CHAPTER VII A Good Beginning

A SUDDEN quiet, after much complaining, settled upon the occupants of the transportation camion; Don Richards’ quick, sharp order had been heard and the driver was seen to back away with his arms in air. Then the chap with the red cross on his sleeve was heard again:

“Hey, some of you fellows in there, tumble out; will you? Bring a rope! Here’s a German!”

A sapper and one of the cooks responded at once; the latter was a big man and he came ahead, evidently wanting to keep the other back. Don heard the cook say: “I’ll be enough; you needn’t butt in.” But the sapper, a wiry little fellow, edged along just the same and he was quite sober. So was the cook, who spoke quickly:

“What’s the trouble? What’d he do?”

There was something in the twang, or in the tone of this; something quite intangible, that caught Don’s quick ear, even above the excitement of the occasion. He had heard this man talk a little before in typical American, to be sure; yet it seemed to be not wholly natural. The boy eyed the cook; then addressed the sapper:

“You, little fellow, get a rope off the curtains or in the box maybe and tie this——”

The driver replied to the cook’s query:

“I ain’t done nothin’! This feller’s a German an’ workin’ fer the Heinies; he just told me so. Git him, not me! I’m American all over, I am, and I kin prove it!”

“Headquarters will make you prove it. Keep your hands up.”

“That ain’t no way to treat a fightin’ man!” said the cook angrily. “You put up yer gun an’ we’ll take care o’ this feller. He’s reg’lar, all right; I know him.”

Don kept his eye on the speaker, but made him no reply. Again he spoke to the sapper:

“Come on, you! Don’t stand there like a wooden man! Get a piece of rope, I said!”

“Don’t you pay no attention to him, Shorty! He ain’t nobody we got to mind. Put up yer gun, feller, or I’ll make you put it up!” The cook’s hand went back to his pocket. Don didn’t wait for him to draw his weapon, which he knew he was going to do; the boy, as once before on a somewhat similar occasion, dropped the muzzle of his automatic a little and fired. The cook twisted about in a rather comical fashion and flopped on his hands and one knee, quite as though John Barleycorn had seized and thrown him. The others in the camion had come tumbling out from the front and rear of the car and were pushing forward.

“Take his gun, one of you!” Don ordered sharply. “Now then, pick him up and get him inside and and see how badly he’s hurt. Bandages in the car somewhere. Two of you watch this guy till Shorty ties him.”

“What’s this all about, bo?” questioned a big sapper.

Don turned back his coat lapel and exposed an M. P. badge and that sufficed to compel obedience to his orders. The big fellow and two others took the cook in charge and at Don’s directions started to search him, which immediately brought about a struggle. This proved the key to the situation; the sappers took from the cook’s possession some letters that were written in German and postmarked from a German town and on the driver they found some evident orders, also in German.

At once the sentiment, rather lukewarm at first in any sense, turned against the two apparent traitors within the Army.

“Let’s get a line of some kind and string these two skunks up by the neck to the first tree we can find!” shouted the big sapper. “Eh? Fellers, who’re with me?”

There was a unanimous, loud agreement to this from the sappers and the other cook; they surrounded the prisoners threateningly, one fellow reaching over and with the flat of his hand striking the driver in the face.

Don, a little frightened at the turn of affairs, still saw his duty clearly. With drawn pistol he forced his way into the center of the group, standing before the cowering cook and hastily addressing the loyal sappers.

“Men, this won’t do. Of course, we’re all patriotically down on spies and traitors, but it’s for headquarters to attend to these ducks; they’ll fix them good and proper, never fear! Don’t let it be said of us that we are no better than the Huns in acting the brute. A firing squad is more humane and more certain than a rope and, what’s more, it’s legal. We have no right to mistreat these polecats; only to arrest them and shoot if they get gay.”

This little speech had the desired effect; the clamorous sappers cooled down and stood listening to and nodding at Don. They saw the sense of his remarks and their sentiment in common changed quickly, finding expression in such phrases as:

“Right-o, bo! We ain’t diggin’ for no trouble.”

“Sure we ain’t, ner in love with no little old guard house. Me fer the road an’ the outdoors; eh, Willies?”

“That’s us, Pete!”

“Well, you fellows hold these Huns until I back your car out of the ditch; then two of you can go back with me and these spies, and the rest can camp here until we return, or go on in the next lorry up, as you choose.”

Thus the good camion, doing the duty of a Black Maria, retraced its tracks to general headquarters. Here Colonel Walton had come to confer with his superior and what he and the General Assistant Chief of Staff at the head of Enemy Intelligence and Information had to say after hearing the lad’s story and questioning his prisoners would have considerably swelled the head of anyone less modest. They boy, though he could not but feel somewhat cast down that his efforts had led two men to pay the supreme penalty, was inclined to treat the matter with more levity than it deserved, for there had been, on thinking it over, several rather ludicrous circumstances concerning his duplicity, though not once had he directly lied, nor played unfair. It seemed, indeed, all quite too simple and Don wondered if his next case would prove as easy. He was to find, later, that it was anything but that.

The general and the colonel conferred; then the latter officer again beckoned Don.

“My boy, it’s too bad that you are so young. But this war is filling many youthful heads with very adult knowledge; making men of many mere boys. Despite your youth we’ve got to reward your immediate ability. The general has ordered your promotion and his recommendation for a commission as second lieutenant of infantry will go through at once. It will be kept here on file and you may assume the rank and the shoulder straps now. Well, go to it again, young man, and good luck.”

Once more the staunch lorry followed the road toward the front, guided now by a new and undoubtedly loyal driver. Don saw to it that the brandy that had been smuggled beneath the seat was all thrown out, the bottles smashed. The four sappers and the other cook were again taken aboard and on the car went, with few stops. Camp for the night was made in a deserted and shell-torn old house within sound of the occasional firing and bursting of heavier caliber shells. Early the next morning, about two hours after the start at daylight, Lieutenant Richards and his companions crossed a bridge over the Aire River, reached the top of a long hill and were suddenly almost within range of the German machine guns at the edge of the Argonne Forest.

“You fellows go on to your destinations,” Don said. “I stop here; the bunch I’m hunting are in there fighting now.”

As Don approached the woods habit was strong within him and he wanted an ambulance with which he could aid in helping the seriously wounded that seemed to be everywhere. But the stretcher men, the brancardiers, were on the job and the boy had now no business to take a hand. Guided by the plop, plop of rifles and the more rapid staccato of machine guns he ran on into the dense woods, from out of which all along its edge wounded men were staggering, crawling or being carried and some few were going in; messengers also from the division C. and C., liaison men with information tending to hold the units together, Y. M. C. A. and K. of C. workers, relying on the success of the Americans and at once eager to advance their depots, even some Salvation Army lassies, two of whom Don saw ministering to the wounded, but being gently checked from further dangerous advance by the Military Police.

Don had made several inquiries of the M. P.’s and of less seriously wounded soldiers; he knew he was on the right track, but knew not how he would find Captain Lowden. Under the stress of immediate circumstances the officer would hardly have time to talk with him now, but the boy could stand by and wait; he could even take some part along with the soldiers, and at this his heart leaped. With an instinct born of knowing well how to use a gun and how to play at Indian fighting, he would welcome a chance to join this sort of thing.

Immediately ahead of Don, dodging along through the trees, was another fellow, probably bent on a similar errand, but evidently in no great hurry; rather was he looking about him sharply as he advanced, as though fearing to run into the enemy. As the two clambered together over a pile of rocks and through a thicket of scrub trees the boy introduced himself, noting also that the other was a liaison officer, a sergeant. He was not inclined to talk; did not give his name, but seemed to want to turn aside.

There was sudden shooting just ahead of them; some yells and loud voices in unison. The sergeant stopped and Don, facing him by chance, looked him over, the former saying:

“They’re at it right ahead. I guess the Heinies are all through this wood and what one bunch of our men doesn’t find, another will.” Then the boy noted that his vis-à-vis was short, heavy-set, with features decidedly Italian, though with gray eyes, and in one of his eyes there was undoubtedly a cast. A small black mustache with a tendency to an upward curl at the outer ends completed Don’s recognition from the description the treacherous driver had given him. And yet he could not be sure this was the man. In what way could the boy bring about a positive identification?

A bunch of men came pushing through the woods, in front several German prisoners with arms held up from outward elbows, behind them two khaki-clad privates, with rifles ready, conducting the prisoners to the rear. It was a most interesting sight and Don was all attention; when he turned again the liaison sergeant was gone. The boy hastened forward, the sound of shooting was on all sides of him now, even almost behind him, though a good way off. He must be very close to where the most advanced American line was contesting with the Huns for the well defended forest.

The way seemed a little more open to the left; Don went that way. A long, level stretch more devoid of branches permitted him to see ahead and fifty yards away the liaison sergeant and an officer were talking. The short fellow was looking all about him; at the same time his right hand came slowly behind him and under his coat. Then he turned his head and saw Don. Instantly the man brought the hand out again, pointed as though asking directions and disappeared among the trees. Don, his automatic in hand, was running forward and in an instant he had come face to face with Lieutenant Herbert Whitcomb.