THE SNIPER
All stood looking from the trench at the actions of Ned Slade.
"Look!" cried Bob, pointing to his chum. "He's picking up pieces of
wood!"
"Has he gone crazy?" murmured the officer, peering through his glasses
at Private Slade. "Does he think he can salvage anything from the
wreck?"
Just what Ned was thinking of was not evident. He moved here and there
amid the ruins of the ammunition automobile, picking up bits of wood
until his arms could hold no more. It was raining heavily, and when
Ned stepped into a puddle the mud and water could be seen to splash.
And then, when Ned could carry no more and turned to come back to his
own trench, the Germans, in theirs, suddenly awoke to the chance they
had been missing. There were sharp reports, and something besides rain
drops splashed into the pools of water all about Ned.
"They're firing at him! He'll be killed!" cried Bob.
"It seems very likely!" said the officer grimly. "Who gave him
permission to go out like that, and why did he do it?"
No one answered. No one knew what to say.
And now Ned, aware of his own danger, began to run toward the trench.
He came on, stooping over to offer less of a target to the Germans,
and he zig-zagged as he leaped forward. But through it all, through
the hail of lead, he did not drop the pieces of the demolished truck
he had picked up.
The firing from the German lines became hotter, and a machine gun
began to splutter.
"It's all up with him now!" said the officer, with something like a
groan. "I'll order our guns to shell the Hun trench, but it will be
too late!"
He jumped down off the firing step, where he and the others, including
Jerry and Bob, were standing, and started for the nearest telephone
that connected with a battery.
Just then Ned was seen to stagger.
"He's hit!" some one cried.
But if he was the lad who had taken such a desperate chance did not
stop. He dropped a piece of wood, but still he ran on, stooping over,
and darting from side to side.
And at last he reached the trench where Bob, Jerry, and his other
comrades awaited him. The rain had made the top of the trench
slippery, and Ned, striking this while going at full speed, fairly
slid down into the ditch, the wood dropping from his arms all about.
"There you are!" he cried, as he recovered himself. "Enough wood for
two fires! Now we can have something hot for breakfast! Bob, start the
coffee boiling! I'm like you--hungry!"
For a moment the others stood staring at him, and then the officer
came back.
"Did they get him?" he cried. "If they did they'll pay for it. We'll
wipe out the Hun trench in another minute!"
Then he saw Ned, standing, surrounded by the splintered, wooden parts
of the ammunition truck.
"Oh, you're here," said the officer, mechanically, as Ned saluted.
"Well, what in the name of General Pershing did you want to do that
for?"
"I wanted some wood to make a fire for breakfast, Sir," answered Ned
simply. "Some one took our supply last night, and when I saw the truck
blown to pieces and noticed that the driver was safe, I thought it a
good chance to get some fairly dry fuel. So I took it. Better pick it
up though, or it won't be dry long," he added to Jerry, and the
latter, with Bob's help, obeyed. Ned had done his share.
The officer stared at Ned as though the young soldier were a new sort
of fighter, and then, with a shake of his head, turned away. It was
past belief or understanding.
As the three chums moved back to where they had set up an improvised
stove, where they could build a fire with the truck pieces Ned had
brought in, the ground shook with the thunder of the American guns
that soon enforced silence in the German trenches. It was revenge for
having fired on Ned.
Technically Ned had been guilty of a breach of the regulations, but
though his venture into the open had resulted in a whole battery being
sent into action, nothing further was said, officially, of his
conduct. Perhaps his bravery was admired by the officer who saw it.
At any rate Ned, Bob and Jerry had a warm breakfast, which they shared
with some of their chums, and then the day's duty began. It was
performed in the rain, that seemed never-ceasing. The bottom of the
trench was a ditch of mud, in spite of the duck boards laid down.
"Too bad Professor Snodgrass isn't here," remarked Ned, as he pulled
one foot up from the mud and looked at it with the remark that he
wanted to make sure he still had the foot attached to his person.
"Too bad the professor isn't here! Why?" asked Bob.
"Oh, he might find some new kind of bug in this--soup!" and Ned
stirred the thick mud in the bottom of the trench with the butt of his
gun. "It might be more interesting than seeing how noises affect
French crickets."
"Crickets!" cried Jerry. "I feel sorry for any self-respecting cricket
that would stay here to be affected. But, speaking of the professor, I
wish we could see him again. It would be like hearing from home, and
the letters are few and far between."
"That's right," admitted Ned. They had had some missives from their
people, and also the girls, Alice, Helen and Mollie, while Bob, in
addition, had had a note from Helena Schaeffer, who said she was
knitting for the Red Cross. But, of late, no mail had come in.
"I shouldn't be surprised to see the professor walk in on us any day,"
mused Jerry. "He's likely to do it."
"Then he'd better get a hustle on, or he may not find us here,"
observed Ned.
"Why not?" Bob inquired.
"Well, there's a rumor that we're soon going to attack again,"
answered Ned. "And when we go over the top we don't come back to the
old trenches. We make new ones. So the professor, if he doesn't come
soon, may find we have changed our address."
"Going to make an attack!" Jerry spoke softly. "Well, that's the way
to win the war. I hope it will stop raining, though. I hate to fight
in the rain."
But still the dreary drizzle kept up, and through it the soldiers
plodded in the mud of the trench. It was nearly time for the three
chums to be relieved when Ned, who had a post at the right of Jerry,
suddenly gave a start, following a distant report.
"What is it?" asked his tall chum.
In answer Ned pointed to a spattery hole in the trench wall behind
him.
"The German sniper again," he said. "And I'm going to see if I can't
spot him. We've got to get him!"
Ned took off his tin helmet and put it on his bayonet. Then he slowly
raised it above the top of the trench, at the spot where the bullet
had come in. A moment later there was a vicious "ping!" and the helmet
bore a deep indentation.
"Spotted!" cried Ned. "I see where he keeps himself! And now, fellows,
if you'll help, we'll get Mr. Fritz Sharpshooter, and get him good!
I've got his address now!"