Uncle Sam’s Boys with Pershing’s Troops at the Front by H. Irving HancockOr, Dick Prescott at Grips with the Boche (page 3)

and range of division headquarters, for now a shell from a German battery struck and exploded in the yard outside, killing a sentry and wounding two orderlies. A second and a third shell followed. A fourth shell tore away the corner of the house without injuring any one.

“Your orders, my general, in case our observers can locate the Hun battery?” asked a staff officer, coming in from the next room and resting a hand on a telephone instrument.

“If the enemy battery can be located,” replied General Bazain, “let it be destroyed.”

Rapidly the staff officer sent his message to the artillery post of command.

“But surely you will go to a shelter?” asked the staff officer, laying down the instrument when he had finished.

“It will be inconvenient,” sighed the division commander. “The light here is much better.”

Yet General Bazain permitted himself to be persuaded to remove from this now highly dangerous spot. As he and his staff, accompanied by the visitors, stepped outside another shell exploded close at hand, fortunately without doing harm.

Descending to the cellar of a wrecked house near by, in the wake of their hosts, the Americans found the entrance to steps, cut in the earth, leading to a secure shelter on a level much below that of the cellar. Here were two rooms underground, both equipped with desks, lights, chairs, telephones and all that was needed for communicating with the ranking officers of the division at their posts in the trenches.

“It is stupid to have to work under candlelight in the daytime,” sighed the division commander. “However, Major Wells, as I was explaining to you—–“

Here recourse was again had to the maps, which the officers of the staff had brought along.

Before dark supper was served at division headquarters in this dug-out reached through the cellar of a ruined house.

“If it were not that I expect an attack tonight, and must be at my post, it would give me delight to go with you and show you our trenches,” said the division commander at parting.

Private Berger had been summoned to lead the party through the intricate system of communication trenches to the front. Berger, who was a short, squat fellow with a sallow face and uneasy black eyes, took his seat beside the soldier chauffeur.

For only a little more than a mile the Americans proceeded in the car, which then halted, and all hands stepped out into the dark night.

“From here on we must walk,” announced Captain Ribaut. “Berger, be sure that you take us by the most direct route. Do not take us into the Hun trenches to-night.”

“I know the way excellently, my captain,” Berger replied briefly.

For some distance they walked over open country, made dangerous, however, by the presence of gaping shell-holes. Runners, soldiers and others passed them going to or from the trenches. The artillery duel, save for an occasional stray shot, had ceased on both sides.

“The road is steeper here,” said Berger, halting after he had led his party half a mile through the darkness. “We now go up hill.”

It was harder climbing, going up that incline. A quarter of a mile of this, and Lieutenant Terry suddenly found himself following the guide through a cut in between two walls of dirt higher than his head.

“We are in the communication trenches,” said Berger in French. Noll gathered the meaning of the remark.

At every few yards there was a twist or a turn in the trench. At times they came to points where two trenches crossed each other. Had it been left to the Americans to find their own way they would have been hopelessly confused in this network and maze of intersecting ditches. Berger, however, proceeded with the certainty of one long familiar with the locality.

“Here is one of our defence trenches,” said Captain Ribaut, halting at last and calling softly to Berger to stop. “This is our fifth line trench, formerly our third line. We have no men here, you will note, nor in the next line. In case of a heavy general attack men would be rushed up from the rear to occupy these two lines of trenches. We will proceed, Berger.”

They were soon at the fourth line trench. At the third line trench they found sentries of the reserves on duty.

“The rest of the reserves are sleeping,” Ribaut explained. “You will see their dug-out entrances as we pass along this trench, for I am taking you to the quarters of the battalion commander.”

It was necessary to proceed along this third line trench for nearly a quarter of a mile before they came to a dug-out entrance before which a sentry and two runners crouched on the ground.

“Captain Ribaut and American officers present their compliments, and would see Major Ferrus,” explained Ribaut.

A runner entered the underground shelter, speedily returning and signing to the visitors to descend the steps. Dick and his friends found themselves in an underground room of about eight by twelve. Around the walls were several bunks. At a table, which held a telephone instrument, sat Major Ferrus and two junior officers.

“It is quiet here, after the Hun assault of this afternoon,” explained the French major when the Americans had been presented. “Captain Ribaut, you are taking our American comrades to the front line?”

“That is my instruction, Major.”

“It is well, and I think you will find it quiet enough to-night for a study of the Hun line. Still one can never say.”

A brief conversation, and the visitors returned to the outer air, where Private Berger awaited them. At the second line trench, which held the supporting troops for the first line, Ribaut took them to the captain of French infantry in command at that point.

“I will send Lieutenant De Verne with you,” said the captain, and passed the word for that officer.

“Show our American comrades everything that can possibly interest them,” was the captain’s order.

“I shall do my best, my captain,” replied the lieutenant. “But I do not know. The Huns are as quiet, to-night, as though they had tired themselves to death this afternoon.”

Turning to Private Berger, Lieutenant De Verne added:

“You may find your way into one of the dugouts if you like, as you will hardly be needed for hours.”

“But my orders, my lieutenant, were to remain with the American party,” protested Private Berger mildly.

“Oh, very well, then,” replied De Verne carelessly.

This time, instead of leading the way, Private Berger brought up the rear.

“You will do well to talk in low tones,” the French lieutenant cautioned them in whispers, “for, when we enter the front line trench we shall be only about a quarter of a kilometer from the Huns’ first line trench.”

With that they started forward. A short stroll through a communication trench brought them to the first line ditch. As the ground was wet here duck-boards had been laid to walk on. The parapet was piled high with bags of sand through which loop-holes had been cunningly contrived for the French sentries who must watch through the night for signs of Hun activity. Over the rear wall of the trench was another built-up wall of sand-bags. This parados, as it was called, is intended to give protection against shrapnel, which often burst just after passing over a trench. Thus the parados prevents a back-fire of the bullets carried in the shrapnel shell, which otherwise might strike the trench’s defenders.

“You may stand up here on the fire platform, if you wish,” whispered Lieutenant De Verne to Dick in English. “If you do not think it too foolish to expose yourself, you will be able to look over the top of the parapet. First of all you will see our lines of barbed wire fencing and entanglements. Beyond the wire you will see open ground, much torn by shell-holes. Further still you will see the wire defenses of the German first trench, and then the parapet that screens the enemy from your gaze.”

Hardly had the French lieutenant finished when Dick was up and peering with all his might and curiosity. Hardly an instant later the bark of a field-gun was heard to the northward. A whining thing whizzed through the air.

Then, into the trench in which the party stood something thudded, with, at the same instant, a sharp report, a bright flash, and the air was full of flying metal!

CHAPTER XV

OUT IN NO MAN’S LAND

If there was a disgusted person present it was Captain Greg Holmes. That angry young man spat out a mouthful of dirt, and then tried to rid himself of more.

Major Wells felt more like standing on his head. A fragment of shell had torn away the top of his tunic in back, without scratching his skin, and at the same time had thrown a shower of sand down inside his O.D. woolen shirt. Terry had been knocked over by the concussion, but had sustained no wound and was quickly on his feet, unhurt.

As for Prescott, he had turned, for an astounded second, then, much disturbed over what he believed to have been his fault, he had stepped down from the fire step.

Captain Ribaut and Lieutenant De Verne, neither of whom had been touched, looked on and smiled.

As Prescott stepped down to the duck-boards he saw Private Berger come back into the trench from the adjoining traverse, the latter a jog in the trench line intended to prevent the enemy from raking any great length of trench during an attack.

“I hadn’t an idea that just raising my head over the parapet would bring cannon fire so promptly,” Dick murmured to Ribaut.

“Nor did that act of yours bring cannon fire,” rejoined Captain Ribaut.

“Then what did?”

“It must have been that it just happened,” replied the Frenchman.

Private Berger stood leaning with his right hand on top of the sand-bag parapet.

“Shall I get back on the fire step for another look?” Dick inquired.

“Why not?” inquired Captain Ribaut, shrugging his shoulders. “Why not, indeed, if there is anything you wish to see?”

Waiting for no more Dick again mounted to the fire step, raising his head over the top, this time with greater caution.

“There it is again!” he cried, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, his words causing his friends astonishment.

A moment later there came another sharp report, followed by the same whining sound. This time a shell struck just behind the parados. There was an avalanche of shell fragments, but none flew into the trench, the parados preventing.

“Captain Ribaut, a word with you,” Dick urged, stepping down and laying a hand on the French officer’s arm. They stepped further along the trench.

“Captain,” Prescott whispered earnestly, “I do not want to arouse any unfair suspicions, but I have something to tell you. When I first looked over the parapet I noticed on the ground in front three small but distinct glows. Then came the report and the shell. Private Berger had stepped into the traverse at his right. Immediately after the shell burst he came back into this trench. When I looked over the top a second time I saw the same three tiny glows of light on the ground ahead. Then came the second shell. Each time, before the shell was started this way Berger stood with his right hand resting above his head on the parapet. Each time he stepped down and into the traverse. Each time, after the shell burst, he stepped back into this trench. I may be wrong to feel any suspicions, but is it possible—–“

“Wait!” interposed Captain Ribaut quickly, and stepped into the traverse at the left. He came back with two French soldiers. These started down the trench, pouncing upon Private Berger. With them was Captain Ribaut.

“Oh, you scoundrel, Berger!” suddenly hissed the French captain. He hurled the fellow to the ground, then held up a slim object, some six inches in length.

“See!” he muttered to the others. “It is a tiny electric light, supplied by a very small special battery. The scoundrel, Berger, had it concealed up his right sleeve. Twice he rested his right hand on the parapet. He flashed the lamp thrice each time, for Captain Prescott saw it. Then the scoundrel stepped into the traverse, where he would be safe from the shell he had invoked from the enemy. We have known that there was a spy or a traitor in this regiment, but we were unable to identify him. Gentlemen, step into the traverses on either side and I will test my belief.”

After the others had filed into the traverses Captain Ribaut rested his right hand on the parapet, causing the little pencil of electric light to glow three times in quick succession. Then he sprang back into the nearer traverse.

Bang! A shell landed in the vacated length of trench, tearing up the duck-boards and gouging the walls of the trench.

“Go for your corporal and tell him to send two men to take this spy to the rear,” Ribaut ordered one of the soldiers who stood guarding Berger. “Captain Prescott, this regiment owes you a debt that it will never be able to repay. Berger, your hours of life will be short, but the story of your infamy will be everlasting!”

“And, Corporal,” ordered Lieutenant De Verne, after Berger had been started rearward under guard, “see to it that only the most necessary sentries are posted along here for tonight. Keep the rest of your men in shelters, for the Huns may feel disposed to continue shelling this part of the line.”

“Come, my American comrades,” urged Captain Ribaut, “there is much more to be seen at other points along this line.”

Until within an hour of daylight the French captain and lieutenant and their American pupils continued along the first line trench. Save for occasional shell fire it proved to be a rather quiet night. Leaving the front a sufficient time before dawn Major Wells and his subordinates went back to the fifth line trench. After breakfasting, they retired to bunks that had been bedded in advance of their coming, and slept until late in the afternoon.

“There is one thing I like about the French trenches,” declared Greg Holmes, with enthusiasm, as soldiers entered with the beginnings of a meal.

“And what is that?” inquired Captain Ribaut eagerly.

“The smell of the coffee when it comes in,” grinned Greg.

“To-day’s sleep, and the meals, I have found to be of the best,” said Captain Dick quietly, as he sat down to eat. “I am still more interested in the hope that to-night in the fire trenches will be more exciting than last night.”

“Perhaps it will be,” suggested Captain Ribaut, “for I have received word that patrols will be sent out into No Man’s Land to-night, and it has been suggested to me that one American officer should go with the patrol. Which one of you shall it be?”

“I know that Captain Prescott wants to go,” said Major Wells, as he noted Dick’s start of pleasure. “Therefore, Captain Ribaut, suppose you send him with the patrol.”

“Thank you, sir,” came Dick’s quick assent. “Nothing could please me more. It will make to-night a time surely worth while to me.”

Before the meal had been finished the German artillerymen began the late afternoon “strafing,” as a bombardment is called.

When the shell-fire had ceased Ribaut led his guests down to the front or fire trench. Lieutenant De Verne had not been with them since breakfast time in the morning.

“May I relieve one of your sentries, Captain, and take his post until there is something else for me to do?” Dick asked.

“Yes, certainly,” agreed Ribaut. “I will send for the corporal, who will instruct you as the other sentries are instructed.”

So Dick took the bayoneted rifle of a soldier who was much delighted at having a brief opportunity for sleep thus thrust upon him. Dick listened to the corporal’s orders, then, for the next two hours stood gazing patiently out over No Man’s Land. At the end of that time the sentries were changed and Dick stood down gladly enough, for his task had become somewhat dull and irksome.

Half an hour after being relieved Prescott heard a sentry challenging in low tones. Then Lieutenant De Verne came into the fire trench with a sergeant and six men.

“This is the patrol,” announced the younger Frenchman. “All my men for to-night are veterans at the game. Captain Prescott, do you wish to try your hand as a bomber tonight?”

“I am more expert, Lieutenant, with an automatic pistol.”

“Very good, then; you may stick to that weapon,” agreed the lieutenant. “The sergeant and three men will carry their rifles; the other three men will serve as bombers. You observe that our faces and hands are blackened, as white faces betray one in No Man’s Land. We will now help you to black up.”

There followed some quick instructions, to all of which Dick listened attentively, for to him it was a new game.

“We have little gates cut through our own barbed wire,” De Verne whispered in explanation. “Do not be in a hurry, Captain, when you leave the trench. Especially, take pains that you do not catch your clothing on any of the barbed wire as we crawl through.”

A few more whispered directions. While listening Dick studied the faces of the waiting French soldiers, their bearing and their equipment. Only the sergeant remained standing; the privates disposed of themselves on the fire step for a seat. Two of them even dozed, so far were they from any feeling of excitement.

“Ready, now, Sergeant,” nodded the lieutenant.

“We are ready, Lieutenant,” reported the sergeant.

“Proceed.”

First of all the sergeant went up over the top of the trench, crawling noiselessly to the ground beyond. After him, one at a time, went the French soldiers.

“You next, Captain, if you please,” urged Lieutenant De Verne. “And do not forget that any betraying sound causes the night to be lighted with German flares and that the Huns are always ready to turn their machine guns loose.”

Dick’s hands were instantly on the rungs of the ladder. Up he went, cat-like. By the time that he had crawled over the parapet and had reached the first fence of tangled barbed wire be found a French soldier, prostrate on the ground, waiting, and holding open a gate that had been ingeniously cut through the mantrap. Then the soldier crawled on to the next line of wire defence, repeating the service, as also at a third line.

The last wire had now been passed. Still lying nearly flat, Captain Prescott raised his head, staring ahead into the nearly complete blackness of the night. He was in No Man’s Land!

CHAPTER XVI

THE TRIP THROUGH A GERMAN TRENCH

It was the sergeant who led the way. He and his detail moved, except at special times, in a fan-shaped formation with the noncommissioned officer ahead, three men on either side of him formed lines obliquely back.

In the center, within these oblique flanks were the French lieutenant and Captain Prescott.

It was a compact formation, useful in keeping all hands together and in instant touch, yet likely to prove highly dangerous should the enemy open on them with rifle or machine-gun fire.

In the center of No Man’s Land was a wide, deep shell crater, caused by the explosion at that point of one of the largest shells used by the Germans.

Crawling down between friendly and hostile lines, the sergeant made for this shell-hole. When still several feet away he held up a hand, whereupon Lieutenant De Verne gripped Prescott’s leg. Leaving the others behind the noncommissioned officer moved silently forward. It was his task to make sure that an enemy party had not been first to reach the crater.

Only eyes trained to see in that darkness could make out the fact that the sergeant had held up a hand once more. This was the signal to advance. Now, as the men moved forward, the formation was not kept. Each for himself reached the crater in his own way and time. Down in this basin men could crouch without fear of being seen should the night become lighted up.

When the others had entered, Prescott, being further from the rim, signed to the French lieutenant to precede him. De Verne had just gained the hole when—Click! Not far away something was shot up into the air; then it broke, throwing down a beam of light. Other clicks could be heard, until the land within two hundred feet of the crater became at least half as bright as daylight would have made it.

Dick Prescott was outside the crater! At the instant of hearing the first click he found himself in a shallow furrow in the dirt. To have sprung into the crater would have been to betray the presence of the party to the enemy. While German machine-gun fire could not reach the French men below him Dick knew that a shell could reach them readily enough.

So he flattened himself in the furrow, his heart beating faster than usual. There followed moments of tight suspense. Would this flattened figure be espied by any enemy observer?

Even when the flares died down Dick did not move. He knew that more flares might be sent up instantly.

A quarter of a mile down the line he could hear a machine gun rouse itself into sudden fury, though none of the missiles came his way.

“I’ve a chance yet,” Dick thought grimly. Yet when blackness came down over the scene again he did not move. No matter what happened to himself he did not intend that harm should come to his French comrades through any act of his.

As Dick still lay there a pebble touched the dirt lightly just before his face. Raising his head a couple of inches he saw a hand, dimly outlined at the edge of the crater, beckoning.

“That means that I’m to go ahead,” Dick told himself. “I’ll follow instructions.”

He took considerable time about it, moving an inch or two at a time. This, however, soon brought him to the edge of the basin-like depression. In going down the inside he moved a bit more rapidly, but did not rise until he found himself among the others. Then he rose to his knees in the middle of the group.

“You are wonderful!” whispered the French lieutenant, placing his lips at Prescott’s ear. “You Americans must have learned your stealth from your own Indians. We are clumsy when we try to equal you in moving without noise.”

One of the soldiers had taken station at the edge of the crater nearest the German line. Here, with helmet off, and showing not a fraction of an inch more of his head above ground than was necessary, this sentry watched in the dark.

Again De Verne’s lips sought Dick’s ear as he whispered:

“What we would like most to do is to find out what is going on in the Hun trenches. Next to that, the thing we like best is to ambush a German patrol, capture or kill the men, and get back with our prisoners.”

“French patrols must often be captured, also,” Dick whispered cautiously.

“But yes!” replied the French lieutenant, with a shrug of his shoulders. “It is a game of give-and-take, and all the luck cannot be ours.”

Still nearer the enemy’s wire defenses lay a smaller shell-hole. By creeping up beside the sentry Prescott was able to see it. He remained where he was while a soldier of the French party, holding a bomb in his right hand, crept out of the crater, moving noiselessly ahead.

Arrived at the edge of the smaller shell-hole the soldier sent back a hand signal, then crept down into concealment.

Up out of the crater started the sergeant without delay. As he passed Prescott the noncommissioned officer gripped him, pointing backward. There knelt De Verne, signaling to the American to accompany the sergeant. Side by side the pair made the smaller shell-hole, which proved of just sufficient size to screen three men.

For three or four minutes the trio crouched here, listening intently, though no sounds came from the nearby German trench.

After waiting, as he thought, long enough, the French sergeant made an expressive gesture or two before the face of the soldier with him, who, after examining his bombs, crept out and forward, toward the barbed wire defenses of the enemy.

Short though the distance was, the man was gone more than five minutes. Prescott, who at first could see the soldier as he moved, was not so sure of it later. It was strange how that sky-blue uniform of the poilu merged into the dark shades of the night.

At last the soldier came back, reporting to his sergeant, though using only the language of hand signs.

With a nudge for Prescott the sergeant crept out of the hole, Dick following. There was no thought of haste, yet at last they reached the first of the wire obstructions. Now Dick was able to guess the meaning of the soldier’s recent hand signs. He had discovered that the Huns had left narrow passages through their own wires, presumably for the use of German patrols.

This time it was the sergeant who went forward first. Dick thrilled with admiration when he saw the French non-com pass the last of the barbed wire and creep up to the top of the German parapet, flattening himself and peering over and down.

Following closely Dick and the French soldier at his side saw the sergeant kick up slightly with one foot, a signal that caused the soldier to move to the top of the parapet; Prescott, therefore did the same thing.

It was his first look down into a German trench! Not that there was much to be seen. On the contrary there was nothing to be seen save the trench itself. Dick had heard that often the German first-line trenches are deserted during parts of quiet nights on the front.

A slight sense of motion caused Prescott to look around. He was in time to see the French private wriggling backward. The sergeant withdrew his head to a point below the outer edge of the parapet, seeing which the American captain followed suit.

Minutes passed before the departed soldier returned with Lieutenant De Verne and the remainder of the patrol. Only a glance did the French lieutenant take down into the trench. Next he quietly let himself down into the enemy ditch, followed by the others.

Moving softly the patrol examined that length of trench, also the traverses at either end. Still no German had been encountered.

“We will go further,” announced Lieutenant De Verne. “Sergeant, you will take three men and go west until you come in contact with the enemy. Then return with your report. The rest of us will go east.”

Carrying a bomb in his right hand, a pistol in his left the young French officer led the way. Just behind him was one of his own infantrymen, Prescott coming third and carrying his automatic pistol ready for instant use.

Counting the number of trench sections and traverses through which they passed Dick estimated that they moved east fully two hundred yards. In all that distance they did not encounter a German soldier.

“The Huns who sent up the flares,” De Verne paused to whisper to Dick, “must have been the last of the enemy in these trenches. It made them appear to be on guard, and vigilantly so, and right after sending up the flares they withdrew to lines at the rear. It is, I suspect, an old trick of theirs when they wish to leave the front to rest or feed. I shall so report it.”

At last the lieutenant halted his men. He had penetrated as far as he deemed necessary.

“We will go back and pick up the sergeant,” he said. “But first I shall send a man down one of the communication trenches to learn if the enemy are numerous in the second-line trenches.”

“How long will that take?” Dick whispered.

“At least ten minutes.”

“Then may I try to penetrate a little further east along this line?”

“Why not?”

“I will try to be back soon,” Dick promised. Even in the darkness these Allied officers exchanged salutes smartly. Then, gripping his automatic tightly, and realizing that he was now “on his own,” as the British Tommies put it, he disappeared into the nearest traverse.

Prescott did not hurry. He had nothing to expect from his own little prowl, and his purpose in going alone had been to develop his knowledge of this new kind of soldier’s work.

Sixty or seventy yards Dick had progressed when, in a traverse, he thought he heard low voices ahead.

“The enemy, if any one!” he thought, with a start, halting quickly. Straining his ears, he listened. Undoubtedly there were voices somewhere ahead, though he could distinguish no word that was spoken.

“As I haven’t seen an enemy yet, I’m going to do so if I can,” the young captain instantly resolved.

Stepping to the end of the traverse, he peered around the jog. That next length of trench appeared to be deserted, yet certainly the voices sounded nearer.

“I’ve got to have that look!” Dick told himself, exulting in the chance.

Softly he strode forward, then halted all in a flash. And no wonder! For he found himself standing close to the entrance to a frontline dug-out that sloped down into the earth. And the voices came from this dug-out.

Inside, as Dick peered down, he made out two figures. Yet he pinched himself with his unoccupied hand, so certain did it seem that he must be dreaming.

Of the pair below, while the older man wore the uniform of a German colonel of infantry, the younger man wore the garb of a French sub-lieutenant of the same arm. What could this infernal mystery mean?

CHAPTER XVII

DICK PRESCOTT’S PRIZE CATCH

It was the older man, he of the German uniform who now spoke.

“So Berger was really caught in the act of signaling us?”

“Yes, excellenz (Your excellency),” replied the younger man.

“And he is to be shot for treason?”

“It is so, Excellenz!”

The language used by both was German, but Dick followed every word easily.

“Too bad! And our commander will regret the loss of Berger much,” sighed the German colonel, “for Berger has served us long and usefully. Strange that he should be caught, when he has so long and safely used that electric light pencil of his. I suppose Berger grew careless.”

“It was an American officer who caught him at it and denounced him,” said the younger man.

“Ah, well! At least we have you still in that regiment, and you are more cautious. You will not be caught.”

“Not alive, at any rate, Excellenz,” the younger man assured the enemy colonel.

“Wrong, there!” spoke a low, firm voice.

Both men started violently, with good excuse, for before them stood Captain Dick Prescott, a cocked automatic pistol held out to cover both.

“You will both put your hands up!” Dick ordered them sharply, in German. “You will be shot at the first sign of resistance, or even reluctance. This trench is no longer German!”

Dully both men raised their hands. Quietly as Prescott spoke there was that in his tone, as in his eye, which assured them that their lives would not outlast their obedience.

“You will pass up before me,” Dick continued, “and neither will attempt any treachery. I assure you, gentlemen, that I shall be glad of the slightest excuse for killing you!”

It was the German colonel who came first, for he was the nearer one. There was no visible sign of his being armed, but the younger man in the sky-blue uniform carried an automatic in a holster at his belt. Dick deftly took the pistol from the holster and was now doubly armed.

“Not the lightest outcry, nor the least attempt at treachery!” Dick warned them sternly. “Face west! March!”

Though both prisoners obeyed promptly Captain Prescott was not simple enough to imagine that they had no plan or hope of rescue or escape. In making this double arrest Dick had realized fully that he was probably throwing his life away, yet he had deemed possible success worth all the risk.

After going thirty or forty yards the older prisoner halted squarely.

“Proceed!” Dick ordered in a stern whisper, aiming one of the pistols at the defiant one’s breast.

“I do not care about being killed needlessly; neither do you,” said the colonel. “I can save my life, and give you some chance for yours by informing you that, at the moment you appeared in the dug-out, I pressed one foot against a signal apparatus that calls our men back to these trenches. Just now I heard them entering a trench section ahead. Others have entered behind us. Your chance, your only one, will be to climb over this parapet and do your best to reach the French lines. If you decide to do that, I give you my word that I will not allow our men to fire upon you as you withdraw.”

“A German’s word!” mocked Dick. “Who would accept that?”

“It is your last chance for life.”

“And you are throwing away your last chance, both of you!” Dick uttered in a low voice. “Each of you is within a second of death. March!”

With an exclamation that sounded like an oath the German colonel obeyed, followed by the younger man and Prescott. Neither of the prisoners had dared risk lowering his hands.

“You are foolish—life-tired!” warned the colonel, in a hoarse whisper.

“If you speak again I’ll kill you instantly,” Prescott snapped back.

After that the prisoners proceeded in moody silence, until, at last, they rounded out a traverse and ran into several soldiers. But these soldiers wore the French uniform. In a word, they were Lieutenant De Verne’s party.

“Prisoners!” cried De Verne, in a hoarse whisper. “Captain Prescott, you are indeed wonderful! But no, you bring only one prisoner, this German, for the other is Lieutenant Noyez. Noyez, my dear fellow, how do you happen to have your hands up?”

“Because of the idiocy of this American,” hissed Noyez.

“Lieutenant De Verne, from the conversation that I overheard I learned that Noyez is a spy, and that he was reporting to his chief, this enemy colonel,” Dick stated. “Now that I have brought them to you, both are naturally in your hands.”

“It is a stupid lie that you, De Verne, must set straight,” Noyez insisted angrily.

“Since Captain Prescott has made the charge, it must stand, of course, until you have been taken before competent authority,” De Verne said coldly. “Pirot! Grugny! I turn Lieutenant Noyez over into your charge. You will give him no chance to get out of your hands. And now, we must find our way home.”

Two men were sent up over the parapet, then the prisoners were ordered up and held there at the muzzles of rifles. The rest of the patrol followed.

“We will make fast time back,” ordered Lieutenant De Verne, “as we know there are no enemy hereabouts in the first-line trenches.”

Crossing rapidly, though softly, the patrol was challenged by a sentry in the French trench. De Verne went forward to answer and to establish the identity of his patrol. Then they were allowed to pass in by the wire defenses, and next descended to the trench. Officers and men hurriedly cleansed the black from their hands and faces.

“We will now march to Captain Cartier,” said De Verne, “and he shall give us our further orders.”

“You are looking for your friends, Captain?” spoke up a French soldier in the trench, in his own tongue. “Captain Ribaut has taken them west along the line.”

“Thank you. If they return, you will tell them where I have gone.”

By this time the German colonel was cursing volubly. He felt that he could talk, at last, without danger of being killed for his audacity. Noyez, pallid as in death, was silent, his eyes cast down.

Back to the third line of trenches De Verne led the party, then down into the dug-out of his company commander, Captain Cartier.

“A German colonel and Lieutenant Noyez, prisoners!” announced the patrol leader.

“The German colonel I can understand truly,” replied the French captain. “But why Lieutenant Noyez?”

“Captain Prescott, of the American Army, arrested both and made the charges against Noyez,” De Verne responded. “You will hear him now?”

As it was their first meeting Captain Cartier shook hands with Dick, who then told what he had overheard.

“Noyez, a German spy!” exclaimed Captain Cartier. “Truly, it seems incredible.”

“It is worse! It is an infamous charge!” cried Noyez passionately.

“Yet our American comrade must be truthful, a man of honor,” said Captain Cartier, in a bewildered tone.

“May I suggest, sir,” Dick interposed, “that it will be easy to decide. If Lieutenant Noyez was in the German trenches by orders of his superiors, or with their knowledge, then that would establish a first point in his favor. But if he was there without either orders or permission, then plainly he must have gone there on treasonable business.”

“That is absolutely fair!” declared Captain Cartier. “I will send at once for Noyez’s captain, and we shall hear what he says.”

In dejected silence Noyez awaited the arrival of Captain Gaulte, who promptly declared that he had no knowledge of any authority for his lieutenant to visit the enemy’s lines. Gaulte had, in fact, supposed that Noyez was back of the lines on over-night leave, for which he had applied.

“The business looks bad!” cried Captain Cartier, with troubled face.

“Quite!” agreed Captain Gaulte more calmly.

“I must telephone for instructions,” Cartier continued. “It may require a long wait. Gentlemen, you will find seats.”

First Cartier called up his regimental commander and reported the matter.

“It will be passed on to division headquarters,” reported Captain Cartier, turning from the telephone instrument.

By and by the telephone bell tinkled softly. Orders came over the wire that the arresting party should take the prisoners to division headquarters.

“These are your instructions, then, Lieutenant De Verne. Of course it is expected that Captain Prescott will accompany you as complaining witness.”

In the darkness of the night it was a toilsome march back through the communication trenches. This time, when they were left behind, there was no limousine to pick up the members of the party.

“It is a relief to be at last where we can talk,” said De Verne, in English.

“You may speak for yourself,” retorted the German colonel gruffly, betraying the fact that he understood the language.

Halted four times by sentries, the party at last reached division headquarters. Outside a young staff officer awaited them.

“General Bazain has risen and dressed,” stated the staff officer. “He had undertaken to snatch two hours’ sleep, but this cannot be his night to sleep. The general awaits you, and you are to enter. Through to his office.”

As they entered the division commander’s office they found that fine old man pacing his room in evident agitation.

“And you, too, Noyez?” he called, in a tone of astounded reproach. “It was bad enough that we should find Berger a spy! But to find one of our trusted officers—it is too much!”

“I am neither spy nor traitor, my general!” declared Noyez furiously, “and my record should remove the least suspicion from my name.”

“But you were in the enemy’s trenches this night, without knowledge or leave of your superiors, Lieutenant. Have you a plausible way to account for it?”

“All in good time, my general, when my head has had time to clear,” promised the young sub-lieutenant.

“It is but fair that we give you time,” assented General Bazain. “It can give France no joy to find one of her officers a traitor.”

It was now the German’s turn to be questioned. He gave his name as Pernim. As he was an ordinary prisoner of war he was led from the room to be turned over to the military prison authorities.

“And it was you, my dear Captain Prescott, who captured one spy who has since admitted his guilt. And now you bring in another whom you accuse.”

“Berger has confessed, sir,” Dick asked, “may I inquire if he implicated Lieutenant Noyez?”

“He did not.”

“Yet, sir, from what I heard, Berger and Noyez worked together. If Berger be informed that Noyez has been captured is it not likely that Berger will then tell of this accused man’s work?”

“Excellent suggestion! We shall soon know!” exclaimed General Bazain, touching a bell.

CHAPTER XVIII

A LOT MORE OF THE REAL THING

Through the orderly who answered, three staff officers were summoned. To these the general gave his orders in undertones in a corner of the room. As the three hastened out not one of them sent as much as a glance in the direction of the unhappy Noyez.

Seating himself in his chair General Bazain, after courteously excusing himself, closed his eyes as though to sleep. The arresting party and Noyez withdrew to the adjoining room.

More than an hour passed ere the three staff officers returned and hastened into the division commander’s office. Fifteen minutes after that Dick and his friends, with the prisoner, were again summoned.

“It has been simpler than we thought,” General Bazain announced wearily. “Berger, when questioned and informed of Noyez’s arrest, confessed that Noyez was the superior spy under whom he worked.”

“It is a lie, my general!” exclaimed Noyez, in a choking voice, as he strode forward, only to be seized and thrust back.

“It is the truth!” retorted General Bazain, rising and glaring at the accused man. “Berger not only confessed, but he told where, in your dug-out, Noyez, could be found the secret compartment in which you hid the book containing the key to the code you sometimes employed in sending written reports to the enemy. And here is the code book!”

General Bazain tossed the accusing little notebook on the desk.

At sight of that Noyez fell back three steps, then sank cowering into a chair, covering his eyes with his hands.

“You comprehend that further lying will avail you nothing!” the division commander went on sternly. “Lieutenant De Verne!”

“Here, sir!”

“Noyez, stand up. Lieutenant De Verne, I instruct you to remove from the uniform of Noyez the insignia of his rank and every emblem that stands for France! That done, you will next cut the buttons from Noyez’s tunic!”

Standing so weakly that it looked as if he must fall, Noyez submitted to the indignity, silent save for the sobs that choked his voice.

“Call in the guard, and have the wretch removed from my sight!” General Bazain ordered. “Yet, Noyez, I will say that it seems to me incredible that any Frenchman could have been so ignoble as you have proved yourself to he.”

“A Frenchman?” repeated Noyez disdainfully. “No Frenchman am I. Already I am condemned, so I no longer need even pretend that I am French. No! Though I was born in Alsace, my father’s name was Bamberger. Twenty years ago he moved to Paris, to serve the German Kaiser. He fooled even your boasted police into believing him French, and his name Noyez. My father is dead, so I may tell the truth, that he served the Kaiser like a loyal subject. And he made a spy of me. I was called to the French colors, and I went, under a French name, but a loyal German at heart! I became a French sub-lieutenant, but I was still a German, and the Kaiser’s officers paid me, knew where to find me and how to use me. I must die, but there are yet other agents of the Kaiser distributed through your Army. The Fatherland shall still be served from the French trenches. You will kill me? Bah! My work has already killed at least a regiment of Frenchmen. And since Berger has weakened and betrayed me, I will tell you that he, too, is and always has been a German subject. Remember, there are many more of us wearing the hated uniform of France.”

“Noyez! Bamberger!” retorted General Bazain, “I can almost find it in my heart to feel grateful to you, for you have told me that you are not French. Since you are a German I can understand anything. I thank you for assuring me that you are not French.”

With a gesture General Bazain ordered the prisoner’s removal. Then, his eyes moist, the division commander turned to beckon Dick to him.

“Captain, I have to thank you for finding and helping to remove two dangerous enemies from my command. You will find me grateful—always!”

Once more outside Lieutenant De Verne turned to Dick to ask:

“You intend returning to the trenches?”

“By all means, for I feel as though the night had but begun,” Dick cried. “It has gone well so far, and I am ready for whatever the remaining hours can give me.”

“I had hoped that, at the most, you would ask me to find you a bunk in a dug-out where you might sleep,” confessed De Verne. “When you have been longer in the trenches, Captain, you will be glad to sleep whenever the chance comes your way.”

“But that will not be until I have learned more of the ways of your trench life than I know yet,” Dick rejoined. “At present I would rather sleep during the daylight, for it appears to be at night that the real things happen.”

De Verne accompanied him back to the fire trench, where Dick was glad to find Captain Ribaut with the other three American officers, that party having returned from a trip down the line.

De Verne soon after took his leave, hastening rearward to begin his rest.

Bang! sounded a field-piece back of the German line.

Between the French first-line and second-line trenches the shell exploded. On the heels of the explosion came a furious burst of discharging artillery.

“This must be what you have been expecting, Major,” shouted Ribaut over the racket. “A barrage!”

Down the line ran the noise of bombardment, the thing becoming more furious every instant. Then some shells landed in first-line trenches nearby.

“Take shelter!” shouted Captain Ribaut. “Now! At once!”

French soldiers were scurrying to dug-out shelters. Ribaut led the officer party to a dugout reached by eight descending steps cut in the earth. The apartment in which they found themselves led out some fifteen feet under the barbed wire defenses.

“How long is this likely to last?” demanded Major Wells, eyeing the Frenchman keenly by the light of the one slim candle that burned in the dug-out.

“Perhaps fifteen minutes; maybe until after daylight,” Ribaut replied, with a shrug.

“What is the object?”

“Who can say? But a barrage fire is being laid down between our first and second lines. That means that no reinforcements can reach us from the support trenches. And our own trench is being shelled furiously, to drive all into shelters. My friends, it is likely that the Germans, enraged by the capture of Colonel Pernim, who must be missed by now, are paying us back with a raid.”

“More of your strenuous doings then, Dick,” laughed Greg.

“At least a raid will be highly interesting,” Dick retorted. “So far we haven’t been in one, and we’re here for experience, you know.”

“And you really hope that this turns out to be a German raid?” asked Captain Ribaut.

“Yes; don’t you, Captain?” challenged Major Wells.

“An, but we French have seen so many of these raids, and they are dull, ugly affairs, sometimes with much killing. After you have seen many you will not hunger for more.”

It was not long before conversation was drowned out wholly by the racket of exploding shells in and around the fire trenches. Occasionally one of these drove a jet of sand down the stairs of the dug-out, but this room was too far underground for the dug-out roof to be driven in on them.

Half an hour later the shell-fire against the front-line trenches abated, though the barrage fire still continued to fall between the first and second lines.

Greg whistled softly, unable to hear a note that he emitted. Noll Terry occasionally fingered one of the two gas-masks with which he had been provided before entering the trenches. Major Wells’s attitude suggested that he had his ears set to note every difference in sound that came from outside.

A French soldier shouted down the steps in his own tongue:

“Stand by! The Huns are coming!”

At a single bound Captain Ribaut gained the steps and darted up, followed promptly by the American officers.

In the section in which they found themselves four French soldiers, rifles resting over the parapet, stood awaiting the onslaught.

Two more men, equipped with hand bombs, stood awaiting the moment to begin casting.

All the while the curtain of shell-fire, the barrage laid down by the Germans between them and the second-line trenches, continued to fall. It effectually prevented French reinforcements from coming up to the first line.

His automatic pistol ready, Dick Prescott found elbow-room on the fire step. Cautiously he looked over the parapet.

For a moment he could see nothing, save that German shell-fire had blown the barbed wire defenses to pieces, clearing the way for the German invaders to reach them.

In the near distance Dick made out the shadowy figures of the men in the first wave of the German assault.

Rifle-fire began to roll out from the French soldiers. From somewhere at the rear, perhaps from emplacements in or near the French support trenches, the steady drumming of machine-gun fire began. The air was filled with death.

Dick Prescott’s blood thrilled with the realization that he was at earnest grip with the Boches!

CHAPTER XIX

A “GUEST” IN PRISON CAMP

In the terrific din of the barrage-fire the men of the first German wave came on like so many silent specters.

They did not run forward, but moved at a fast walk. It was necessary that they save their breath to use in the hand-to-hand struggle that must follow.

Suddenly a French bomb left the trench, striking the ground just in advance of the oncoming Germans. The pink flash of the explosion lighted the set faces of three or four men of the enemy, one of whom went to earth as a fragment from the bomb struck him.

Then bombs fell fast, all along the line. Prescott, singling out an enemy while the flash lasted, let drive at him with a shot from his automatic.

Though several of the Huns fell, the advancing line continued unhesitatingly. The last few steps, past what was left of the barbed wire, the Germans hurled themselves at greater speed.

Then invaders and defenders clashed. German bayonets thrust viciously down into the trench, while French bayonets reached up to dispute them.

Dick had backed away from the fire step. His back against the further wall he was using his automatic pistol to the best advantage.

The first German to leap into the trench landed almost at the feet of Captain Greg Holmes, who had crouched to receive him. Rising, in one of his best old-time football tackles, Greg threw the Hun backward with fearful force, then sat on his chest.

“You’re my prisoner!” Holmes shouted at the prostrate. “Try to rise if you dare!”

So hot had been the reception of the first wave that those of the Germans who did not manage to leap down into the trenches, recoiled in dismay.

Then the second wave of raiders came up, only to find that the French had recovered their second wind. Great as the odds were the French held their own, thrusting, shooting and clubbing with rifle butts.

From his position on his prisoner Greg fired coolly as often as he could do so without endangering a French comrade. He longed to rush in closer, but did not intend to let his prisoner get away. Only one German got close enough to thrust at Holmes, who shot him through the heart before the bayonet lunge could be made.

What was left of the first and second waves was being beaten back. Major Wells, Prescott and Noll Terry leaped to the parapet with two French soldiers in their section to beat back the foe.

Just then a third wave arrived. The fighting became brisker. Dick Prescott felt a weight against his head. He staggered dizzily, felt arms clutch at him, and had only a hazy notion of what followed.

The Germans went back, carrying a few prisoners with them. A minute later the enemy barrage lifted.

“You may get up now,” Greg admonished his captive, as he leaped to his feet.

“You’ve accounted for one of the enemy,” smiled Captain Ribaut, as he came up.

“Captured him at the first pop out of the box,” Holmes declared proudly. “I told him to lie still, and he surely did. I’d have hurt him if he had tried to get away.”

“How did you take him?” Ribaut asked, kneeling beside the still man.

“Threw him with an old football tackle.”

“The Hun’s neck is broken,” reported the French captain, raising the enemy’s head and letting it fall.

“What’s that?” Greg demanded astonished. “Say, you’re right, aren’t you? And to think of all the good fighting I missed through holding on to that ‘prisoner’! Dick will tease the life out of me! By the way, where is he?”

“I thought he went this way,” Ribaut answered. “We must find him. I hope he wasn’t hurt.”

Thoroughly alarmed Greg wheeled and darted along the trench, looking for his chum. Then he raced back, going off in the opposite direction.

“Prescott isn’t here!” he gasped, and sprang up at the parapet.

“Here! Don’t do that,” Major Wells called to him, in a low voice.

But there was no stopping Holmes. Bending low he raced along in front of the trench, looking for the body, dead or alive, of his chum.

Dick, however, was not to be found. Greg continued the search desperately.

Had the Germans sent up flares just then, and turned on their machine guns, Greg would have made an inevitable mark.

Captain Ribaut, more practical, sent a French corporal through the nearby sections for word of Captain Prescott.

“Captain Holmes, return to the trench,” Major Wells ordered, in a hoarse whisper.

So Greg obeyed, in time almost to bump into Captain Ribaut.

“Four men from this platoon are missing, and presumably were captured by the enemy,” said that officer. “I much fear that Captain Prescott was also taken away by the enemy.”

“What? Captured by the Huns?” Greg demanded, divided between amazement and consternation. “Dick captured? Let me lead a force over to the enemy line to bring him back!”

“Only the division commander could sanction that,” replied Captain Ribaut, with grave sympathy. “And it is never done, Captain.”

“Oh, I wish I had B company at my back, with A company thrown in for good measure!” quivered Greg. “But say, can’t there be a mistake? Didn’t Prescott go back wounded?”

“No; I have sent to the dressing station, and he was not seen there,” Captain Ribaut replied.

At first Greg couldn’t believe that his chum had been captured. When the probability of it did dawn on him nothing but his position as an officer kept him from sitting down on the fire step and sobbing.

“I’d sooner know he was killed than that he had fallen into Hun hands,” Holmes sputtered. “But, if they have got him, then I’ll make a business of mistreating Germans after this!”

Capture was precisely what had happened to Dick Prescott. It was not for long that he had remained dazed. Two German soldiers fairly dragged him across No Man’s Land, his heels bumping over the rough ground.

Dick vaguely knew when the same men lifted him slightly and dropped him, feet first, into the German trench. He fell forward to his knees, and a German non-com raised him to his feet.

“What place is this?” Dick demanded. But he knew as soon as he heard laughing German voices around him.

“Well, if I’m captured, I gave a good account of myself first,” Prescott muttered as he shook himself together, “I first captured two German spies and a German colonel and turned them over to the French. But poor old Greg! I’d almost sooner be in my present boots than in his, for he’ll be frantic when he finds this out.”

The same two German soldiers who had dragged him across No Man’s Land were now permitted the honor of piloting their distinguished captive back from the line. Leading him into a communication trench, they started with him for the rear.

Though he still felt dizzy, Dick found his head clearing as he moved along. He was able to judge that he had walked half a mile through the communication trench, then at least another half-mile along a road before he was halted at a hole in the ground.

“Go down here,” said one of the men in German, and pushed Dick down a long flight of steps, leading to a large, electrically lighted dug-out at least twenty-five feet below the earth’s surface.

“Only prisoners of rank received here, without orders,” said a sergeant near the foot of the stairs.

“But this man is a captain,” returned one of the captors.

“Of what army?”

“The American.”

“Bring the prisoner here!” ordered a voice from the further end of the underground room.

Dick was hustled along, bringing up at last in front of a long table, behind which sat three German officers.

“You are an American?” asked the officer who sat between the other two. He spoke in English.

“Yes,” Dick admitted.

“Of what regiment?” demanded the questioner.

“Infantry regiment,” Dick replied.

“Yes, but how is your regiment known?”

“As an infantry regiment,” Dick answered, though he knew well what was wanted of him.

“Are your American regiments numbered?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How is yours numbered?”

“Numbered among the best, I believe,” Dick returned, with a smile.

“You are a captain?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know what I mean to ask, and you must not try to trifle with me. How is your regiment numbered? What is the number of your regiment?”

“Numbered among the best, as I told you.”

“How long have you been in France?”

“Long enough to like its people, meaning those who belong here, not those who have come into France by force of arms.”

“Captain, is your regiment on the line yet?”

“It’s a line regiment, of course,” Prescott replied dumbly.

“Captain,” spoke the questioner angrily, “you must not try to make game of us! If you do not answer our questions you will regret it.”

“And if I did answer them I’d feel ashamed of myself,” Dick smiled blandly. “I’m going to take the liberty of asking you a question. If you were captured and questioned, how much would you tell that would injure Germany?”

“I’d tell nothing,” replied the German officer stiffly.

“Same here,” Dick went on smilingly. “I’m as strong for my country as you are for yours.”

“But, Captain, you will have to tell us your name and rank, also the designation of your organization. That has to be entered on our records.”

“I am Captain Richard Prescott, captain of infantry, United States Army,” Dick returned, in a business-like way. “But when you go further, and ask me for information about the American Army, you need expect no sensible answers.”

“Take this man to the temporary prisoners’ camp, and see that he is put in the officers’ section,” said the questioner to the two guards who had brought Dick in.

So Dick was led out again, and once more escorted along a road. He judged that the walk from dug-out to camp must have been at least two miles in length. The “prison” to which he found himself taken consisted of a high barbed wire enclosure, with a small wooden building at one end, and another end of the enclosure fenced off for officers.

Into the building Dick was taken first. It contained only one room and was evidently used as a booking and record office.

Again he was asked his name by an officer behind a desk. As before Prescott refused to state anything further than that his name was Richard Prescott, and that he was a captain of infantry in the American Army.

“But you will have to tell us more than that,” objected the German officer blandly.

“I’ll answer any questions you may put to me,” promised Dick, “but I won’t agree, in advance, to answer them truthfully.”

Another bald effort was made to force him to answer questions, but Dick gave evasive replies that carried no information.

“Take the fellow to the officers’ section,” ordered the man at the desk, at last.

So through a dark yard Prescott was led between rows of prisoners sleeping on the ground. Some of them, too cold and miserable to sleep, stirred uneasily as the newcomers passed by.

It was the same in the officers’ section. Though the night was cold, all prisoners were sleeping on bare ground in the open.

There were some four hundred prisoners in this lot, all French except Prescott.

In the officers’ section he found some twenty men, also all French. Two of them sat up as Dick entered.

“Hola!” cried one of them in his own tongue. “You are an American?”

“Yes,” Prescott admitted.

“Come and join us. We have the best bed in this camp.”

“It looks as if it might be hard,” smiled Dick, glancing down at the men.

“Hard, but not so bad, after all,” replied the other officer. “See, we have removed our overcoats and spread them on the ground. And we have two blankets over us. Come under the blankets with us, and we shall all be warmer.”

Dick hesitated. He wondered if he wouldn’t be crowding them out of their none too good protection against the night air.

“If you get in with us,” urged the first, “it will make us all warmer.”

On the face of it that looked reasonable, provided he did not crowd either out under the edge of the blankets.

“Oh, there will be plenty of room,” one of them assured him. “We can lie very close together. And you have no blanket if you sleep by yourself.”

So Dick allowed himself to be persuaded. Then, to his surprise, they insisted that he get in the middle between them. This, too, he finally accepted, but repaid them in part by taking off his trench coat and spreading it over the blankets in such a way that all three gained added warmth from it.

“How long have you been here?” Dick asked.

“Two weeks,” replied one of the pair. “It is a wretched life. Had I known how bad it was I would have forced my captors to kill me.”

That was cheering news, indeed!

“We must sleep now,” spoke the other officer. “There is little sleep be to had here in the daytime, and then we can talk.”

Dick lay awake a long time. A prisoner in the hands of the Huns! All he had heard of the wretched treatment accorded prisoners by the Germans came back to him. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was not a prisoner through any act of his own.

CHAPTER XX

ON A GERMAN PRISONER TRAIN

At last he fell asleep. When he awoke the sun was shining in his face. He was alone, for his bed-fellows of the night were already astir. They had tucked him in as warmly as possible before leaving him.

Closing his eyes, Dick slumbered again. When he next opened his eyes he sat up.

“Good morning, comrade!” called one of the two between whom he had slept.

“Ah, good morning,” Prescott answered in French, and stood up. “My, but the mattress in this bed is a beastly one.”

The officer who addressed him, a young man of twenty-five or so, laughed good-humoredly.

“What time is breakfast to be had here?” Dick asked.

“I fear, comrade, that we shall not have any this morning, for the news is that we are to be entrained to-day and sent away.”

“To Germany?”

“It must be. And on embarkation mornings no food is served.”

“They start us away hungry?” Dick asked.

“Always, so I have been told. But you are not missing much, comrade, for you are not yet accustomed to the food the Germans feed their prisoners, and no one eats much of it until he has been hungry for a few days. Then something like an appetite for the stuff comes to one.”

Finding himself somewhat chilled and cramped Prescott began to go briskly through some of the Army setting-up exercises.

“That is a fine thing to warm the blood,” said one of the French officers, “but I warn you that it will make you hungry.”

The other French officers now came forward to make themselves known to the only American officer in this prison camp.

“We are moving to-day,” said one. “Will it be better in the new prison than here, do you think?” Prescott asked.

“In some ways at least. We shall undoubtedly be housed in a wooden building, and that should be warmer at night. Besides, I hear we are permitted straw mattresses when in Germany.”

“That begins to sound like luxury,” laughed Dick.

“And there our friends can send us food through neutral agencies.”

“Do you suppose, if they do, we shall be allowed to have some of the food?” Dick asked.

“Some of it, at least, or our friends would quickly stop sending it to us when they heard from us that we did not get it.”

“It will be a dog’s life,” broke in another, “even with such better treatment as may be accorded to officers.”

Dick Prescott’s heart was as stout as any American’s heart could be, but as he listened to the talk of his French brothers in arms he could not help feeling glum.

For one thing, it was hardly for this that he had sailed from America to be taken at the outset and to be shut off from all service with the men of his own country!

A German under-officer who spoke French came to the wire to call out:

“You officers will march from here soon. Begin to get your packs ready. There must be no delay.”

“It won’t take me long,” Dick told his new friends. “When captured I had only my uniform and my pistol. The latter was taken.”

He turned to, however, to help his French brothers who possessed blankets, water bottles and other small belongings, for some of them appeared almost too weak to prepare for the march.

The same order had been given to the enlisted men in the next enclosure. For a few minutes there was some bustle over getting petty belongings together and marshaling them into a pack that could be slung over the back.

“Officers ready!” ordered the under-officer, returning. “Fall in by twos and march after me to the office.”

He marched the little detachment through the larger enclosure, and in through the rear of the office building. Here there was a roll-call. Then the officers, again in twos, were marched outside, where a corporal and four soldiers fell in with them as guard.

Down the road the captured officers were marched for something like a quarter of a mile.

“Halt, but keep your places in the ranks,” ordered the corporal. “Any prisoner disobeying will be shot.”

“There is something that promises!” cried Captain Lescault, pointing to the sky.

Southward, over the lines, appeared a squadron of swift French airplanes, coming over the German lines. Almost instantly German aircraft began to rise from the ground, going to meet the invaders of the air.

Over the purring of the engines sounded the sharp, continuous rapping of machine guns as the opposing craft fought each other.

Two German planes came crashing down to earth. More appeared in the air, until the French flyers, outnumbered, turned and flew back over the French lines.

“I believe our flyers got what they wanted,” whispered the same French officer to Prescott.

Five minutes later the Frenchman whispered exultingly:

“Ah, I was sure of it! Our airmen were spying for the artillery. Now you shall see things happen.”

In the air sounded a screech. Then, less than three hundred yards further down the road a French shell exploded, overturning a motor truck and killing both Germans on its seat. The truck itself was a wreck.

Crash! Another shell landed in the road, bowling over two officers at the head of a body of oncoming soldiers. The next shell landed in a mass of marching German infantry, killing and wounding several. Then, for five minutes a hurricane of shells descended on that road, wrecking trucks, killing and wounding more than a hundred men in German marching detachments, and chasing all troops from the road.

“That does not win the war!” growled the German corporal in charge of the officer-prisoners. “It is only French mischief!”

Hardly had the shell hurricane ceased when some hundred men, under guard, came marching down from the prison camp. These were halted, at the edge of the field, just behind the officers.

An hour passed before another detachment of prisoners was marched down the road and halted. Later more came. Noon had passed before the final detachment arrived.

It was wearisome, but Dick Prescott did not feel that he had wasted his time. Full of the hope of escaping, some day, he had watched covertly everything that he could see of German army life and movements behind the fighting line. Also, from several incidents that he witnessed, he gained a new idea of German military brutality.

One scene that made his blood boil was when a French officer, a wounded man, and suffering also from hunger, let himself slide to a sitting posture on the ground.

“Here, you!” ordered the German corporal advancing threateningly. “You have been told that you must stand in line.”

“But our comrade is weak from loss of blood,” interposed another French officer who spoke German.

“Take that for your meddling,” retorted the corporal, landing the back of his hand stingingly on his informant’s face. It was a humiliating blow, that a prisoner could not resent in kind.

“Get up,” ordered the corporal, “or I shall aid you with my bayonet.”

Though the words were not understood by the sufferer, the gesture was. He tried to obey, but did not rise fast enough to suit the corporal.

“Here,” mocked the fellow. “That will help you!”

His bayonet point passed through the seat of the victim’s trousers, more than pricking the flesh inside.

“Coward!” hissed Prescott and three of four of the French officers.

“If you don’t like it, and are not civil,” raged the corporal hoarsely, “I shall beat some of you with the butt of my gun.”

Subsequently a French officer who had stepped a foot further than he was supposed to stand was rebuked by the corporal’s gun-butt striking him on the knee-cap. After that the prisoner limped.

“These brutes ought to be killed—every one of them!” Dick muttered disgustedly to a French officer near him.

“Most of them will be, before this long war is over,” nodded the Frenchman, “but a soldier’s death is too fine for such beasts.”

Finally a German officer arrived. Under his crisp orders the now long column of prisoners moved out into the road, forming compactly and guarded by at least forty infantrymen. The order to march was given. With only two halts the prisoners were marched some eight miles, arriving late in the afternoon at a railway yard.

Here the column was halted again for an hour, while the German officer was absent, presumably, in search of his orders. When the march was taken up again its course led across a network of tracks to a long train.

“Why, these are cattle cars,” uttered Prescott, disgustedly, when the column had been halted along the length of the foremost part of the train. “And, judging by the odor, these cars haven’t been cleaned.”

“They won’t be until we are through riding in them,” returned the French officer at his side. “This is what comes to soldiers who surrender to the German dogs!”

Only one car was given over to the officer-prisoners, who were forced to climb into the unsavory car through a side door. No seats had been provided, but there was not more than room to stand up in the stuffy car. Fortunately the spaces between the timbers of the car sides gave abundant ventilation.

Into cars to the rear the enlisted prisoners were packed. To stomachs that had been empty of food all day the odors were especially distressing.

As the officer in charge of the prisoners came to the side door of the first car Dick made bold to prefer a request.

“We have had no water all day. May we have a bucket of it in here before the train starts?”

“There will not be time,” replied the German officer coldly, and moved away. Yet two hours passed, and the train did not start.

Suddenly German guns behind the front, along a stretch of miles, opened a heavy bombardment. Dick and his French friends gazed out at a sky made violently lurid by the reflection of the flashes of these great pieces. Then the French guns answered furiously, nor did all the French shells fall upon the German trenches or batteries. The French knew the location of this railway yard. Within twenty minutes five hundred large caliber shells had fallen in or near this yard. Freight and passenger coaches were struck and splintered.

Into the forward cattle car bounded the corporal who had tormented them that day. Behind him, in the doorway, appeared the German officer.

“Count the prisoners,” ordered the latter, “and make sure that all are there. We are going to pull out of here before those crazy French yonder destroy all our rolling stock.”

Fifteen minutes later, though the French shell-fire had ceased coming this way, the train crawled out of the yard. It ran along slowly, though sometime in the night it increased its speed.

Dick Prescott will never forget the misery of that night. When the train was under way the cold was intense in these half-open cattle cars. No appeal for water to drink was heeded.

Despite their discomforts, most of the prisoners managed to sleep some, though standing up.

In the middle of the night Prescott awoke, stiff, nauseated, hungry and parched with tormenting thirst. Though he did not know it at that moment, the train had halted because of a breakdown in a train ahead.

Along the track came that tormenting corporal. While a soldier held up a dim lantern the corporal unlocked the padlock, sliding the side door back.

At that moment an order was bawled lustily in German.

“Will you be good enough to repeat, Herr Lieutenant?” called the corporal, glancing backward down the length of train.

Heavy footsteps were heard approaching. Corporal and private turned to take a few steps back to meet their officer. Dick, standing in the open doorway, saw that a fog had settled down over the night.

Acting on a sudden impulse, without an instant’s hesitation, he leaped down, striking softly on the balls of his feet. Without even turning sideways to see if German eyes had observed him, Prescott stole across another track, and down to the foot of an embankment.

“They’ll shoot me for this!” he muttered. “Let them! Death is better than being a German prisoner!”

CHAPTER XXI

SEEKING DEATH MORE THAN ESCAPE

In another instant the French officer who had been standing next to Dick attempted the same trick. He had just gained the ground when the German lieutenant, turning his gaze from the corporal’s face, and glancing ahead, broke off in the middle of his instructions to cry out:

“There’s a prisoner escaping! Halt him or shoot him!”

Realizing that he was hopelessly caught, and trusting to better luck next time, the Frenchman held up his hands.

“Get back into the car,” ordered the German lieutenant. “Corporal, take the lantern and see that all the prisoners are in there.”

As the corporal obeyed, the lieutenant looked in and nodded.

“There was no time for any to escape,” he remarked. “We nipped the first one. You are scoundrels when you try to disgrace me by escaping. Just for the attempt of this comrade of yours, gentlemen, you shall have no breakfast in the morning.”

The door was moved quickly into place, the padlock snapped, and then the guard turned to other matters.

Not a French officer in that car but would sooner have died than betray the fact that Dick had slipped out of sight. Though they themselves were still in the car, they prayed that he might find either safety from the Germans, or that better thing than captivity, death.

As for Captain Prescott, he had slipped into a field beyond. When he halted to peer about he was perhaps sixty feet from the train. Moving cautiously he made the distance another hundred feet. Yet he did not dare to go far at present, nor rapidly.

“I’m out of the car, if nothing more,” Dick reflected, inhaling a deep breath of the foggy air. “I shall always feel grateful to that German engineer. His blowing off steam made noise enough so that my jump and my footsteps weren’t heard.”

One of Dick’s feet, moving exploringly, touched a stone. Bending over and groping, he found three fair-sized stones.

“Good enough!” he thought, picking them up. “Sooner or later, to-night, wandering around in an American uniform, I’m going to be heard and halted. I’ll throw these stones at the sentry who tries to halt me, and then he’ll fire. After he shoots there’ll be no German prison ahead for me!”

This wasn’t exactly a thought in the cheerful class, yet Prescott smiled. More contented with his prospects he moved softly away.

For the first hundred feet from the embankment his shoes touched grass. Then he came to the edge of a ploughed field. Here he felt that he must proceed with even greater caution, for now most of the train noises had ceased and he feared to slip or stumble, and thus make a noise that might be carried on the still night air to the ears of the train guard.

However, he soon struck a smooth path leading through the ploughed ground, and now moved along a little faster.

“This is just where caution ought to pay big dividends,” he told himself. “A path is usually made to lead to where human beings live and congregate. I’ll stop every few feet and listen.”

The first sound that came to his ears from out of the veiled distance ahead made the young American officer almost laugh aloud. It was the crowing of a rooster.

“If you know how hungry I am, my bird, I doubt if you’d make any noise to draw me your way.”

However, the crowing had given him a valuable clew, for he reasoned that the barnyard home of Mr. Rooster must be near the general buildings of a farm. These buildings he decided to avoid. So, when he came to a fork in the path he chose the direction that led him further from what he believed to be the location of the farm buildings.

By this time he was moving more rapidly, though striving to make no noise in moving. Suddenly he came to a road and stopped, gasping.

“I don’t want anything as public as this,” Dick told himself. “Troops use roads. However, as I’ve reached the road, and want to get as far from the train as possible, I believe I’ll take a look from the other side of the road. There may be a field there better suited to my needs.”

Directly opposite, at the other edge of the road, two tree trunks reared themselves close together, looking tall and gaunt against the white of the fog. After listening a moment Dick started to cross the road to them.

Just as he reached the trunks he saw something move around the further one, and drew back quickly. It was well that he did so, for the moving thing was a man armed with an axe which he had swung high and now tried to bring down relentlessly on Prescott’s head.

But Dick’s arms shot up, his hands catching the haft and wrenching the ugly weapon away from its wielder.

“No, you don’t!” Dick muttered in English, taking another step backward from the wild-looking old peasant who had attempted to brain him.

“But a thousand pardons, monsieur!” cried the old man hoarsely in French, and now shaking from head to foot. “I did not see well in the fog, and I mistook you for a German. You are a British soldier!”

“An American soldier,” Dick replied in the same tongue.

“Then, had I killed you, grief would have killed me, too, as it has already sent my wits scattering. For I am a Frenchman and hate only Germans.”

“Is this a safe place to stand and discuss the Germans?” asked Dick mildly, in a voice barely above a whisper. “This road—–“

“No, no! It is not safe here,” protested the peasant. “Soldiers and wagons move over this road. That was why I was here. I hoped to find some German soldier alone, to leap on him and kill him—and I thought you a German until after I had swung at you. Heaven is good, and I have not to reproach myself for having struck at the American uniform. But you are in danger here. You are—–“

“An escaped prisoner,” Dick supplied in a whisper. “I have just escaped from the Germans.”

“If you are quick then, they shall not find you,” promised the old man, seizing Dick by the arm. “Come! I can guide you even through this fog.”

There was something so sincere about the old peasant, despite his wildness, that Prescott went with him without objection. Both moving softly, they stepped into another field, the guide going forward as one who knew every inch of the way.

Presently buildings appeared faintly in the fog.

“Wait here,” whispered the peasant, and was gone. He soon came back.

“There are no German soldiers about the place,” the old man informed Dick. “I will take you into the house—hide you. You shall have food and drink!”

Food and something to drink! To Dick Prescott, at that moment, this sounded like a promise of bliss.

To a rear door the old man led the American, and inside, closing and bolting the door after him. Here the man struck a light, and a candle shed its rays over a well-kept kitchen.

As Dick laid the axe down in a corner he heard a sobbing sound from a room nearby.

“It is the dear old wife,” said the peasant, in an awed tone. “To-day the German monsters took our son and our daughter, and marched them off with other young people from the village. They have been taken to Germany to toil as slaves of the wild beasts. Do you wonder, monsieur, that the good wife sobs and that I haunted the road hoping to find a German soldier alone and to slay him? But I must hide you, for Germans might come here at any moment.”

Throwing open a door the old man revealed a flight of stairs. He led the way to a room above. Here a door cunningly concealed behind a dresser was opened after the guide had moved the dresser. At a sign Dick entered the other room, only to find himself confronted by another man, whose face, revealed by the candle light, caused Captain Dick Prescott to recoil as though from a ghost.

CHAPTER XXII

CAN IT BE THE OLD CHUM?