The two forces met with a tremendous shock.

ARMY BOYS
MARCHING
INTO GERMANY

OR

OVER THE RHINE WITH THE STARS
AND STRIPES

BY
HOMER RANDALL

Author of “Army Boys in France,” “Army Boys in
the French Trenches,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED

New York
GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY
Publishers

BOOKS FOR BOYS

ARMY BOYS SERIES

By Homer Randall
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated

ARMY BOYS IN FRANCE
Or From Training Camp to Trenches
ARMY BOYS IN THE FRENCH TRENCHES
Or Hand to Hand Fighting with the Enemy
ARMY BOYS ON THE FIRING LINE
Or Holding Back the German Drive
ARMY BOYS IN THE BIG DRIVE
Or Smashing Forward to Victory
ARMY BOYS MARCHING INTO GERMANY
Or Over the Rhine with the Stars and Stripes

GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY
Publishers New York

Copyright, 1919, by
GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY

Army Boys Marching Into Germany
PRINTED IN U.S.A.

ARMY BOYS MARCHING INTO
GERMANY

CONTENTS

ARMY BOYS
MARCHING
INTO GERMANY

CHAPTER I
THE DISGUISED OFFICER

“We’ll hold this position, boys, if we die for it,” exclaimed Frank Sheldon, as he wiped the grime and sweat from his face with his sleeve and reloaded his rifle.

“We’ll die all right,” muttered Tom Bradford, as his rifle cracked and accounted for another German, “but we’ll take lots of those fellows with us anyway.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any stopping them,” grunted Billy Waldon. “Looks as if the whole German army’s wading into us.”

“Heinie’s there with the goods all right,” admitted Frank, “but it’s his last kick. He’s about due to pass out now. We’ve got his number.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” cautioned Tom. “It’s still a long, long way to the Rhine.”

“Stop your chinning, you fellows,” warned Billy. “Here comes another rush. Stand fast.”

Down over the slightly sloping ground came a great wave that threatened to engulf the little band of army boys who were holding the position.

A hail of bullets and of hand grenades met the assailants and tore great gaps in their lines. Men by the score threw up their hands and fell, but their comrades pressed on over them in a fierce determination to wipe out once for all the American detachment that had been holding them so obstinately at that point of the long battle line on the edge of the forest.

“They’re gluttons for punishment,” panted Tom, as he pumped bullets into the oncoming ranks until his gun grew hot in his hands.

“It’ll be hand to hand this time,” gritted Frank between his teeth. “Bullets won’t stop them. We’ll have to give them the bayonet.”

“That’s what,” growled Bart, as his fingers tightened on his gun stock and his muscles tightened.

“I’m glad of it,” muttered Billy. “I’m tired of lying here and holding them back. I’m aching to get into the middle of that bunch and give them a taste of cold steel.”

“They’re twice as many as we are,” observed Frank, “but that’s just about right. One American ought to be able to handle two Huns and give them all that’s coming to them.”

On came the enemy until they were so close that the boys could see from the marks they bore that they belonged to the Prussian guards, the choice troops of the German army.

“Tough nuts to crack,” muttered Tom, “but we’ve cracked them before and we’ll do it again.”

Nearer and nearer that mass of field gray came until the boys could literally see the whites of their eyes.

But it was no part of the American plan to take that shock standing still and give the enemy all the benefit of the momentum. A bugle rang out with a call that the boys well knew and that thrilled them to the marrow. Then down the line came the sharp, quick command:

“Fix bayonet. Ready. Charge!”

The American boys swarmed out of the trenches and with a shout rushed forward to meet the foe.

The two forces met with a tremendous shock that seemed at first as if it would annihilate them both. The impact was terrific. The Germans had the advantage of a greater momentum, but this was offset to some extent by the fact that they were more tired by their exertions while the Americans were comparatively fresh.

There was very little firing done now. The machine guns on either side had ceased, as they were as likely to mow down their own men as the enemy by shooting into that dense mass. Rifles and revolvers were used until their charges were exhausted. Then revolvers were thrown aside or hurled into opponents’ faces, the rifles were used as a backing for the bayonet or whirled about the head like a flail, and the fighting became a conflict between individual men or groups battling to the death.

For a few minutes it was a mêlée of hacking, clubbing and stabbing. Men by the dozen went down, killed or wounded. Some of the latter, who could still move, crawled or fell into shell holes that offered some slight measure of protection. Often a pair of combatants went down together, locked in a close embrace from which neither of them rose again.

Frank found himself engaged with two husky Germans who attacked him at the same moment. He side-stepped one and drove his bayonet through the shoulder of the other. He tried to withdraw it, but could not pull it out before the other German was again upon him.

Like lightning he dropped his hold on his gun, his fist shot out and landed flush on his assailant’s jaw. The man went down, and Frank, content with having put him out of action, wrenched his gun free from his other fallen enemy and hurried to the help of Tom, who was hard beset.

Whirling his gun about his head, he cleared a space about himself and his panting comrade. A moment’s respite and again they plunged into the thick of the fight.

“Hot stuff, eh?” said Tom, with a twisted grin on his lips that had been cut by a glancing bayonet thrust.

“Hot’s the right word,” gasped Frank. “Where are Bart and Billy?”

“I don’t know,” replied Tom, and then, as a group of Germans surged in upon them, they said no more but went at it tooth and nail.

It was not an easy victory, for the Germans fought desperately. But victory at last it proved to be, as the Yankee boys pressed forward with that same splendid get-there-or-die spirit that they had shown ever since the first glorious days at Belleau Wood and Château Thierry. Soon the long lines broke up into separate groups and a few minutes later the Germans began to retreat, slowly at first and then more rapidly, until the wood in front of the old Thirty-seventh had been cleared, and the American line had been advanced far beyond where it had been when the fighting had begun.

The Americans had lost a considerable number of men, but not so many as the enemy, for the ground was covered with German dead.

Frank had come through unscathed, except for a slight ridge in the scalp that a bullet had barely grazed, but Tom’s cut lip had swelled so that his mouth was twisted in a ludicrous shape and he could only speak with difficulty. At any other time Frank would have been inclined to “guy” him over the comical appearance he presented, but now, as always after a hot fight, his first thought was of Bart and Billy. He looked about him anxiously, but could see nothing of them as his glance darted in and out among the trees.

“Could anything have happened to the old scouts, do you think?” he asked of Tom.

“They’ll turn up all right,” answered Tom, with more confidence than he really felt. “There’s Billy now,” he exclaimed with great relief, pointing to the right, “and I’m blessed if the old boy isn’t driving a couple of Huns in front of him.”

It was Billy, sure enough, as jaunty and chipper as ever, walking behind two Germans who shuffled along sullenly enough. Billy’s face broke into a broad grin as his friends hurried toward him.

“Some class to this child,” he chuckled, as he indicated the prisoners. “Copped them out all by my lonesome. But where’s Bart?” he asked, his tone changing as he noticed the absence of his comrade.

“That’s just what we want to know,” replied Frank with great uneasiness. “He got away from us in the early part of the fighting and we haven’t seen him since.”

Billy signaled to Fred Anderson, who was passing.

“Take these fellows back to the pen, will you, Fred?” he asked. “I want to help the boys hunt up Raymond.”

“Sure thing,” responded Fred good-naturedly, as he relieved Billy of his charges.

“Now,” said Billy, “let’s get a hustle on and hunt among the wounded.”

Each of them felt in his heart an awful fear that something worse than wounds might have come to Bart, but by common consent they kept the word “dead” away from their lips and tried to keep it away from their minds. All of them had been face to face with death again and again and had been wounded more or less severely, but so far death had spared them and the four had grown to feel that they would all pull through safely. But Bart was missing. Had a break come at last?

Already burial parties were going up and down the field and the stretcher parties were gathering up the wounded to convey them to the advanced dressing stations. The three chums attached themselves to these and searched frantically among both the wounded and the dead.

For some time their search was unavailing, and then suddenly Frank gave a call that brought the others instantly to his side.

“I’ve found him!” he cried. “But I don’t know whether he’s living or dead. Help me to get him out of this pile of bodies.”

In a moment their sinewy hands had extricated their comrade, and Frank knelt down and lifted Bart’s head in his arms, while Tom tore open their chum’s shirt and put his hand on his heart.

There was a great gash in Bart’s forehead from which the blood had flowed freely. His face was as pale as chalk except where it was streaked with blood, his eyes were closed and he showed no sign of life. But just as Frank was fearing the worst, Tom gave an exclamation of relief.

“He’s alive,” he cried. “His heart is beating.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Frank fervently and was echoed by Billy. “But I’m afraid he’s pretty badly hurt. We’ve got to get him to the hospital in a hurry.”

He called out to a couple of litter bearers and they hurried toward him. With infinite care and tenderness they lifted Bart and put him on the stretcher. They would have taken him to the hospital themselves, but that was the work of the bearers, and duty held the boys to the line that might at any moment be assailed by the Germans in a counter-attack.

“Good old Bart!” murmured Frank. “He’s alive anyway and while there’s life there’s hope.”

“Bart’s luck will stand by him, all right,” prophesied Billy, reassuringly. “But that was a fearful swipe he had across his forehead. It must have been made by a bayonet.”

“I don’t think so,” said Tom, who had been looking about him. “See that stump? It’s covered with blood. Bart stumbled over a body or something and struck his head against this stump and it’s knocked him out.”

Further conjectures were deferred by a sharp, quick summons for the men to get back into line. An aviator had signaled that the Huns were again preparing to attack with fresh regiments that had been hastily brought up, and the old Thirty-seventh, like the veterans they had become, hurriedly consolidated their positions and awaited the worst that the enemy could bring against them.

Just then there was a stir in the lines and a staff officer, in the uniform of a colonel, came galloping up, attended by an orderly. He dismounted, threw the reins to the orderly and came up to a group of the Thirty-seventh’s officers.

“Who is in command here?” he asked briskly.

Major Willis, who had charge of that portion of the line, stepped forward and saluted.

“I am,” he declared.

“Orders from headquarters,” said the newcomer, as he returned the salute. “You are to retire from this position at once and fall back to your former line of defense. The enemy has been so strongly reinforced that it is inadvisable to remain where you are.”

The major looked his surprise and seemed about to protest, but instinctively discipline asserted itself and he again saluted and turned to give the necessary orders.

The boys had been standing near enough to hear the conversation, and Frank, happening to catch sight of Tom’s face, was startled. His face was pale and his eyes were blazing.

“What is it, Tom?” he asked in a low voice and put his hand on his comrade’s arm.

But Tom shook off his hand and sprang forward. His voice rang out like a trumpet.

“It’s a lie!” he shouted. “That man is a German spy! Seize him! Seize him!”

CHAPTER II
TRAPPED

The effect of Tom’s words was electric.

It was unexampled. It was a flagrant breach of discipline that under ordinary circumstances would be unforgivable. A non-commissioned officer sprang forward to thrust him back into the ranks. But the major, after a lightning glance at Tom and then at the strange officer, intervened.

“Just a minute,” he said. “Bradford, come here.”

Tom stepped up in front of the major and saluted.

The newcomer here made a protest. His face had flushed a fiery red when Tom had shouted his accusation. Then he became as white as chalk. But he pulled himself together and took on an air of assurance.

“Upon my word, Major,” he said arrogantly, “the discipline in your command is deplorable. Kindly send this young madman to the guardhouse and obey the order I gave you. You disobey it on your peril.”

He turned as though to mount his horse, but Frank was too quick for him. Like a flash he tore the reins from the orderly and held them. The strange officer made as though he would snatch them from him.

“Stop!” ordered Major Willis. “Sergeant,” he went on, addressing a non-commissioned officer, “stand ready with a squad of men. Take that orderly into custody and surround this officer. Now, Bradford,” he went on turning to Tom, “what made you say what you did?”

“Because it is true, sir,” replied Tom. “That man is an officer in the German army. I saw him when he was wearing a German uniform in the German lines and plotting with an American traitor.”

There was a stir in the group, and the accused man gave a start that was not lost on the major, who was watching him intently.

“That is a serious accusation—a terrible accusation,” said the major gravely. “If it is true, it means death to this man. If it is false, it means severe punishment for you. Are you sure of your facts?”

“Perfectly sure, sir,” affirmed Tom. “It was after I had been captured by the Germans and was trying to escape. I was hiding up a tree in the woods. Rabig—you know Rabig, sir, the man we’re holding for court-martial?”—the major nodded—“Rabig came into the woods and sat down under the tree I was hiding in. This man”—pointing to the accused—“met him there and they talked for a long time together. Money passed between them. Then this man went away and I dropped down on Rabig, overpowered him, took away the pass the German had given him—and got back to our own lines.”

The alleged German here interposed.

“Is it possible,” he exclaimed, “that you attach any weight to a mere resemblance, admitting that this fellow is telling what he believes to be true? There may be a thousand men in either army that look like me. Let us have done with this nonsense.”

There seemed some force in this and the major looked inquiringly at Tom.

“There’s no mistake, sir,” persisted Tom. “I’d know his face among a thousand. But there’s one thing that will prove I’m right and that even he himself can’t deny. The man who was talking to Rabig had the end of the third finger missing from his left hand.”

Every eye went to the stranger’s left hand. It was encased in a riding glove and there was nothing to indicate that it was maimed.

“Will you kindly remove your glove?” asked the major with ominous politeness.

“I refuse,” objected the strange officer hotly. “This is an indignity. I shall report these proceedings at headquarters.”

“Remove your glove,” demanded the major sternly, and at the same time the sergeant and his detachment crowded about the accused, ready for instant action.

There was no help for it and the officer obeyed. The first joint of the third finger of the hand was missing.

A shout went up, increasing to a roar, as the detected spy made a sudden dash through the guard surrounding him, reached his horse, and with surprising agility vaulted upon his back and dug his spurs into his sides.

The horse reared high in the air with sudden fright and pain, and started to run, dragging Frank with him. The latter had been startled by the unexpected action of the spy, but he held on to the reins with desperation and refused to be shaken off.

The spy drew a pistol from his belt and fired pointblank at Frank, the bullet grazing his ear. But he still hung on, and a moment later a score of his comrades had caught up to them and dragged the German from the horse’s back.

He fought desperately, for he knew that he was fighting for his life, and considerable force was necessary to subdue him. He was a sadly battered object when at last he was half dragged, half carried into the presence of the major and other officers.

The major looked at him, and his eyes had the glint of steel.

“So this is the way you play the game of war,” he said, in tones of biting irony. “Is there anything to which your country will not stoop?”

The prisoner looked at him sullenly but made no reply.

“Take him away,” the major directed. “A court-martial will attend to his case before sundown.”

The man was marched off, accompanied by his orderly who had also been secured, and as he passed Tom he favored him with a glance that was full of venom and malignity.

The major turned to Tom.

“You have done well, Bradford,” he said, “and you deserve the thanks of the regiment. Had that man’s trick succeeded it might have led to a serious situation. I will see that your name is mentioned in the order of the day. You can return to your place.”

Tom saluted and retired, and a murmur of approbation went up from the men as he passed them.

Quick orders passed down the line, for now that the trick had failed an enemy attack could be expected at any moment.

“Good stuff, Tom!” exclaimed Frank approvingly as he clapped his comrade on the shoulder. “You were Johnny-on-the-spot that time for fair.”

“You were the real goods, old boy,” agreed Billy. “My heart was in my mouth for fear you might have made a mistake. And it’s mighty lucky that Frank had those reins, or the fellow might have got away after all.”

“Not a chance,” replied Frank lightly. “A dozen bullets would have got him anyway. The game was up with him the minute he had to take off his glove.”

“It was a regular Hun trick,” said Tom disdainfully.

“And he nearly got away with it,” commented Billy. “He nearly had the major going. Why, he spoke English just as well as I do.”

“That isn’t saying much,” chaffed Frank, and dodged the pass that Billy made at him.

“Well, he didn’t put it over, and a miss is as good as a mile,” remarked Tom.

“Did you see the look he shot at you as he went past?” said Billy. “If looks could kill you’d have died on the spot.”

“There go the guns,” interrupted Frank, as the enemy artillery opened up in chorus with a roar that shook the ground, and a storm of shells came shrieking toward them. “They’re getting ready to charge and the guns are laying down a barrage. We’ll have another hack at them soon.”

They crouched lower and clutched their rifles tightly. And while these fearless young Americans are waiting for the onset, it may be well, for the sake of those who have not read the preceding books in this series, to tell who Frank and his comrades were and what they had been doing up to the time our story opens.

Frank Sheldon was a stalwart young American who had been born and reared in Camport, a prosperous city of about twenty-five thousand inhabitants. He was a bright, likable fellow, a leader in athletic sports and a general favorite. Above all he was a hundred per cent. American. His father had died some years before our story opens, and Frank was the only son and support of his mother to whom he was devotedly attached. She was a French woman whom Mr. Sheldon had married while on a business visit to France. She was the heiress to a considerable estate left by her father, but on account of the war had not been able to go to France to claim the property, the settlement of which had been held up by some legal complications.

Frank had secured a good position with the firm of Moore and Thomas, and had excellent prospects for the future when the war broke out. His blood was on fire at once and he was eager to enlist, although for a time he was held back because of his mother’s dependence on him. An insult to the flag, however, which Frank promptly avenged by knocking down the guilty German, decided him, and he joined the old Thirty-seventh, the local regiment that had already seen service in other wars. With him enlisted his special chum, Bart Raymond, who was as ardent a patriot as Frank himself. Billy Waldon, another close friend, was already a member. Tom Bradford wanted to join, but was rejected on account of his teeth, though afterward he was accepted in the draft, and the four friends to their great delight found themselves together.

The only discordant element was Nick Rabig, born in America but of German parents, who had been with them in the same firm in Camport, and had made himself thoroughly disliked because of his bullying disposition and pro-German sentiments. He and Frank had been more than once on the point of blows, and finally, after Rabig had been caught in the draft and placed in the Thirty-seventh, Frank gave him the thrashing that he richly deserved.

How the Army Boys went through their period of training; how they sailed for Europe and narrowly escaped being torpedoed by a submarine, what exciting adventures they met with in their first contact with the enemy—these things are told in the first volume of this series, entitled: “Army Boys in France; Or, From Training Camp to Trenches.”

Once in the battle zone, thrilling experiences came thick and fast. The boys were not confined in their activities to the trenches, for the operations soon developed into open fighting. They were caught in a swirl of the fighting, pursued by Uhlan cavalry, compelled to leap from a broken bridge and finally captured by the Germans. From this captivity they were rescued by their aviator friend, Dick Lever, and carried back to their lines in his aeroplane. Frank had some encouraging news about his mother’s property from a Colonel Pavet whose life he had saved on the battlefield. How rapidly the boys developed into veteran soldiers is told in the second volume of the series, entitled: “Army Boys in the French Trenches; Or, Hand to Hand Fights with the Enemy.”

The great German drive was now preparing and the enemy in his first successes drove the Allies back and threatened to seize Paris and the Channel Ports. The old Thirty-seventh was thrown into the breach with the other American forces and did valiant work in holding the Germans back. Tom was captured and had a series of stirring adventures before he rejoined his comrades. Nick Rabig, who had been under suspicion, from the start, was unmasked as a traitor. The boys had many hairbreadth escapes in desperate fighting, as will be seen from the third volume of the series, entitled: “Army Boys on the Firing Line; Or, Holding Back the German Drive.”

The great counter-attack of Marshal Foch in July, 1918, put an end to the enemy attempt to advance and sealed the doom of Germany. After that time the Huns were steadily on the retreat, although they still put up some bitter battles. Frank and his comrades were in the front rank of the jubilant American army that was helping to drive the enemy back to the Rhine. In the battle of St. Mihiel, the Army Boys did their full share of the fighting. By an unfortunate chain of circumstances, Frank for a time seemed to be mixed up with the robbery of a paymaster’s messenger, but he was triumphantly cleared of the charge and Nick Rabig was discovered to be the real culprit. The story of the part the Army Boys played in the beating of the Huns is narrated in the fourth volume of the series, entitled, “Army Boys in the Big Drive; Or, Smashing Forward to Victory.”

The artillery fire that was searching out the American positions increased in intensity, and indicated that the attack when it did come would be a determined one.

“Fritz is sore,” remarked Tom grimly.

“Yes,” chuckled Billy, “he’s peeved because his little game didn’t work. He had it all framed up that he was going to get this position for nothing and now he finds he’ll have to fight for it.”

“It’s going to be a lovely scrap,” said Frank, peering through a chink in the log barricade that they had erected in consolidating their position. “I only wish that poor Bart could be here to share it with us. That boy would rather fight any time than eat.”

“Maybe some of us will be with Bart sooner than he will be with us,” muttered Tom, who, though he had the heart of a lion, was usually seeing the darker side of things.

Just then a shell came screaming through the air and dropped on the ground within ten feet of them.

“Duck!” cried Billy, and like a flash they all threw themselves flat on the ground, turning their helmets in the direction of the shell to give their heads as much protection as possible.

But the explosion they had nerved themselves to hear did not take place, and after a few seconds they raised their heads and looked curiously in its direction.

The shell lay harmlessly imbedded in the earth. From some defect, it had failed to explode.

The boys scrambled to their feet and looked rather sheepishly at each other.

“A dud!” exclaimed Tom in profound disgust and yet with a certain measure of relief.

“A false alarm,” remarked Billy as he brushed the dirt from his uniform.

“It put one over on us that time for fair,” admitted Frank, as he picked up his rifle. “But it’s a good sign, fellows. It shows the Heinies are running short of good powder and they have to use an inferior brand. You can bet that there aren’t very many of our shells that don’t explode when they fall into their lines.”

“Here they come,” warned Billy. “Gee, but those lines are thick! They’re putting all their eggs in one basket this time.”

“The more that come the more to fall,” muttered Frank, the light of battle coming into his eyes.

It seemed indeed as though the Germans were staking all the day’s results on a single throw, for they were in much greater force than before and they fell on the American lines like an avalanche. It was a form of fighting in which they were especially proficient and against weaker fighters they might have prevailed. But the old Thirty-seventh and the regiments to the right and left of it had met these men before and beaten them, had beaten them that very day, had seen their backs, and in their hearts they knew that they were their masters.

So that when the attack came it beat upon granite. A withering fire from machine guns tore through their ranks, and then from the rifles of the Americans, many of whom wore marksmen’s medals, leaped a sheet of flame that was the very blast of death.

The thick enemy lines wavered, broke and retreated. But under the urging and revolvers of their officers they formed again and came on only once more to be driven back with tremendous losses. This time they broke utterly and fled.

The American officers saw their opportunity and gave the order to charge. Over their log shelter with a cheer went the American boys, and pursued the beaten enemy, gathering up prisoners as they went along. The rout was complete, and only ended when the enemy reached and crossed a canal which was in their rear. They blew up the bridges after they had crossed and there for a time the American pursuit came to an end.

“Gee, but this has been some day!” panted Frank happily, after it was all over and the regiment was resting after its well-earned victory.

“This is the end of a perfect day,” hummed Billy.

“The biggest day the old Thirty-seventh has had yet,” declared Tom.

“There’s just one thing lacking,” said Frank, “and that is that Bart isn’t with us. I’m going to try to get leave the first thing in the morning and get over to the hospital.”

Just then Corporal Wilson, whom they knew well, came up to them.

“Been to mess yet?” he asked.

“Sure thing,” grinned Billy, “and what we did to that chow was a sin and a shame.”

The corporal smiled.

“That’s good,” he said. “I’m looking for a few volunteers. And when I say volunteers you fellows know that the work I have in mind is dangerous, so dangerous in fact that I wouldn’t feel justified in ordering men to do it.”

All three sprang to their feet.

“Bring on your job,” cried Frank.

“Trot it out,” said Billy.

“Count me in,” added Tom.

Warm approval shone in Wilson’s eyes.

“I didn’t think I’d have to look much farther,” he said. “I’ve been on scouting trips with you fellows before and there’s nobody I’d rather have at my back if it came to a scrap. Go and get your black scouting suits and blacken your faces too. It’s going to be a black night but we can’t take too many precautions. When you’re ready, report to me and I’ll give you your instructions. Of course I’m going with you.”

He passed on and the boys looked at each other.

“Wonder what the corp has on his mind?” remarked Frank.

“Something risky you can bet,” said Billy.

“Well, you have to hand it to Wilson,” observed Tom. “You notice he said he was going with us. He doesn’t ask anyone to go where he won’t go himself.”

In a few minutes they had donned their scout suits and blackened their faces and reported to the corporal. They found him at his quarters dressed like themselves. By this time it was fully dark and time to start.

CHAPTER III
A BREATHLESS MOMENT

“We’re going to try to cross that canal yonder,” the corporal explained. “Headquarters wants to learn something about the disposition of the German forces. If what we find out suits our officers, they may throw pontoons across and attack. If you ask me how we’re going to get across tonight, I tell you frankly I don’t know. Perhaps we’ll have to swim. We’ll have to trust to luck and our own wits. Are you ready? Then come along.”

He led the way and they trailed after him like so many shadows into the night.

There was no special reason for silence just yet, as the Army Boys followed their leader, for there were no Germans except wounded and prisoners left on this side of the canal, and they conversed freely among themselves, although instinctively in low tones.

“If Bart were only with us!” said Frank regretfully. “We’ve never yet gone on a trip of this kind that that boy hasn’t been along.”

“He’ll be kicking himself for having missed it,” prophesied Billy.

“There promises to be excitement enough in this to satisfy even Bart,” added Tom.

They soon passed through the last line of sentries and reached the bank of the canal, or river, being partly natural and partly artificial. It was quite a wide watercourse and there was a fringe of trees that bordered it back of the towpath and the boys kept close in the shadow of these. But they no longer stood erect, for they feared that some light from the camp might form a background against which their figures could be seen. Down they went on hands and knees and crept along with the stealth of so many Indians out on a night foray.

Across the canal they could see a long and irregular glow which came from the dugouts and trenches where the Germans had established themselves. The line was at some distance from the canal itself, but they did not doubt that sentries were established along the whole bank on the lookout for just such a venture as the boys were engaged in.

“The corp was right in calling for volunteers,” whispered Frank in Billy’s ear.

“Looks to me like the riskiest thing we’ve been in yet,” returned Billy.

“We’ll have to do some classy swimming to get over without making a splash,” grunted Tom.

For half a mile or more they kept on down the canal, until they got beyond the zone of light and felt it safe to rise and emerge from the woods, cross the towpath, and reach the very edge of the bank.

In some places the bank went down straight into the water, and they could not drop in without making a noise. In others, however, it shelved somewhat, and these Wilson explored with the greatest care.

Suddenly he stopped and beckoned the boys to come nearer. They gathered about him.

“Look at this,” he whispered, and they saw that he had his hand on the stern of a small boat that had been drawn in the shelter of a little arch at the side of the canal.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” commented Frank, as he saw that the boat was big enough to carry four on a pinch and could faintly see the outline of a pair of oars lying across the thwarts.

“It beats swimming,” murmured Tom.

“Get into it,” ordered Wilson. “No, don’t do that,” he said hastily, as Billy was about to take up one of the oars. “I’m afraid they’ll hear us if we use the oars. We’ll just push it across with our hands. It’s slower but it’s safer.”

They slipped into the boat as silently as ghosts, and dipping their hands in the water with the utmost caution began to propel the craft towards the further bank.

The boat was a homemade affair, probably built by some peasant, and was heavy and clumsy. Moreover, with the four it was forced low in the water and moved with difficulty. But there was plenty of time, for they had the greater part of the night before them.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the boat progressed. No shot greeted it, no hail from the shore told that it was discovered. The silence was almost uncanny.

On they went until at last the further bank loomed up before them. Soon they were near enough to touch it with their hands. But it was smooth and steep and they could not reach the top.

They worked their way along the wall, until finally they came to a place where several stones had fallen out, so that the holes left by them served as holds for their hands and feet. At a whispered command from the corporal, Frank worked his way up until his eyes were on a level with the top of the bank. There he stood and looked and listened with every faculty intent.

“Nothing stirring,” he reported, as he let himself down again in the boat. “Either the Germans haven’t strung their lines down this far or they’re lying mighty low. I think it’s worth taking a chance to land here. There’s a patch of woods a hundred yards or so away, and if we can reach that we can take our bearings and decide on what we’ll do next.”

“All right,” said the corporal after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll chance it on your judgment, Sheldon. We’ll leave the boat here and Bradford with it.”

Tom made a move to protest, but discipline asserted itself and he resigned himself without a word, although sorely disappointed at not being allowed to go on with the others.

“The hoot of an owl will be the signal,” Wilson told him as they prepared to leave the boat. “When you hear that, give the answer so that we can find our way to where you are. Have the oars all ready, as we may have to leave in a hurry.”

Tom nodded his understanding and the rest left him, dropping flat on the bank as soon as they reached the top and worming their way over the space that intervened between them and the patch of woods some distance beyond.

The strain on nerves and muscles was tremendous and it was with a sigh of relief that they reached the shelter of the woods. Here they could rise to their feet, although even this required the most extreme care. They were by no means assured that it was a friendly shelter. It might contain machine gun nests or strong forces of the enemy.

Five minutes of the most intense silence and listening passed before they dared even to whisper to each other. Convinced at last that no one was close at hand, the boys drew near the corporal for his final instructions.

“We’re certainly in luck so far,” he breathed. “The only explanation of the failure to have sentries here is that they had no idea today that they were going to be driven back so far as to have to cross the canal. They came over helter-skelter and they’ve been so busy in blowing up bridges and getting their rattled forces together that other things have had to wait. But it’s only a matter of time before they’ll have guards set here, and we want to get back before that happens, if possible. Bring your watch hands close to mine and let’s compare so as to see that we have the same time.”

They did as directed, and the illumined faces of their radio watches showed that their time was practically the same.

“Five after ten,” remarked the corporal. “That gives us two hours until midnight. At twelve o’clock sharp, wherever you happen to be, start back for the boat. You’ve each got a compass and you can come pretty close to the place, and the owl signal will do the rest. Find out whatever you can as to where the enemy has his battery positions, where he has gathered his greatest force, and where his wire entanglements are weakest. You’ve got your knives, and if I were you I’d depend on those if you find it necessary. Only use your revolver as a last resort, for if you have to fire the jig is up.

“Now we’re going to spread out like a fan. Sheldon, you go off there to the left. Waldon will bear a little away from the canal bank toward the north, and I’ll take the path between you two. I don’t need to tell you that your life depends on your being careful. You know that as well as I do. Twelve o’clock sharp, mind. Good-bye and good luck.”

Without another word they separated, gliding from tree to tree and gradually getting further apart, as they followed the general path that had been marked out for them.

Frank had not gone far before he had increasing evidence that he was approaching the main body of the enemy’s troops. The light grew brighter that came from the hastily dug trenches of the enemy. Groups of men passed to and fro with lanterns, sometimes coming so close to the sheltering woods that he had to flatten himself in the bushes, scarcely daring to breathe until they had passed.

Reaching at last the edge of the forest, he rose to his feet behind a huge tree and peered out. He could have shouted with delight, for he saw that he had happened upon a spot where the enemy was concentrating their heavy artillery. Great guns were being moved into position, emplacements for them were being hastily constructed, and he was able by the lanterns that flitted in and out among them like so many fire-flies to get a fairly accurate idea of their number and calibre. Here was information that would be more precious than gold to his officers. He could take no notes, but he went over the whole scene again and again in his mind, so that he should forget no detail.

So absorbed did he become in noting all that he thought might be of value to his officers that when a stream of light was thrown suddenly in his direction it struck him with almost the force of a blow.

He drew back like a flash and flattened himself against his side of the tree, making himself as small as possible.

After a minute or two he ventured to peer out. The light which came from a searchlight which was being tested by the enemy was darting about, now here, now there, but evidently without any special purpose in view, and his first fear that it had betrayed his hiding place subsided. But another apprehension took its place at once, for he saw a man in an officer’s uniform coming directly toward him.

Frank instinctively felt for his revolver, but he dismissed that thought before his hand touched the butt. With enemies swarming all about him, a shot at that moment would be little less than suicide. But his knife was still there, and his hand closed around its handle while his lips tightened with resolution.

The officer came on and Frank crouched for a spring in case he should be discovered. But to his great relief, the officer paused just before he reached the tree, drew a pipe from his pocket and lighted it. Then with a grunt of satisfaction he leaned up against the tree and puffed away, while he looked at the animated scene from which he had withdrawn for a few minutes of rest and relaxation.

The tobacco was vile, more like burning leaves than anything else, and as the clouds from the pipe enveloped Frank, he had all he could do to keep from coughing or sneezing. But he kept the impulse in check and waited with what patience he could command for the officer’s next move.

The searchlight was flashing in another quarter now, for which Frank was devotedly thankful, but there was still too much light to make it safe for the young American to attempt to crawl away. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly midnight. The corporal and his chums would be waiting for him.

With infinite caution he peered around the side of the tree. Would that pipeful never be smoked out?

The officer had shifted his position somewhat, and Frank caught a glimpse of a paper protruding from an outside pocket of his coat. It looked like an official document of some kind. The thought came to Frank that it might contain some plans of the enemy for the next day’s fighting.

It was a tremendous risk to attempt to get it, but Frank resolved to take the chance.

Drawing his knife and holding it ready for instant action, his other hand reached slowly around the tree and crept toward the officer’s pocket.

CHAPTER IV
IN THE TUNNEL

Slowly, so slowly that it scarcely seemed to move, Frank’s hand advanced until the fingers closed on the paper. Fortunately it protruded far enough for Frank to get a good grip on it.

If his hand had trembled, he would have been betrayed in an instant. But the experiences he had been through had steeled Frank’s nerves and his muscles worked with the precision of a machine.

A fraction of an inch at a time, he drew the paper out until it was clear of the officer’s pocket. Then he transferred it to his own. He had won. And he was jubilant.

Still, he was in imminent danger. At any moment the officer might discover his loss, think he had dropped the paper and begin to look around for it. That would be unlucky for Frank. But, the young soldier thought grimly, as he gripped his knife tightly, it might be still more unlucky for the officer.

The pipe was smoked out now. The officer tapped it against the tree to knock the ashes out and seemed of two minds as to whether he should refill it. He finally decided that he had stayed there long enough, an opinion with which Frank heartily agreed, thrust his pipe in his pocket and started to walk away. Frank watched him with his heart in his mouth. Would he discover his loss?

The officer had gone about ten feet when Frank saw him give a sudden start. He uttered an exclamation in German and then felt hurriedly in all his pockets. Then he turned and began to retrace his steps slowly, his eyes glued to the ground.

“Now I’m in for it,” thought Frank, as his muscles stiffened.

But the officer came no farther than the foot of the tree. That to his mind marked the limit of where the paper could possibly be. He dropped on his hands and knees and looked in the grass, but of course to no avail. Then he rose, brushed off his clothes and muttering harshly to himself he strode off in the direction of the camp, searching every foot of the way as he went along. There was a bad quarter of an hour in store for him when he should have to confess the loss of the paper to his superior officer.

Frank only waited until the officer was at a safe distance. Then he wound his way on his hands and knees through underbrush until he was well beyond the zone of light of the camp. Only then did he rise to his feet and slipping from one tree to another hurried in the direction where his compass told him he would find the boat.

When he reached the line of trees that bordered the canal, he paused and gave the hoot of an owl. A moment later, there was an answering call that enabled him to locate the boat’s position. He made his way to the bank and looking over saw the dark outline of the boat.

“Are you there, Tom?” he whispered.

“I’m here all right,” came Tom’s voice in answer. “Tumble in.”

In a jiffy, Frank had let himself down in the boat and grasped his friend’s hand.

“I’m mighty glad you’re back,” whispered Tom, in great relief. “I began to fear the Huns had got you. Any luck?”

“I got a pretty good line on some things that our officers want to know,” replied Frank, “and I’ve got a paper in my pocket that may be worth something. The fellow that lost it seemed to think it was important, judging from the frantic way he was looking for it. You didn’t think that your old friend would ever turn pickpocket, did you?”

He told his story in whispers, and Tom chuckled as he listened to it.

“Good work, old man,” he murmured.

“But what’s keeping Billy and the corporal?” asked Frank anxiously. “It’s getting on toward one o’clock.”

Just then the owl call came, and a moment later the corporal dropped cautiously down into the waiting boat.

“Anything doing?” was the first question he asked of Tom after greetings had been exchanged.

“Nothing much,” answered Tom. “I heard a patrol going along the road about an hour ago, and later on I heard the stroke of oars. But it was too dark for me to see anything.”

He had scarcely spoken when a volley of shots rang out. There were hoarse shouts and the sound of running feet. Then along came Billy, panting and breathless.

“The Huns!” he gasped, as he dropped into the boat. “They nearly got me and they’re close behind. We’ll have to make a quick get-away or they’ll nab us.”

“Quick!” ordered the corporal. “Sheldon, you take one oar and Bradford the other. Pull for the other side as fast as you can. Don’t splash any more than you can help, or we’ll be a mark for the Huns’ bullets. Quick now!”

The boys needed no urging, for the sounds told them that their foe had almost reached the bank of the canal. They bent to the oars and the boat shot away from the shore. But they had scarcely taken three strokes before a star shell rose from the enemy side of the canal and shed a greenish ghastly radiance over the scene. By its light, they saw a dozen or more Germans on the bank they had just left, and a volley of bullets that came singing over their heads and about the boat told them that they offered a good target.

But it was not this group of enemies that gave them the greatest concern. A more serious peril threatened them. For in that green flare of the star shell they saw two boats between them and the shore they sought. And the guttural shouts that had come from these boats at their discovery told the Americans that the occupants were Germans.

They grasped the situation at once. These were the boats whose oar strokes had been heard by Tom. There were half a dozen men in each boat and their errand on the American side had been the same as that of the Army Boys among the Germans.

It was a time for quick thinking, and the corporal was equal to the emergency. His party was outnumbered three to one by the men in the enemy boats, to say nothing of their comrades on the farther shore. The first star shell had faded, but others followed in quick succession, so that there was no chance to slip between the enemy boats in the darkness.

“Turn her head upstream,” ordered Wilson, and the boat swung round.

“Now, pull for your lives,” the corporal commanded. “Our only chance is to get far enough ahead of those fellows to cut into the shore. When you fellows are tired, Waldon and I will take the oars. Pull, now, pull!”

Frank and Tom obeyed, putting every ounce of strength into their strokes, until it seemed as though the oars must snap. The boat sprang forward like a live thing, while the corporal and Billy, with their bodies concealed as much as possible, sent shot after shot from their revolvers at the men in the German boats.

The enemy had grasped the purpose of the turning upstream, and both boats raced on, trying to keep on a line with the Americans and prevent them turning in to shore. At the same time, the German patrol on the further bank ran along the shore with a constant crackling of rifle fire. Bullets whistled about the boat, some of them penetrating the side. One of them went through the corporal’s sleeve, grazing his arm and bringing blood. Another knocked Tom’s oar from his hand, but he recovered it in a desperate grab before it got out of reach, and the boat kept on with only a momentary lessening of its speed.

Suddenly Billy gave an exclamation of alarm as a dark wall of what appeared to be solid rock loomed up before them.

“Back water!” he shouted. “The boat will be smashed!”

“Go ahead,” countermanded Wilson after a quick glance. “It’s a tunnel. There’s nothing to do but keep on. It kills our chance of getting to the shore. But on the other hand it’s dark in there and we may be able to double on these fellows and give them the slip. Keep on.”

The boat shot quickly into the blackness of the tunnel through which the canal flowed at that point. The bullets ceased to sing about them. The radiance of the star shells died away. Darkness enfolded them, a darkness so intense that they were absolutely hidden from each other. They rowed along for some distance with undiminished speed. Then as no sound of oars was heard in pursuit, the corporal gave the word to lay on the oars.

“Some race!” panted Frank as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

“But we beat them to it!” gasped Tom. “Gee, I never worked so hard in my life!”

“They don’t seem to be following us,” commented Billy.

The corporal pulled out his flashlight and turned it around them. They were startled to see how the stream had narrowed after entering the tunnel. There was barely room for two barges to pass each other.

The corporal’s face was grave as he made the discovery.

“No chance of doubling on them in here,” he remarked. “Looks very much as if they’d got us in a trap. If they follow us up, we’ll have to fight it out. And we haven’t got too much ammunition left. I sent most of my bullets at the Huns in the boats.”

“You toppled over two of them,” said Tom. “I saw them drop. But there’s a lot of them left.”

“There’s a light at the mouth of the tunnel!” exclaimed Billy.

They looked back.

From the point that they had reached the tunnel extended back to its mouth as straight as an arrow, and they could see the two boats that had been in pursuit lying beside each other, while from the light of a lantern in the bow of one they could see the figures of the men engaged in an animated debate. They seemed to be divided as to the course to pursue.

“Wonder if they’ll follow us in,” murmured Tom.

“They don’t seem to relish the idea very much,” remarked Frank.

“The chances are that they will,” judged the corporal. “They know that they outnumber us, and they won’t want to let us go back to our lines with the information we’ve picked up.”

Suddenly the light went out.

“I wonder what that means,” said Billy anxiously.

“I think it means they’re coming,” replied the corporal. “They put the light out so that they won’t offer a mark for our revolvers. It looks as though it might come to a battle in the dark.”

“If it does, I’ll match our eyes against theirs,” remarked Frank confidently.

“We’ll get at the oars again,” said the corporal. “I don’t know how long this tunnel is, but it must end somewhere. If we can reach the outlet and find no Germans there, we’ll have a chance to get back to our lines by land. If not, we’ll have to give these fellows a fight, no matter by how many they outnumber us. I only wish we had more ammunition. A few more shots and we’ll be through.”

“We’ve got our knives anyway,” said Tom, “and Heinie hates knife fighting at close quarters.”

“I’ve got a hand grenade,” put in Frank. “I picked it up as we were coming away from camp, on the chance that it might come in handy in case we were discovered.”

“Good work,” said the corporal approvingly. “But now we’d better start. Waldon and I will take the oars, so as to give you other fellows a rest. Make as little noise as you can but work fast.”

They bent to their work, quickened somewhat by the faint sound of oars which told them that the enemy was approaching.

CHAPTER V
A MASTER STROKE

With fresh arms at the oars, they hit up a rapid gait, which in that unknown passage was not without its dangers. The darkness was so intense that they could not see a foot ahead of them, and they dared not use the flashlight for fear it would betray their location to their pursuers.

“Let’s hope this tunnel is straight all the way through,” muttered Tom. “If there’s a winding in it and we bring up against the sides it may send us all to kingdom come.”

“Right you are,” returned Frank, “but there’s no help for it. We’ve got to take our chance.”

He had scarcely gotten the words out of his mouth when what Tom had feared came to pass. The boat smashed head on into the rocky wall where the tunnel described a curve. There was a grinding of oars, a splintering of planks and a startled exclamation from the Army Boys.

Luckily Frank and Tom had been sitting in the stern of the boat, and, though they were badly shaken, escaped the full force of the blow. Billy and the corporal were thrown from their seats into the bottom of the boat. The bow was smashed in, and a great jagged hole in the side opened the way for a flood of water that rushed in. In a moment the boat had sunk to the gunwales. Another moment and she had gone under the surface and the four occupants found themselves floundering in the water.

All were expert swimmers, and the ducking meant nothing in itself. But the loss of the boat might well mean the loss of their liberty or their lives.

They swam to the rocky side nearest them and clambered up on the bank. The path along the canal was a narrow one and the wall of the tunnel rose up perfectly smooth on the further side of it, affording no opportunity of concealment.

The corporal gathered them around him. It was time for quick thinking for the sound of oars had grown plainer and the enemy would soon be upon them.

“We’ll have to run for it,” Wilson whispered. “We ought to be able to keep ahead of them until we reach the other end of the tunnel. It would be easy enough if we could see where we were going, but we’ll have to feel our way and make sure we don’t tumble into the canal. We’ve got the chance that they may make the same mistake that we did and smash into the canal wall. But then again they may know more about the way the canal runs and steer clear of it. Come along, now. I’ll lead the way and you fellows keep close behind me.”

They started off at as rapid a pace as they dared in the pitch blackness and soon had the satisfaction of noting that the sound of oars had grown fainter, thus indicating that they were outdistancing their pursuers.

They had kept this up for perhaps ten minutes when they caught sight of something that seemed like a star in the distance. But as they drew nearer they saw that it was a fire that had been built on the canal bank, and soon they could detect the figures of men moving about it.