IN THE HANDS OF THE HUNS
The last thing that Tom Bradford remembered in the fight that separated
him from his comrades was the sight of Frank in a bayonet duel with two
Germans. He was trying desperately to get to his friend's side and
help him in the unequal combat, when a great blackness seemed to sweep
down upon him and he knew nothing more.
When he came to consciousness, he felt himself dragged roughly to his
feet and thrust into a group of other prisoners who were being sent to
the rear under guard of a squad of German soldiers. He reeled and
would have fallen had he not been supported by some of his other
companions in misfortune. Then the line was set in motion and he
stumbled along dazedly, abused verbally by his guards and prodded with
bayonets if he lagged or faltered.
Gradually his head stopped whirling and his brain grew clearer. His
face felt wet and sticky, and putting his hand to it he drew his
fingers away covered with blood.
He felt his head and found a ragged gash running almost the length of
the scalp. It must have bled freely, judging from the weakness he felt
and the way his hair was matted and his face smeared. But the blood
had congealed now and stopped flowing. He figured from the character
of the wound that it had been made by a glancing blow from a rifle.
It was fully dark when the gloomy procession halted at a big barn where
the prisoners were counted and passed in to stay for the night.
A little later some food was passed in to the prisoners, but Tom had no
appetite and even if he had been hungry it would have been hard to
stomach the piece of dry bread and watery soup that was given him as
his portion. So he gave it to others, and sat over in a corner
immersed in the gloomy thoughts that came trooping in upon him.
He was a prisoner. And what he had heard of Hun methods, to say
nothing of a former brief experience, had left him under no delusion as
to what that meant.
What were his comrades Frank, Bart and Billy doing now? Had they come
safely through the fight? He was glad at any rate that they were not
with him now. Better dead on the field of battle, he thought bitterly,
than to be in the hands of the Huns.
But Tom was too young and his vitality too great to give himself up
long to despair. He was a prisoner, but what of it? He had been a
prisoner before and escaped. To be sure, it was too much to expect to
escape by way of the sky as he had before. Lightning seldom strikes
twice in the same place. But there might be other ways--there should
be other ways. While breath remained in his body he would never cease
his efforts to escape. And sustained and inspired by this resolve, he
at last fell asleep.
When he awoke in the morning, his strength had in large measure
returned to him. His head was still a little giddy but his appetite
was returning. Still he looked askance at the meagre and unpalatable
breakfast brought in by the guards.
"Don't be too squeamish, kid," a fellow prisoner advised him, as he saw
the look on the young soldier's face. "Take what's given you, even if
it isn't fit for Christians. You'll get weak soon enough. Keep strong
as long as you can."
There was sound sense in this even with the woeful prophecy and Tom,
though with many inward protests, followed the well-meant advice.
Bad as it was, the food did him good, and he was feeling in fairly good
condition when, a little later, he was summoned before a German
lieutenant to be examined.
That worthy was seated before a table spread with papers, and as Tom
entered or rather was pushed into his presence he compressed his
beetling black brows and turned upon the prisoner with the face of a
thundercloud.
But if he expected Tom to wilt before his frowning glance he was
disappointed. There was no trace of swagger or bravado when Tom faced
his inquisitor. But there was self-respect and quiet resolution that
refused to quail before anyone to whom fate for the moment had given
the upper hand.
The officer spoke English in a stiff and precise way so that an
interpreter was dispensed with, and the examination proceeded.
"What is your name?" the lieutenant asked.
Tom told him.
"Your nationality?"
"American."
The officer snorted.
"There is no such thing as American," he said contemptuously. "You are
just a jumble of different races."
Tom said nothing.
"What is your regiment?" the officer continued.
There was no answer.
"Did you hear me?" repeated the lieutenant impatiently. "What is your
regiment?"
"I cannot tell," answered Tom.
"You mean you will not?"
"I refuse to tell."
"Refuse," exclaimed the officer, growing red in the face. "That is not
a safe word to say to me."
Tom kept quiet.
The officer after a moment of inward debate shifted to another line.
"What are your commanders' plans, as far as you know?"
"To beat the Germans," returned Tom promptly.
The officer's face became apoplectic.
"Yankee pig!" he roared. "You know that is not what I meant. Tell me
if you know anything of their tactics, whether they intend to attack or
stand on the defensive."
"I don't know," replied Tom truthfully.
"Have you plenty of ammunition?"
"More than we can use," replied Tom promptly, glad to tell what could
do no harm and would only increase the chagrin of his enemy.
"How many troops have the Americans got in France?"
"A good many hundreds of thousands," answered Tom, "and they're coming
over at the rate of two hundred thousand a month."
"Yankee lies," sneered the officer. "You are very ready to give me
more information than I ask for when it will suit your purpose."
Tom kept discreetly silent, but he chuckled inwardly at the discomfort
shown by his enemy.
The officer pondered a moment, and evidently decided that there was not
much to be got out of this young American who faced him so undauntedly.
Perhaps other prisoners would prove more amenable. But his dignity had
been too much ruffled to let Tom get off without punishment.
"You think that you have baffled me," he said, "but you will find that
it is not wise to try to thwart the will of a German officer. We have
ways to break such spirits as yours."
He called to the guard, who had been standing stolidly at the door.
"Take him out in the woods and put him to work where the enemy's shell
fire is heaviest," he commanded. "It doesn't matter what happens to
him. If his own people kill him so much the better. It will only be
one less Yankee pig for us to feed."
The guard seized Tom and thrust him roughly out of the door. Then he
took him back to the barn and a whispered conversation ensued, with
many black glances shot at Tom.
A short time afterward he was placed with some others in the custody of
a squad of soldiers, and taken into the woods close behind the German
lines. Of course this was a flagrant breach of all the laws of war.
But there was no use in protesting. That would only arouse the
amusement of the German guards.
As a matter of fact, when Tom came to think it over, he did not want to
protest. His captors could have taken no course that would have suited
him better. At first his heart had sunk, for he realized that the
officer's purpose was to sign his death warrant. The chances of being
killed by the American shells was very great. And then the significant
word of the lieutenant that it didn't matter what happened to him, was
a hint to the guards that they could murder him if they liked, and
there would be no questions asked.
But after all, to be in the open was infinitely better than to be
eating his heart out in a squalid prison camp. His health stood less
chance of being undermined. As to the shells, he had grown so used to
that form of danger that it hardly disturbed him at all.
But the one thing that stood out above all others was that in the woods
he would have a chance of escape, while in the camp he would have
practically none at all. His limbs would have to be free in order to
do the work demanded of him. And he was willing to match his keen
American wits against the heavy and slow-thinking guards who might
stand watch over him.
He soon reached the section where he was to work, and was set to
felling trees to make corduroy roads over which guns and supplies could
be brought up from the enemy's rear to the advanced lines.
He had never done that kind of work, and at first the tremendous
efforts demanded of him amounted to sheer physical torture. He was
hounded on unceasingly under the jibes and threats of his brutal
guards. Not half enough food was supplied, and he was forced to work
for sixteen and eighteen hours on a stretch.
But he had great reserves of youth and vitality to draw on, and he kept
on doggedly, his brain alert, his eyes wide open, his heart courageous,
looking for his opportunity.
On the third night his opportunity came.