Army Boys in the French Trenches | Page 6

cut out for a sprinter."
"Even if he were, a bullet would catch him," chimed in Billy. "He'd make a big target and it would be a pretty bad shot that would miss him."
When they reached the blown-up first trench they found it difficult to keep in line, and had to pick their way over the heaped-up ruin that had been made by the mine explosion.
Bart tripped over a strand of broken wire, and in trying to save himself from falling, his rifle slipped from his hand.
The German corporal was within a foot of him and saw his opportunity.
Quick as a flash he drew from his clothing a trench knife that the searchers had overlooked. The murderous blade gleamed in the air as the corporal brought it down toward the neck of Bart, who had stooped to pick up his rifle.


CHAPTER III
TAKING CHANCES
"Look out, Bart!" yelled Billy, while Tom made a desperate leap to his comrade's rescue.
But Frank was quicker than either.
Like lightning he lunged with his bayonet and caught the German in the wrist, just as the knife was about to bury itself in Bart's neck.
With a howl of rage and pain, as his arm was forced upward, the prisoner's hand lost its grip on the weapon and it clattered harmlessly to the ground.
In an instant the German was overpowered and his arms tied behind him with his own belt. Then his wounded wrist was bound up with a surgical dressing, and under a special guard he was urged forward in no gentle manner, for all were at a white heat at his treacherous attempt.
By the laws of war his life was forfeited, and he seemed to realize this, for all his bravado vanished and from time to time he looked fearfully at his captors. He saw little there to encourage him, for Bart was a great favorite with his company and the attack had stirred them to the depths.
"A close call, old man." said Frank, affectionately tapping his friend on the shoulder. "It would have been taps for me, all right, if you hadn't acted as quickly as you did," responded Bart gratefully.
"Frank was Johnny-on-the-spot," said Billy admiringly. "My heart was in my mouth when I saw that knife coming down."
"It was a waste of time to tie up that fellow's arm," remarked Tom, as he glowered at the miscreant. "He'll soon be where he won't need any bandages."
"I guess it's a case for a firing squad," judged Billy. "But it serves him right, for it was up to him to play the game."
Before long they reached headquarters and delivered up their prisoners. If they had expected to be sent back immediately to the firing line, they were disappointed, for the examination of the prisoners began at once, without the squad receiving notice of dismissal.
This had its compensations, however, for although they had captured prisoners before, they had never been present at their examination, and they were curious to see the turn the questioning would take.
Captain Baker, of the old Thirty-seventh, was detailed to do the examining, and because time was precious and it was most important to learn just what enemy units were opposed to the American forces, he got to work at once, an interpreter standing at his side while a stenographer made note of the replies.
The captain signaled to one of the most intelligent looking of the prisoners, and the latter stepped out, clicked his heels together smartly and saluted.
"What is your name?" asked the captain.
"Rudolph Schmidt."
"Your regiment?"
"The Seventy-ninth Bavarian."
"Who is your colonel?"
"Von Armin."
"Who commands your division?"
"General Hofer."
"Who is your corps commander?"
"Prince Lichtenstein."
"How many men have you lost in the last few days' fighting?"
Obstinate silence.
The captain repeated the question.
"I do not know," the prisoner answered evasively.
"Well, were your losses heavy or light?" pursued the captain patiently.
"I cannot tell."
The captain switched to another line.
"Do you know who have captured you?" he asked.
"The English," was the prompt answer.
"No," replied the captain. "We are Americans."
The prisoner permitted himself an incredulous smile.
"Can't you see these are American uniforms?" asked the captain, with a sweep of his arm.
"Yes," was the reply. "But our captain tells us that the English wear that uniform to make us think that the Americans have arrived in France."
A grin went around the circle of listeners.
"You blawsted, bloody Britisher," chuckled Bart, giving Frank a poke in the ribs.
"Where's my bally monocle, old top?" whispered Frank, while Billy and Tom grew red in the face from trying to control their merriment.
The captain himself had all he could do to maintain his gravity.
"Do you believe your captain when he tells you that?" he inquired.
"I must believe him," answered the prisoner simply.
"There's discipline for you," muttered Billy.
"Such childlike faith," murmured Tom.
"But even if the Americans are not already here," persisted the captain, "don't you believe they are coming?"
"They may try