THE BOY SCOUTS TO THE RESCUE

They sent the message quickly, accurately.

THE BOY SCOUTS
TO THE RESCUE

CHAPTER I

FROM SHELL CRATER TO FIRST AID

There were three figures lying in the bottom of the great shell crater that yawned close to the German line. It had been made by a French shell, so a great mound of dirt had been cast up on the side next the enemy. One of the bodies in the close group lay in the stiff, distorted attitude in which a sudden and horrible death had frozen him. The second lay quite limp, unseeing, uncaring—the attitude of a man desperately hurt. Only the third, rather small and slender, lay curled up much as a vigilant cat might, trying to give the impression of sleep or death, but with every faculty and nerve like live wires. His eyes were open, and with every ounce of force in him he was listening, plotting and planning.

Under the thick mud the uniforms worn by the different men were indistinguishable. The coating was a thick, slimy, even gray. The figure whose alert, piercing eyes studied his surroundings so carefully shivered steadily. He was chilled to the bone. As it grew darker, he rolled slowly over on his back, and for a while studied the edge of the crater as its rough edges showed dark against the sky. All seemed well. Not a head, not a bayonet, could cut that jagged line without his knowing it. The Huns would not make a sortie now. Exhausted themselves, they were depending on the exhaustion of the French for a short, unspoken truce of a few hours.

The living figure in the crater rolled over and on hands and knees crept to the body nearest him. He felt over it carefully. The face, drained of blood, was ghastly cold in the steady, fine rain that beat on it; but there was life in that still body. If he could only get help!

He laid the head back on its slimy resting place and crawled carefully to the top of the crater next the French trenches. He must get help! Otherwise the Lieutenant would die. The wet ground gave with him, but he persisted and with a mighty effort raised his face over the edge. Then with a stifled cry he dropped back. Another face, dim and strange in the darkness, was there. It met him eye to eye, not three inches from his face.

The cold, drizzling rain fell steadily into the sodden trench chilling the soldiers who crouched and huddled against the streaming sides of the shelter, if shelter it could be called. The trench was very close to the enemy. An almost constant succession of flares sent up by the Germans lit the racked and tattered landscape. In the fitful light it looked unreal, impossible.

Torn fields, shattered trees, ploughed fields everywhere, with yawning shell craters on every side.

The expanse of ground between the lines was made terrible by the shell craters. Day was ending, and in the dim, yellow half light the uneven, edges of the deep and ragged holes threw narrow, black shadows that seemed to gash the riven fields. Above, a couple of French airships circled. The German planes had disappeared, and the Frenchmen flew in widening circles above the enemies' lines. The roar of the guns had diminished to an occasional popping, with once in a while a bellowing roar as some iron giant launched its terrible missile. All day the Huns had hammered at the stubborn line; all day the French, with their American allies, had hammered in return. It had commenced, this big battle, at daybreak; all day had it raged without lull or pause, now from the trenches, now frightful conflicts in the open. Now, as though both sides acknowledged exhaustion though not defeat, a lull had come. The men in the trenches, almost delirious with fatigue, dropped in the mud and water and slept. Red Cross bearers came splashing along with their burdens. Men wounded to the death whimpered pitifully and babbled of home, or bore their agony in stony silence. Out somewhere in No-Man's-Land, the terrible stretch lying between the two lines, out there in the gathering darkness, a clear, high tenor voice commenced to sing:

"We're going home, we're going home,

We're going home to-morrow."

 

Clear and sweet the voice sounded. Another flare went up; then a German gun commenced to drop shells in the direction of the voice. It was as though they would gladly waste a dozen shells on the chance of stilling that sweet singer. The voice went on, growing gradually weaker, but lifting true, sweet notes until there came a little break and—stillness. A last venomous shot whined toward the spot where the singer lay, his young voice hushed forever.

The darkness deepened, and the flares, increasing in number, gave the place an unreal, ghastly light, like some gigantic and unending nightmare. Something that could not be possible, must not be possible, but which was to go on and on and on endlessly, relentlessly.

At last it was black night.

A sergeant made his way along the trench, slipping and sliding through the mud and ooze. He gave commands in muffled whispers, and a number of the exhausted men turned and followed him when he returned to the outlet of the trench. Lying so close to the border of No-Man's-Land, across which it was possible for an occasional spy to invade their trench, the greatest care was taken in every possible way to discover and check such invasion. When there was no