twenty-five thousand people. His
father was American but his mother was French. Mr. Sheldon had met and
married his wife in her native province of Auvergne, where her parents
owned considerable property. They had died since their daughter's
marriage, and in the natural course of things she would have inherited
the estate. But legal difficulties had developed in regard to the
will, and Frank's parents were contemplating a trip to France to
straighten matters out, when the war broke out and made it impossible.
Mr. Sheldon had died shortly afterward, leaving but a slender income
for his widow. Frank had become her chief support. She was a
charming, lovable woman, and she and her son were very fond of each
other.
Frank had secured a good position with the firm of Moore & Thomas, a
prosperous hardware house in Camport, and his prospects for the future
were bright when the war broke out. But he was intensely patriotic,
and wanted to volunteer as soon as it became certain that America would
enter the conflict. For a time he held back on account of his mother,
but an insult to the flag by a German, whom Frank promptly knocked down
and compelled to apologize, decided his mother to put no obstacles in
the way of his enlisting.
But Frank was not the only ardent patriot in the employ of Moore &
Thomas. Almost all of the force wanted to go, including even Reddy the
office boy, who although too young, was full of ardor for Uncle Sam.
Chief among the volunteers were Bart Raymond, Frank's special chum and
a fine type of young American, and Tom Bradford, loyal to the core.
Poor Tom, however, was rejected on account of his teeth, but was
afterward accepted in the draft, and by a stroke of luck rejoined Frank
and Bart at Camp Boone, where they had been sent for training. Another
friend of all three was Billy Waldon, who had been a member of the
Thirty-seventh regiment before the boys had joined it. The four were
the closest kind of friends and stuck by each other through thick and
thin.
There had been one notable exception to the loyalty of the office
force. This was Nick Rabig, a surly, bullying sort of fellow, who had
been foreman of the shipping department. He was a special enemy of
Frank, whom he cordially hated, and the two had been more than once at
the point of blows. Rabig was of German descent, although born in this
country, and before the war began he had been loud in his praise of
Germany and in "knocks" at America. His chagrin may be imagined when
he found himself caught in the draft net and sent to Camp Boone with
the rest of the Camport contingent.
How the Army Boys were trained to be soldiers both at home and later in
France; their adventures with submarines on the way over; how Rabig got
what he deserved at the hands of Frank; what adventures they met with
and how they showed the stuff they were made of when they came in
conflict with the Huns--all this and more is told in the first volume
of this series, entitled: "Army Boys in France; Or, From Training Camp
to Trenches."
From the time they reached the trenches the Army Boys were in hourly
peril of their lives. They took part in many night raids in No Man's
Land and brought back prisoners. Frank met a Colonel Pavet whose life
he saved under heavy fire and learned from the French officer
encouraging news about his mother's property. The four friends had a
thrilling experience when they were chased by Uhlan cavalry, plunged
into a river from a broken bridge only to find when they reached the
other side that the bank was held by German troops. How an airplane
rescued them from German captivity is only one of stirring incidents
narrated in the second volume of the series, entitled: "Army Boys at
the Front; Or, Hand-to-Hand Fights with the Enemy."
Frank had been in many tight places since he had been in France. In
fact, danger had been so constant that he had come to expect it. To
have a feeling of perfect comfort and security would hardly have seemed
natural. But now he freely owned to himself as he sat crouching low in
the shell hole that his liberty if not his life was scarcely worth a
moment's purchase.
Something of what was passing in his mind must have been evident to the
German who shared the hole with him. Frank could not see his face
clearly but he could hear the man shaking as if with inward laughter.
"Laugh ahead, Heinie," remarked Frank, though he knew the man could
probably not understand him. "I'd do the same if the tables were
turned. It'll be a mighty good joke to tell your cronies at mess
tomorrow how the Yankee _schweinhund_ thought he had you and then got
nabbed himself. But they haven't got me yet. Those laugh best who
laugh last, and perhaps I've got a laugh coming to me."
But just then the laugh seemed a good ways off. At any instant some
one of the many passing to and fro might stumble into the hole and the
game would be up. Or a flare from a star-shell might reveal him
crouching beside his prisoner. His prisoner! What irony there was in
the word under those circumstances.
Yet not all irony, for at the moment the thought passed through his
mind, another thought told him how he might exercise the power that the
fortune of war had given him over the German and by so doing effect his
escape.
It was certain that in his American uniform he could not get through
the Germans who surrounded him. His only chance would be to make a
dash, and although he was a swift runner the bullets that would be sent
after him would be swifter.
_But in a German uniform_--
And here was one in the hole right beside him!
The plan came to him like a flash of light and he started at once to
put it into execution. But just then a sober second thought made him
pause.
If he were captured wearing his own uniform it would be just as an
ordinary prisoner, entitled to be treated as such by the laws of war.
But if they took him wearing a German uniform he would be regarded as a
spy and would be shot or hanged offhand, perhaps even without the form
of a court-martial.
He weighed the question carefully, for he knew that life or death might
result from the way he answered it.
To help him decide, he raised his head with infinite caution to the rim
of the shell hole and looked about him. In the faint light that came
from lanterns disposed at various places he could see men moving here
and there and catch the murmur of conversation where some of them were
sitting in groups.
Occasionally a man would rise from one of these gatherings and move
away, apparently without attracting notice or arousing question. Why
could he not do the same?
Of course there was the chance of a word being addressed to him and he
could not answer without revealing his ignorance of German. But
perhaps he could pretend not to hear or respond with a grunt that would
pass muster.
One thing was certain. If it were done at all it must be done at once
while there were many about. If he waited until things were quiet his
solitary figure would be sure to attract attention.
His choice was made. Between the certainty of capture and the chance
of being shot he would take the chance. If worse came to worst he had
his knife and his revolver and he would sell his life dearly.
He knelt down close by his captive and began to strip off his clothes.
The man was inclined to resist, but a sharp prick of Frank's knife told
him that his captor was in no mind to stand any nonsense and he lay
quiet. It was hard work because the man was heavy and the quarters
were cramped. The coat had to be cut off in places because Frank did
not dare to untie his prisoner's hands. But at last the clothes were
off, and Frank slipped them on over his own.
It was with a shudder of repulsion that he saw himself clad in the
detested uniform that stood for all that was hateful and brutal in
warfare. It made him feel soiled. But he comforted himself with the
thought that the clothes were only external and that good United States
khaki lay between that abhorred uniform and his skin.
He saw that the gag was still securely in position and that his
captive's bonds had not relaxed. Then as a last reminder he laid the
back of his knife on the prisoner's neck and felt him shiver beneath
the cold steel.
"I guess he'll make no attempt to give me away," he said to himself.
"He knows that he'll be all right in the morning anyway."
Slowly and with the infinite precaution that had been taught him in his
scout training, Frank lifted himself out of the hole and lay flat on
the ground near the edge. There he waited until he was sure that he
had attracted no attention.
Then having carefully taken his bearings and fixed upon the direction
of the American lines, he yawned, stretched and rising slowly to his
feet strolled carelessly toward the outskirts of the camp.