Army Boys on the Firing Line | Page 8

dead or a prisoner. Thank God
you're neither one nor the other."
"Pretty close squeak," smiled Frank happily. "But a bit of luck, and
these two legs of mine carried me through, and I'm worth a dozen dead
men yet. But I'm hungry as a wolf, and if you fellows don't feed me up
you'll have me dead on your hands."
"Trust us," laughed Bart. "You can have the whole shooting match. The
whole mess will go hungry if necessary to fill you up. Come along now
and tell us the story."
It was a happy crowd that bore Frank back in triumph to his old
quarters. There the rest of the boys flocked about him in welcome and
jubilee.
"Not a word, fellows," protested Frank laughingly, "until I get these

rags off of me. It's the first time I ever wore a German uniform and I
hope it will be the last. I feel as if I needed to be fumigated before I'm
fit to talk to decent fellows again."
It was a long time before the hubbub quieted down, and he had to tell
his story again and again before the other soldiers left him alone with
his own particular chums.
"Where's Tom?" asked Frank. "Our bunch doesn't seem complete
without him. On special duty somewhere, I suppose?"
Bart and Billy looked at each other with misery in their eyes.
"What's the matter?" asked Frank in quick alarm, as he intercepted the
glance. "Great Scott!" he added, springing to his feet. "You don't mean
to say that anything's happened to him?"
Bart shook his head soberly.
"We don't know," he answered. "The last any of the boys saw of him he
was hacking right and left in a crowd of the boches. But he didn't come
back with the rest of us."
"You don't mean to say he's dead?" cried Frank. "You're not stalling to
let me down easy?"
"Not that," protested Billy quickly. "Honor bright, Frank. The burial
parties haven't come across him at last reports, and he hasn't been
picked up as wounded. That's all we know. The chances are that he's
been taken prisoner."
"Prisoner!" repeated Frank in blank despair. "Tom a prisoner of the
Huns! Heaven help him!"
CHAPTER IV
CAPTURED OR DEAD?

There was very little sleep for the three Army Boys that night, in spite
of the exhausting labors of the day. They rolled and tossed restlessly in
their bunks, tortured by conjectures as to the fate of their missing
comrade.
Good old Tom! He had been so close to all of them, loyal to his heart's
core, brave as a lion, ready to stand by them to his last breath. He had
been beside them in many a tight scrape and had always held up his end.
It seemed as though part of themselves had been torn from them.
Still, while there was life there was hope, and they drew some comfort
from the fact that he had not yet been found among the dead. If he were
a prisoner he might escape. They had all been in a German prison camp
before and had gotten away. Perhaps Tom might have the same luck
again.
They fell asleep at last, but the thought clung to them and assumed all
sorts of fantastic attitudes in their dreams so that they awoke tired and
depressed.
But there was little time on that morning to indulge in private griefs.
The fight was on, and shortly after dawn the battle was resumed.
All the forenoon it raged with great ferocity. But American grit and
steadfastness never wavered and the enemy was forced to retire with
heavy loss. Not only had they failed to drive the Americans from their
positions, but they had been driven back and forced to surrender a large
portion of their own, including the place where Frank had crouched in
the shell hole the night before.
Shortly after noon there came a lull while the Americans reorganized
the captured positions. Infantry actions ceased, though the big guns,
like belligerent mastiffs, still kept up their growling at each other.
"Hot work," remarked Frank, as, after their work was done, the three
friends found themselves together in the shade of a great tree.
"A corking scrap," agreed Bart, as he sprawled at his ease with his

hands under his head.
"The Heinies certainly put up a stiff fight," observed Billy, as he tied up
his little finger from which blood was trickling.
"They felt so sure that they were going to make mincemeat out of us
that it was hard to wake out of their dream," chuckled Frank. "I wonder
if they're still kidding themselves in Berlin that the Yankees can't
fight."
"In Berlin perhaps but not here," returned Bart. "They've had too much
evidence to the