CHAPTER VII
IN THE HANDS OF THE HUNS
The last thing that Tom Bradford remembered in the fight that separatedhim from his comrades was the sight of Frank in a bayonet duel with twoGermans. He was trying desperately to get to his friend's side andhelp him in the unequal combat, when a great blackness seemed to sweepdown upon him and he knew nothing more.
When he came to consciousness, he felt himself dragged roughly to hisfeet and thrust into a group of other prisoners who were being sent tothe rear under guard of a squad of German soldiers. He reeled andwould have fallen had he not been supported by some of his othercompanions in misfortune. Then the line was set in motion and hestumbled along dazedly, abused verbally by his guards and prodded withbayonets if he lagged or faltered.
Gradually his head stopped whirling and his brain grew clearer. Hisface felt wet and sticky, and putting his hand to it he drew hisfingers away covered with blood.
He felt his head and found a ragged gash running almost the length ofthe scalp. It must have bled freely, judging from the weakness he feltand the way his hair was matted and his face smeared. But the bloodhad congealed now and stopped flowing. He figured from the characterof the wound that it had been made by a glancing blow from a rifle.
It was fully dark when the gloomy procession halted at a big barn wherethe prisoners were counted and passed in to stay for the night.
A little later some food was passed in to the prisoners, but Tom had noappetite and even if he had been hungry it would have been hard tostomach the piece of dry bread and watery soup that was given him ashis portion. So he gave it to others, and sat over in a cornerimmersed in the gloomy thoughts that came trooping in upon him.
He was a prisoner. And what he had heard of Hun methods, to saynothing of a former brief experience, had left him under no delusion asto what that meant.
What were his comrades Frank, Bart and Billy doing now? Had they comesafely through the fight? He was glad at any rate that they were notwith him now. Better dead on the field of battle, he thought bitterly,than to be in the hands of the Huns.
But Tom was too young and his vitality too great to give himself uplong to despair. He was a prisoner, but what of it? He had been aprisoner before and escaped. To be sure, it was too much to expect toescape by way of the sky as he had before. Lightning seldom strikestwice in the same place. But there might be other ways--there shouldbe other ways. While breath remained in his body he would never ceasehis efforts to escape. And sustained and inspired by this resolve, heat last fell asleep.
When he awoke in the morning, his strength had in large measurereturned to him. His head was still a little giddy but his appetitewas returning. Still he looked askance at the meagre and unpalatablebreakfast brought in by the guards.
"Don't be too squeamish, kid," a fellow prisoner advised him, as he sawthe look on the young soldier's face. "Take what's given you, even ifit isn't fit for Christians. You'll get weak soon enough. Keep strongas long as you can."
There was sound sense in this even with the woeful prophecy and Tom,though with many inward protests, followed the well-meant advice.
Bad as it was, the food did him good, and he was feeling in fairly goodcondition when, a little later, he was summoned before a Germanlieutenant to be examined.
That worthy was seated before a table spread with papers, and as Tomentered or rather was pushed into his presence he compressed hisbeetling black brows and turned upon the prisoner with the face of athundercloud.
But if he expected Tom to wilt before his frowning glance he wasdisappointed. There was no trace of swagger or bravado when Tom facedhis inquisitor. But there was self-respect and quiet resolution thatrefused to quail before anyone to whom fate for the moment had giventhe upper hand.
The officer spoke English in a stiff and precise way so that aninterpreter was dispensed with, and the examination proceeded.
"What is your name?" the lieutenant asked.
Tom told him.
"Your nationality?"
"American."
The officer snorted.
"There is no such thing as American," he said contemptuously. "You arejust a jumble of different races."
Tom said nothing.
"What is your regiment?" the officer continued.
There was no answer.
"Did you hear me?" repeated the lieutenant impatiently. "What is yourregiment?"
"I cannot tell," answered Tom.
"You mean you will not?"
"I refuse to tell."
"Refuse," exclaimed the officer, growing red in the face. "That is nota safe word to say to me."
Tom kept quiet.
The officer after a moment of inward debate shifted to another line.
"What are your commanders' plans, as far as you know?"
"To beat the Germans," returned Tom promptly.
The officer's face became apoplectic.
"Yankee pig!" he roared. "You know that is not what I meant. Tell meif you know anything of their tactics, whether they intend to attack orstand on the defensive."
"I don't know," replied Tom truthfully.
"Have you plenty of ammunition?"
"More than we can use," replied Tom promptly, glad to tell what coulddo no harm and would only increase the chagrin of his enemy.
"How many troops have the Americans got in France?"
"A good many hundreds of thousands," answered Tom, "and they're comingover at the rate of two hundred thousand a month."
"Yankee lies," sneered the officer. "You are very ready to give memore information than I ask for when it will suit your purpose."
Tom kept discreetly silent, but he chuckled inwardly at the discomfortshown by his enemy.
The officer pondered a moment, and evidently decided that there was notmuch to be got out of this young American who faced him so undauntedly.Perhaps other prisoners would prove more amenable. But his dignity hadbeen too much ruffled to let Tom get off without punishment.
"You think that you have baffled me," he said, "but you will find thatit is not wise to try to thwart the will of a German officer. We haveways to break such spirits as yours."
He called to the guard, who had been standing stolidly at the door.
"Take him out in the woods and put him to work where the enemy's shellfire is heaviest," he commanded. "It doesn't matter what happens tohim. If his own people kill him so much the better. It will only beone less Yankee pig for us to feed."
The guard seized Tom and thrust him roughly out of the door. Then hetook him back to the barn and a whispered conversation ensued, withmany black glances shot at Tom.
A short time afterward he was placed with some others in the custody ofa squad of soldiers, and taken into the woods close behind the Germanlines. Of course this was a flagrant breach of all the laws of war.But there was no use in protesting. That would only arouse theamusement of the German guards.
As a matter of fact, when Tom came to think it over, he did not want toprotest. His captors could have taken no course that would have suitedhim better. At first his heart had sunk, for he realized that theofficer's purpose was to sign his death warrant. The chances of beingkilled by the American shells was very great. And then the significantword of the lieutenant that it didn't matter what happened to him, wasa hint to the guards that they could murder him if they liked, andthere would be no questions asked.
But after all, to be in the open was infinitely better than to beeating his heart out in a squalid prison camp. His health stood lesschance of being undermined. As to the shells, he had grown so used tothat form of danger that it hardly disturbed him at all.
But the one thing that stood out above all others was that in the woodshe would have a chance of escape, while in the camp he would havepractically none at all. His limbs would have to be free in order todo the work demanded of him. And he was willing to match his keenAmerican wits against the heavy and slow-thinking guards who mightstand w
atch over him.
He soon reached the section where he was to work, and was set tofelling trees to make corduroy roads over which guns and supplies couldbe brought up from the enemy's rear to the advanced lines.
He had never done that kind of work, and at first the tremendousefforts demanded of him amounted to sheer physical torture. He washounded on unceasingly under the jibes and threats of his brutalguards. Not half enough food was supplied, and he was forced to workfor sixteen and eighteen hours on a stretch.
But he had great reserves of youth and vitality to draw on, and he kepton doggedly, his brain alert, his eyes wide open, his heart courageous,looking for his opportunity.
On the third night his opportunity came.
Army Boys on the Firing Line; or, Holding Back the German Drive Page 7