THE DRUGGED DETACHMENT

A scouting party was being made up a few days later, and the Army Boys were glad that they were included in it. In the region where they were stationed the woods were thick, and there was a sort of “twilight zone” that afforded excellent opportunities for individual fighting. The lines were rather loosely kept, and it was no uncommon occurrence to have raiding parties slip across, have a brush with their opponents, and retire with what forage or prisoners they might be lucky enough to take.

There had been a good deal of “sniping” that, while it only caused occasional losses, was a source of harassment and irritation, and Frank’s squad had orders to “get” as many of these sharpshooters as possible.

A little way from the camp there was a deep gorge. Along its top were many huge trees whose branches reached far out over the precipice. They drew so close together that their branches in many cases were interwoven.

The squad was moving along without any attempt to keep formation in such rough country, when there was the crack of a rifle and a bullet zipped close by Frank’s ear.

He started back.

“Did it get you, Frank?” called out Bart in alarm.

“No,” replied Frank, “but it came closer than I care to think about.”

At the corporal’s command they took shelter behind trees, from which they scanned the locality in the direction from which the shot had come.

There was no trace of any concealed marksman, search the coverts as they would. But that he was there, and that he was an enemy to be dreaded, was shown a moment later when a bullet ridged the fingers of the hand that Billy had incautiously exposed.

With an exclamation, Billy put his bleeding fingers to his mouth. The injury was slight and Bart bound his hand up for him, using extreme care to keep behind the trees.

“We have to hand it to that fellow,” remarked the corporal. “He certainly knows how to shoot.”

“I’d hand him something if I only knew where he was,” growled Billy.

“I know where he is,” said Frank.

“Do you?” asked the corporal eagerly.

“Where?”

“In the tallest of that clump of trees on the edge of the gorge,” replied Frank. “I caught a glimpse of his rifle barrel the last time he fired.”

“We’ll give him a volley,” decided the corporal, and a moment later, at his command, the rifles rang out.

Several times this was repeated in the hope that one of the bullets would find its mark. But the tree trunk was enormously thick and bullets imbedded themselves in it without injury to the marksman, snugly sheltered on the further side.

If they could have surrounded the tree and shot from different sides there would have been no trouble in bagging their quarry. But the tree had been cunningly chosen for the reason that the further side hung over the precipice and could only be attacked from the side where the party now were.

Frank’s keen eyes had been sizing up the situation and he now had a proposal to make.

“I think I see a way to dislodge him if you’ll let me try it, Corporal,” he said.

“What is it?” asked Wilson.

“You’ll notice that the branches of those trees are mixed in with each other,” replied Frank. “If you can keep him busy with your shooting, so that he won’t be thinking of anything else, I think I can make a detour and climb up one of those other trees on the side away from him. I could carry my rifle strapped on my back. Then I might work my way along the branches and perhaps catch sight of him.”

“It’s worth trying,” decided the corporal. “Go ahead, Sheldon, but be mighty careful.”

Frank slipped away in the shelter of the trees, described a semi-circle, reached the third tree from the one where the German was stationed, and commenced to climb.

It was hard work, for the tree was thick and he could not get a good grip on it with his arms. But he persisted until he reached the first limb and drew himself up on it. Then he examined his rifle carefully and with the utmost caution began to work his way among the branches.

Some of these were so thick as to be themselves almost like tree trunks, and he had no apprehension on the score of his weight. He passed to the next tree, and then to the next. There he paused, parting the branches carefully.

He knew that his comrades were keeping their part of the bargain, for the thud of bullets against the tree that sheltered the enemy was almost continuous.

For several minutes Frank looked for his enemy. Then his search was rewarded, and through an open space he found himself looking squarely into the eyes of the man who, a few minutes before, had tried to send a bullet through his brain.

The man saw him at the same instant. Like a flash he leveled his rifle and fired.

For such a hurried aim the shot was good. Frank felt the whistle of the bullet as it almost grazed him. But it was not good enough.

The next instant Frank’s rifle spoke. The man flung out his arms, toppled over and fell with a crash into the gorge that the tree overhung. The rifle clanged after him. There would be no more sniping by that particular marksman from that particular tree.

There was a shout from the squad who had witnessed the duel, and as Frank slid down the tree he was greeted with acclamations.

“A nervy thing, Sheldon,” commended Wilson.

“He almost got me, though,” returned Frank. “It was a case of touch and go.”

“He was a brave man,” was the tribute of the corporal, “though that particular kind of work has always seemed to me something like murder. He shot his victims without giving them a chance. His work on land was that of the U-boats on the sea a species of assassination.”

The squad went on with special caution and with a close watch on the trees. But noon came without further adventure and they got out their rations and prepared to enjoy them at the foot of a spreading maple.

They were perhaps half way through the meal, which they had seasoned with jokes and laughter, when there was a rustling in the bushes near at hand. Instantly they leaped to their feet and reached for their rifles.

“Who goes there?” demanded the corporal.

There was no answer.

“Answer or we shoot!” cried Wilson.

The bushes parted and a young peasant girl stepped forth.

She was a pretty girl of about eighteen. Her face bore the marks of tears, her hair was dishevelled, and she was in a state of extreme agitation. She began to talk feverishly and with many gestures.

“Here, Sheldon,” said the corporal, “you speak French. See if you can understand what the girl is saying.”

Frank stepped forward.

“Que voulez-vous, Mademoiselle?” he asked.

The relief of the girl when she heard her own language was evident.

“These are English soldiers, Monsieur?” she asked.

“No,” said Frank, “they are Americans.”

“Oh, les braves Americains!” she exclaimed. “How glad I am! I know you will help me.”

“Be sure of that,” replied Frank. “But tell me now just what has happened.”

“The boches,” she answered. “They are at our house.”

“How many are there?” asked Frank with quickened interest.

“About thirty,” she replied. Then as she saw Frank glance at the ten who made up his party, she went on: “But you can capture them, I am sure. They are drugged.”

“Drugged?”

“Yes. They came to our house early this morning. They upset everything. They smashed the furniture. They tied my father and brother in chairs. They said they were going to burn the house when they got ready to go away.”

“But how were they drugged?”

“They made me get them all the food and wine there was in the house. I did so. I put some laudanum in the wine. They ate and drank. Then they got sleepy. They dropped off one by one. Then I ran out to find help. I find you. Heaven is good.”

Frank consulted the corporal as the others crowded around in great excitement.

The corporal meditated.

“It may be a trap,” he said cautiously.

“I don’t think so,” replied Frank. “Look at the girl. She’s no actress. I think she’s telling the truth.”

“But even if they were drugged, they may have recovered from the effects by this time,” pondered the corporal.

Then he made up his mind.

“We’ll take a chance,” he decided. “Ask the girl how far the house is from here.”

“About a mile,” the girl answered to Frank’s query. “And there is one other thing,” she added. “They have a prisoner with them. He is young and he has a uniform like yours, only it is torn and soiled. They threw him on the floor in a room upstairs. He was tied with ropes.”

“What does he look like?” asked Frank. “Tell me as well as you can.”

She described the prisoner amid the growing excitement of the Army Boys.

“Tom, for a thousand dollars!” cried Frank.

“It must be!” echoed Bart.

“Sure as guns!” chimed in Billy.

“Do you know him, then?” asked the girl, who had been looking at them wonderingly. “Oh, then hurry! For they are going to hang him. They put a rope over the tree near the well and said they would hang him when they got through eating and drinking.”

Hang Tom! If there had been any hesitation before, there was none now. The chums would have run every step of the way if the corporal had not restrained them. As it was they covered the mile in double-quick time.

As they came to where the farm bordered on the woods and caught sight of the house, their eyes turned with dread toward the well. An exclamation of heartfelt relief broke from them. The rope was there as the girl had said, but no hideous burden dangled from it.

No one was in sight, and a death-like silence brooded over the place. They waited in the shelter of the trees. Perhaps the enemy had recovered and was waiting for them with a force three times their own.

Five minutes passed. Then the corporal gave an order.

“Fix bayonets! We’re going to rush the house.”

There was a sharp click.

“Charge!”

With a cheer they rushed across the brief space that separated them from the house and up to the open door.

The corporal looked in.

“Put up your guns, boys,” he said quietly. “We’ve got them.”

The others crowded after him into the long low-ceiled room. The enemy had been delivered into their hands. There, sprawled over the floor in all sorts of ungainly attitudes among the smashed furniture, were the invaders in various stages of stupor. Some of them opened their eyes at the sudden interruption and stared hard at the newcomers. The lieutenant himself sat at the table on which his head had fallen forward.

But the Army Boys did not tarry long. A word of permission from the corporal and they bounded up the narrow stairs and burst into the room where the girl had said Tom had been left.

The room was empty!

They searched and called frantically.

“Tom! Tom! Where are you? Come out! It’s friends, Frank, Billy, Bart!”

They looked in every cranny and corner of the house upstairs and then down. Then they rushed out to the barn. Then with fear at their hearts they sounded the well.

All was to no purpose. Tom if it had really been Tom might have vanished into thin air for any trace they found of him.

Where had he gone? What had become of him? Or, worst of all, what had the enemy done to him?

There was no answer, and at last they rejoined their comrades in the hope that questioning of the German lieutenant or some of his men might tell them what they wanted to know.

The first precaution that the corporal had taken was to disarm and bind his prisoners. Then the farmer and his son were released. They were wild with rage at the treatment they had undergone and the wanton havoc wrought in their home. If the choice had been left to them they would have killed every prisoner on the spot.

At the corporal’s command water was brought from the well and buckets of it were dashed over the Germans. There was sputtering and yelling, but the soldier boys enjoyed it hugely, and they worked with a hearty good will.

It was a drastic remedy for sleepiness but it worked, and before long the Germans, looking like so many drowned rats, had come out of their stupor and began to realize their situation. The privates were sheepish, but the lieutenant went almost crazy with anger when he realized how he had been trapped. His eyes looked venom at the girl, who laughed at him triumphantly. His rage was increased by his consciousness of the pitiable figure he presented. His smart uniform was dripping, his hair was matted over his face and even his ferocious mustache had lost its Kaiser-like curl. Even one of his own men ventured to snicker at him, and the look the officer turned on him was not good to see.

The corporal began to question him, but the lieutenant looked at him in disdain.

“A German officer does not answer the questions of a corporal,” he sneered.

“Just as you like,” retorted Wilson coolly. “Perhaps you’d like to have me leave you here with the owner of the house and his son. I think they’d like nothing better than to have five minutes alone with you. Perhaps even one minute would be enough.”

The lieutenant took one glance at the glowering faces of the farmer and his son and wilted instantly.

“I will answer your questions,” he said, shortly.