WOUNDS AND TORTURE
When long hours afterward Frank came to himself, he lay for a time
wondering where he was and what had happened to him.
His brain was not clear, and he had the greatest difficulty in
concentrating his thoughts. Little by little he pieced events
together. He remembered the charge made by his regiment, the pocket in
which he had found himself when he had gone too far in advance of his
comrades, the axe with which he had started to cut his way through the
ring of enemies that surrounded him. There his memory stopped.
He must have been wounded. He raised his head painfully and looked
himself over. He did not seem to be bleeding. He put his hand to his
head. There was a cut there and a great lump that was as big as a
robin's egg. The movement set his brain whirling, and he fell back
dizzy and confused.
How thirsty he was! His mouth felt as though it were stuffed with
cotton. His veins felt as if fire instead of blood was in them. His
tongue seemed to be double its normal size. He would have given all he
possessed for one sip of cool water.
He seemed to be alone. There were bushes all about him. He remembered
that he had been fighting on the edge of a wood where there was a great
deal of underbrush. This no doubt accounted for his being alone. Out
in the meadow beyond there were lying a number of dead and wounded, as
he could see by peering through the bushes. There were some dead men
in the bushes, too, but no wounded. It would have been a comfort at
that moment to have had some wounded companions to whom he might speak,
whom he might help, or by whom he might be helped. He felt as though
he were the only living man in a world of the dead.
He tried to rise, but a horrible pain shot through his right leg as he
bore his weight upon it, and it crumpled under him. He wondered if it
were broken. He felt of it carefully. No bone seemed to be broken as
far as he could tell, but the ankle was swelled to almost double its
normal size. He must have strained or twisted it. The mere touch gave
him agony and he was forced to desist.
His fever increased and he was afraid that he was getting delirious.
Some way or other he must get back to his own lines before his senses
left him. He got up on his hands and feet and began to crawl in what
he thought was the right direction.
He had no idea of time. Things seemed dark around him, but he was not
sure whether this was due to the sky being overcast or to the approach
of twilight. Perhaps it was neither. It might be only that his eyes
were dimmed by the fever that was raging in him.
His wounded leg dragged behind him as he slowly worked along and every
moment was torture. Sometimes it caught in a bush, and the resulting
wrench almost caused him to swoon. But he kept on doggedly.
He passed many dead men, and painfully worked his way around to avoid
touching them. One of them, he noticed, had a sack full of hand
grenades. But the stiffening hand of the owner would never hurl
another of those messengers of death.
On and on Frank toiled. His head felt so light that it seemed to be
detached from his shoulders. He caught himself talking aloud, speaking
the names of Bart and Billy and Tom. Where were they? What were they
doing? Why were they not there with him?
And what had happened to the regiment? Had it been driven back? He
remembered the heavy reinforcements that the enemy had thrown into the
fight. Perhaps the old Thirty-seventh was getting ready for another
attack. But the effort to think was too painful and Frank gave it up.
Suddenly he heard the sound of voices a little way in front of him, and
a thrill of joy shot through him. He was paid at that moment for all
his suffering. How lucky that he had steeled himself to the task of
crawling back to his comrades! Soon he would be with the boys again.
They would give him water. They would bind up his leg. His head would
stop aching. The hours of torture would be over.
He was about to shout to them, when through a thick clump of bushes he
saw the helmets of German soldiers. They were working feverishly to
get some machine guns in position. It was evident that they were
expecting an attack.
In that moment of terrible disappointment Frank tasted the bitterness
of death. All that agony had been endured only to bring him into the
hands of the Huns!
But this revulsion of feeling lasted only for an instant. The sight of
his enemies had cleared his brain and awakened his indomitable fighting
instinct. The Huns were working like mad at the machine-gun nest.
That meant that the old Thirty-seventh was coming back! He must help
them. These guns, cunningly placed, would do terrible execution if
they were allowed to work their will.
But what could he do unaided and alone? He was wounded and weaponless.
Like a flash the thought came to him of the dead man whose sack was
full of hand grenades.
His body quailed at the thought of the journey back to where the man
lay. But his spirit mastered the flesh.
With his dragging leg one quivering pain, he crawled back. It seemed
ages before he got there, but at last he had secured three of the
grenades and started back for the machine-gun nest.
He had no more than time. Behind him, he heard the well-known cheer of
his regiment. The boys were coming!
The gun crews heard it, too, and they gathered about their weapons,
whose deadly muzzles pointed in the direction from which the rush was
coming.
Supporting himself on one hand and knee, Frank hurled his grenades over
the top of the bush in quick succession. They fell right in the midst
of the startled Germans. There was a terrific explosion and the guns
and crews were torn to pieces. Another instant and the old
Thirty-seventh came smashing its way to victory.