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Read Ebook: Queens of the French Stage by Williams H Noel Hugh Noel
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Ebook has 137 lines and 5166 words, and 3 pages
CHAPTER PAGE
I BURIED ALIVE 1
II A STRANGE SIGHT 9
V BATTLING ONWARD 37
VI POOR SCHNITZ 44
X DISQUIETING RUMORS 77
XX THE CAVE FIGHT 155
THE KHAKI BOYS FIGHTING TO WIN
BURIED ALIVE
Distant rumbles, like those of some far-off thunderstorm, penetrated even to the dugout, which was constructed under a greater depth of earth than usual. At times some fearful, though far-removed, explosion would cause the solid ground to tremble, while articles on the rude shelves of the shelter would fall down with resultant crashes.
"Some bombardment--that!" exclaimed one of a number of khaki-clad soldiers who were busying themselves in varying fashion in their bomb-proof quarters.
"I should say so!" agreed another. "If our boys keep this up long there won't be enough Germans left for us to have a scrimmage with!"
"Don't you fool yourself, Bob!" exclaimed Sergeant Jimmy Blaise. "There are more Germans left alive than we have any idea of. There'll be plenty left for you to tackle."
"Now your mind's relieved on that score, would you mind passing that oil can, Bob?" requested Roger Barlow. "There's a spot of rust on my gun, and if we're going to have another big fight soon I don't want the lock to jam at a critical time."
"Another big fight, eh?" mused Robert Dalton, as he complied with his bunkie's request. "That's about all we've been doing lately."
"That's what we're here for," suggested Sergeant Jimmy. "And the more big fights we have the sooner it will be over."
"You said something!" chimed in Franz Schnitzel, who, in spite of his Teutonic name, was one of the best of Uncle Sam's doughboys. "It's the only way to make the stupid Germans, not to call them anything worse, realize that we're not here to play tag with them. The heavier the fighting, the quicker they'll be ready to give up. But what's the use of talking about more fighting? Here we are, relieved of duty for to-day, at least, and let's enjoy it while we can. We'll be back in the trenches soon enough."
"That's so!" agreed Jimmy. "Hello over there, Iggy!" he called to a lad sitting at a table on which glowed an electric light. "Are you writing in Polish or English?" he asked, for the lad he addressed as "Iggy," but whose name was Ignace Pulinski, was laboring with pen, ink and paper.
"It is English I am writ him, an to my mothar," was the answer. "No more Polish do I him write. I am a 'Merican now and for always."
"That's the way to talk, Iggy!" cried Bob. "Do you want any help with that letter? It seems to be more important than usual."
"Sure him is reportment," agreed Iggy, looking up and drawing in his tongue, which, while writing, had been stuck out of his mouth, following every laborious movement of his pen. "I am to my mothar sending my share of the money that Sergeant Jimmy broke up on us."
"Oh, you mean the five thousand francs he whacked up with us, Iggy," laughed Franz. "That's the word, 'whacked,' not broke, though no matter how much money someone whacks up with you, you'll be broke as soon as you haven't any."
"You mean she'll dance for joy!" laughed Jimmy. "That's all right, Iggy. No offense meant," he went on as he saw his Polish friend look at him rather sharply. "You want to learn English, you know, even if it is a queer language, and you told us to correct you when you made mistakes."
"Sure. So I did. I am of a thanks to you. But my mothar, she will of joy have a lot when she gets this money. It--it is more as she haf ever seen of a once," and there was something in Iggy's tone that put a stop to further joking on this line.
The Polish lad went on with his letter-writing. As he had said, he was enclosing a money order for two hundred dollars. This was his share of a reward of five thousand francs which Sergeant Jimmy Blaise won for putting out of the way a certain "Charles Black," who, it turned out, was an Austrian spy named Adolph von Kreitzen. Jimmy, who in private life was wealthy, had insisted on sharing his reward with the other of the "Five Brothers," as the Khaki Boys were often called.
"Need any help, Iggy?" asked Bob, as he saw the Polish lad shake his head as if in despair over some knotty point in the letter.
"Well, I maybe do," was the answer. "I should tell my mothar about how I was out on night-work, and I of help capture that Russian spy of the name Alexandraiovitch Tarbotchanitzitschi. That is a hard name to spell."
"Spell! You can't spell that name!" and Jimmy Blaise exploded in a laugh. "You can get your tongue around it a whole lot better than any of us, but it can't be spelled. Just put in a wheeze, a couple of sneezes and a hiccough. Then you'll have the name, Iggy."
"Well, I guess maybe you got it right," assented the Polish lad. "I just tell my mothar I of capture a Russian spy what the Germans have--what you call made bad. I tell her the name when I get home."
"That's the idea!" agreed Bob. "Home!" he exclaimed. "Say, fellows, where have I heard that word before?"
He was interrupted by a dog-eared magazine which Jimmy tossed at him, narrowly missing hitting the electric lamp by which Iggy was writing his letter.
"Here! Cheese it! Do you want to douse the glim?" expostulated Schnitzel. "We won this dugout from the Germans after too much hard work to let you put it on the blink now. It's the best place we've had to rest in for some time. Don't go putting it on the kazook!"
"I apologize," said Sergeant Jimmy, humbly enough. "It's great to have electric light, isn't it? Those Huns certainly went to a lot of work to make this place like home for their officers. Electric lights, decent berths, and places where you can take it easy and write letters."
"They never thought we'd get this far, I guess," remarked Bob.
And what he said was true. There had been a sudden and substantial advance on the part of the American army, and they had overwhelmed the German lines at this sector, running the Boches several miles back. Thus long lines of well-made German trenches, including a number of dugouts fitted up rather more elaborately than usual, were left in the hands of the Allies in general and the Americans in particular.
The one in which the five Brothers were taking their rest after some severe fighting had been arranged with electric lights, and after the battle the wires were repaired, the dynamo hitched on again, and the place rendered habitable. It was an exceptionally deep dugout, and was safe from all but the very heaviest bombardments of the German guns. And there had been bombardments from time to time ever since the Americans had swept irresistibly and victoriously over the Boche lines.
"Well, this can't last forever," remarked Bob, as he nibbled at a bit of chocolate.
"Yes, and it'll be you for the outside if you snibby any more of my lollypop!" exclaimed Bob, with a grin as he moved away from Schnitzel. "I got this off a Salvation Army lassie this morning, and she said I wasn't to give any of it away."
"Pity you didn't get some for all of us," commented Roger. "Did they open a fresh box?"
"Yes, just got a new lot in," said Bob. "I was going to tell you about it and advise you to go out and get your share when we got to talking about Iggy's letter."
"Him is all done now--my letter," declared the Polish lad. "I can for the chocolate go!"
"We'll all have a go at the chocolate!" put in Jimmy. "Come on, fellows. We've been in here long enough. Let's get a bit of fresh air without running danger of poison gas. No telling how soon we'll be sent to the front again. Me for a large, juicy slice of chocolate!"
"We're with you!" cried his four chums.
"Well, I wish I could of see my mothar when she open this letter and of the two hundred dollars take out," said Iggy, as he gave the epistle to a messenger to see that it was mailed, together with cards and letters previously prepared by the other Khaki Boys. "She will hop--no, that is not the word--she will dance for of joy."
"Well, let us dance out and get the chocolate while the going's good!" cried Jimmy.
As he spoke a deeper boom from some distant, great gun came to their ears, and the ground trembled.
"Sounds as though they were coming nearer," commented Bob.
"Or else they're using longer range cannon," added Roger.
He never finished the sentence. In the midst of it the words were drowned, swallowed up, obliterated in one great crash. It seemed to be exactly on top of the dugout of which the five Khaki Boys were now the only occupants.
And coincident with the crash there came complete darkness, while the deafening noise was followed by smaller concussions.
"It's a cave-in! The walls are collapsing!" cried Bob.
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