Bob Cook's brother in the trenches

Front matter

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT.

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“He fled across No Man’s Land, when suddenly, the report of a rifle was heard”

Preface

The interest of the young readers in the preceding volumes of this series provides the explanation for this new hook. The author sincerely hopes that his young friends will still be glad to follow the fortunes of Bob Cook and his brother. All the incidents used in this tale are based upon authentic reports from the Front. The writer has endeavored to make his young heroes neither unnaturally brave nor pretematurally daring. They are simply normal American boys, doing what thousands of others are doing to-day. Their adventures are not unlike those which many of our American soldiers on the Western Front are sharing.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I The Artillery Speaks 11

II In the Dark 23

Chapter I

I T was night. A cold wind swept across No Man’s Land, chilling everything with its damp breath, and the rain fell in torrents. Everywhere there was mud; the trenches were kneedeep with icy water and underneath the water was mud. The surrounding country was a waste of mud and slime. Walking was almost out of the question, while supply trains and ammunitionwagons often became so firmly imbedded in the sticky substance that much time and almost herculean efforts were necessary to free them and start them on their way once more.

In a dugout in the first line trenches were three men, all American officers. On the floor of their underground shelter was a small wood-burning 11 stove, and on it was a kettle of hot water, boiling in preparation for the making of tea. One of the men had just entered the dugout, and was now removing his rubber coat and hat. He hung them in the corner, and then approached the fire, extending his hands to the warmth and rubbing them together briskly.

“So this is sunny France,” he exclaimed disgustedly. “Personally I’ve only seen about two sunny days since I landed.”

The speaker was Harold Cook. Upon the entrance of the United States into the war he had received permission from the National Guard unit of which he was a member to attend the Reserve Officers Training Camp at Plattsburg. There he had been granted a commission as a first lieutenant of infantry and been sent to Camp Dix at Wrightstown, New Jersey. He had spent some time there training the men of the National Army and then soon had been sent abroad with an infantry regiment belonging to one of the divisions of the American Expeditionary Army.

Several months had been spent in France in learning the latest methods of waging modern warfare. Grenade throwing, rifle and machine gun work, bayonet practice, the way to attack a hostile trench, every detail that a soldier should know before taking his place on the firing line were carefully taught and learned. At length their instructors decided that they knew their lessons well enough to move into the trenches. Their first visit there had been brief, just long enough to accustom them to what they might expect under trench conditions, but now they were old hands at the game. The novelty had worn off and they realized that war is a grim, hard business.

Harold Cook was rather slight in build, though strong and wiry, and possessed of an unusual amount of endurance. He had light brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile which no one could resist. But he did not smile as much as formerly; the Kaiser had tried to make the world do Germany’s bidding, and the result was that many people, whose lives had previously been happy and smiling, now looked older and more serious, there were lines on their faces and oftentimes a sad expression around their eyes. Harold Cook’s eyes showed that he had become a man in experience, even though he was still a boy in years. War leaves its mark on every one whose path it crosses.

The Cook family had responded patriotically to the call of their country. Mr. Cook’s factory was engaged in the manufacture of war supplies for the government, Mrs. Cook and her daughter were among the most active workers in the Red Cross in their home town of High Ridge, and Harold’s younger brother Bob was doing his bit. At the time of the American declaration of war Bob and his friend, Hugh Reith, were too young to enlist, but they had aided the government by the apprehension of a band of spies and plotters operating in High Ridge. Later they had been enabled to cross the ocean to France and take service in the Lafayette Escadrille, the famous flying squadron which counted so many young Americans among its number; they had distinguished themselves, and later on had been transferred to the United States Army. Right now they were attached to one of the American squadrons operating over the front, held by their fellow Americans.

“I guess you don’t like this weather, do you!” observed one of the officers in the dugout, replying to Harold’s remark.

‘ 4 Like it!” exclaimed Harold. “I despise it. The only thing that can exist in this kind of place is a duck.”

“How about a fish?” laughed Captain Norris, for that was the name of the officer who had addressed the remark to Harold.

“A fish would be even better off,” grumbled Harold. “I never saw such weather.”

“Stop growling,” observed the third member of the party. “We can’t help the rain. Have some tea.”

The latest speaker was Lieutenant George Carter, a young man slightly older than Harold. He was rather short, but exceedingly stocky; his shoulders were broad, his chest deep, and he was possessed of unusual physical strength. He had jet black eyes and his head was covered with shortcropped curly hair. He had physical strength and physical courage as well ; in fact it was whispered about in his regiment that he was afraid of nothing on the face of the earth. Assigned to the same regiment and company as Harold, the two young lieutenants had become fast friends.

Captain Norris was somewhat older than his two young aids. He was a graduate of West Point, a man whose opinions and ability were always respected by his fellow soldiers. He was tall, measuring nearly six feet three in height, but he was built proportionately. He was strong as a young bull, straight as an arrow, and tipped the scales at almost two hundred pounds ; in his uniform he looked the ideal soldier. He wore a short, bushy mustache, his hair was decidedly blond, and as may be imagined his appearance was striking in the extreme.

“That’s right,” exclaimed Captain Norris. “Have some tea; it’ll make you feel better.”

“It’s a bad night,” said Harold, drawing up a box which did duty as a chair.

“Right,” observed Lieutenant Carter shortly. He was found of using short, snappy sentences.

“Everything 0. K. up above?” inquired the captain.

“As quiet as can be, sir,” replied Harold.

“Too wet for old Fritz to come out to-night,” said George Carter.

“I hope so,” said Harold. “Our men are uncomfortable enough as it is, without getting them up to slip and slide around in the mud. ’ ’

“Don’t be so sure that the Germans are quiet,” said Captain Norris. “It may be that they are planning some sort of a surprise party for us.”

“Well, they’ll be the ones to get the surprise,” said Harold grimly. “The men are so mad at the weather that they’d like to take it out on somebody. Heaven help any German who shows np within range to-night.”

“We owe them something,” said Lieutenant Carter.

“For that raid, you mean?” asked the captain.

1 i Exactly. ’ ’

“That was our first trip out here,” said Captain Norris, “and we were a little green. Next time they try to get funny they’ll find us ready.”

Suddenly there was a violent thud which seemed to be directly on top of the dugout. The three men stopped talking and looked at one another inquiringly, their tea cups held in their right hands.

“Close one,” said Carter, and then he took another sip of tea.

A corporal entered the underground room and saluted.

“What is it, Boyle?” asked Captain Norris.

“The Dutchies are getting busy, sir,” announced Boyle, who had a strong suggestion of a brogue in his voice. “They’re beginning to pepper us up above.”

Another explosion followed, this time a little farther away. Then a series of crashes came in quick succession. Captain Norris sprang to the telephone on the wall of the dugout; a moment later he had sent a message to artillery headquarters, and soon the answering roar of the American artillery could be dimly heard.

“Stay by the telephone, Carter,” he ordered. “We’ll go up and investigate this.”

He quickly slipped on his raincoat, put on his metal helmet, and started out. Harold followed, and with Corporal Boyle, hurried after the captain.

The rain had ceased, but the cold wind smote their faces, and the mud was still very much in evidence. Weather conditions were ignored now, however. Crouching low behind the parapet Captain Norris and Harold approached a sentry.

“What’s up?” inquired Captain Norris.

“Don’t know, sir,” replied the sentry. “They seem to be mad about something, but I can’t see a sign of them.”

At that moment a mud-bespattered Yankee private slid over the parapet and fell into the trench. He scrambled to his feet and almost bumped into Captain Norris. He was a member of one of the patrols which nightly were sent out into No Man’s Land to do scout duty and bring back any news of the enemy.

“Well?” demanded the captain.

The man recognized the great bulk of his captain at once. He saluted quickly and still panting from his quick trip, delivered his message.

“They’re gathering for an attack, sir,” he puffed. “We was right up close to their barbed wire and could see ’em. There must be at least a battalion of ’em.”

1 ‘ Tell that to Lieutenant Carter, ’ ’ Captain Norris ordered Boyle shortly. “Lieutenant Cook, get your men ready. ’ ’

Boyle sprang for the entrance of the dugout and Harold hastened to carry out his captain’s instructions. There was no confusion in the trench, and no one seemed particularly excited. A spirit of grim determination was everywhere in evidence, and as a matter of fact the men seemed eager for the encounter. Every man knew what he was expected to do, and prepared to do it. That was all.

Shells were dropping all around and all but the lookouts retired to the dugouts. The Germans were trying to batter down the American trenches, and cut the protecting wire entanglements in front of them so that their men could get through. They also laid a wall of bursting shells behind this particular section of the line to prevent the Americans from bringing up reenforcements. Luckily, owing to the mud, the enemy shells buried themselves deep in the earth before exploding, so that the damage they did was not as great as it would have been had the ground been dry.

Meanwhile the American gunners were not idle. They gave the Germans shell for shell and a few extra for good measure. The great metal messengers of death went screaming overhead in a continuous procession, bearing the answer of the free American citizens to the Germans’ boast that they were entitled to rule the world.

Every few moments a sentry stuck his head into the dugout where Harold and his men were waiting, to give them word of any new developments. From the American trench a steady stream of star shells was sent out over No Man’s Land to light up that forlorn district, and disclose the approach of the enemy.

In the dugouts the men sat around quietly, but grimly waiting. Every soldier examined his rifle, made sure that his ammunition was in place, and thoughtfully ran his finger along the razor-like edge of his bayonet. The bombers held their supply of hand-grenades ready for instant use, while the machine gunners made a last inspection of their weapons. It was seldom that any one spoke.

Overhead and on all sides the shells roared and crashed. Word came down that one of the sentries had been killed, and Harold ordered another man up to take his place, while he dispatched a squad of men to make what repairs they could to the damaged section of the trench.

“The sons-o’-guns!” muttered Boyle. “We’ll fix ’em!”

The bombardment increased in intensity. The tinuous roar and the ground fairly shook under the incessant pounding of the projectiles. Harold looked around at his men ; not one of them showed the least sign of fear ; rather it was eagerness to have the fight commence which manifested itself upon the countenances of the American soldiers. They wanted to get out and engage the Huns hand to hand, not sit in an underground room and wait, like rabbits in a burrow.

Harold noted the men’s expressions and he smiled proudly. He knew that whatever happened, they could be relied upon to give a good account of themselves, and there was not one of them who could not be trusted in almost every emergency.

These Yankee boys had crossed the ocean to fight Germans, they were determined that the world should be kept free, and now that the time had come to show their mettle, they were not going to fail.

For fifteen minutes the bombardment continued. Then as suddenly as it had commenced, it ceased. Immediately a sentry poked his nose into the entrance to the dugout.

‘ 4 Here they come ! ” he cried.

Chapter II In The Dakk

H AROLD at once ordered his men out in the dugout. Every soldier sprang to his post, for they all knew exactly what to do, and there was no confusion of any kind. Star shells, sent up from the American trenches, lighted up No Man’s Land, and under the ghastly glare of the rockets a line of German infantry could he seen approaching. The German artillery now started in again, and a wall of bursting shells was laid down in front of the attacking troops; behind this wall of steel and fire the gray-clad Germans came on.

Another line of German shells was falling behind the American trench, cutting oft any hope of reenforcements, and preventing any withdrawal, should such a thing seem necessary. The German projectiles also had torn great gaps in the barbed-wire entanglements in 23 front of the American trenches; through these gaps the Germans hoped to send their men. The trenches too had been battered severely; some of the sand bags had been blown away entirely, and certain sections of the defenses had been almost entirely destroyed.

But the Americans were ready and prepared to meet their foes. Machine guns had been quickly set in place and soon their sharp rat-a-tat-tat mingled with the noise of the cannon. The American artillery, too, was exceedingly busy. As Harold peered over the parapet he saw a star shell burst directly over the heads of a squad of oncoming Germans; at almost the same instant a shell exploded in the midst of the attacking enemy, and a gap appeared in their lines. For a moment they faltered, then their lines filled up again and on they came.

The American soldiers were almost beside themselves in their excitement. They wanted to jump out of their positions and meet the Germans in the open. Harold somehow expected such an order to be given and he glanced along the trench to the spot where the great bulk of Captain Norris was dimly visible in the darkness. The captain was crouching behind a machine-gun emplace-

IN THE DARK ment, as calm as if he was a spectator at a football game.

A shrapnel shell burst on the trench, and two men went down. One of the flying pieces of metal struck Harold’s steel helmet a glancing blow, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Corporal Boyle, who was standing alongside, caught him before he could fall, however. “Are you hurt?” he demanded anxiously. He seemed to feel that he had a special mission to look out for his young lieutenant.

“Not a bit,” said Harold readily. “It didn’t hit me squarely.”

“An’ they better not,” muttered Boyle fiercely. “Sure you’re all right?”

“A bit groggy,” said Harold. “I’ll be over it in a minute.”

Just then Captain Norris came along the trench. “We’re going out to meet them in a minute,” he announced. ‘ ‘ Have your men ready. ’ ’ He passed on.

Harold’s dizziness, caused by the blow he had received on his head, soon disappeared and he gave the necessary instructions to the men under his command. The news that they were not to wait for the Germans to come all the way to their positions was greeted with enthusiasm. Boyle in particular was greatly pleased.

“Let us at ’em!” he cried. “We’ll show the divils. ’ ’

The Germans were now within easy rifle range, and the American marksmen were busy. The machine guns, sounding like steel riveting machines, were also becoming more and more active; they sprayed the approaching German infantry with a steady hail of bullets.

Suddenly Captain Norris gave the order, and with a cheer the Americans sprang from their trenches, and at double quick hurried out into No Man’s Land to meet the foe. They poured through the openings in the barbed wire, which the German shells had made, and presently found themselves in the comparatively open spaces beyond. Shell holes pitted the surface of the ground ; many of them were filled with water from the recent rains, and everywhere the mud was present.

The men slipped and floundered about, and more than one unfortunate plunged waist-deep into some water-filled shell-crater. But on they went, cheering and shouting. In a very short time they had come to grips with their enemies. Bayonets flashed wickedly, and many a shining steel

IN THE DARK blade became dyed with red. The grenade throwers hurled their bombs wherever they saw a knot of Germans collected, men fought with knives, the butts of their guns, and sometimes with bare hands.

It was a weird and terrible scene. Harold was here, there and everywhere, cheering and encouraging his men. He had emptied several clips from his revolver and had reason to expect that his bullets had taken effect. And by his side fought Boyle.

A big German made a rush at Harold. Cursing and gibbering, he stumbled forward, his bayonet fixed and ready to run the young officer through. In the excitement and confusion of the struggle Harold had not seen the man ; in fact his back was towards him. Boyle, too, had not seen him at first, and had only turned around in time to discover the huge Boche almost upon them. He uttered a warning cry and Harold jumped.

On account of the treacherous footing, however, he slipped and fell. With an exulting shout the German leaped forward. But he had not reckoned with Boyle, who had been ignored by the German in his eagerness to account for the young lieutenant.

“Take that!” shouted Boyle at the top of his lungs, and he lunged forward savagely with his bayonet. He took the German from the side, and before the big Hun could stop or wheel to protect himself, the sharp blade had found its mark. With a hoarse grunt the German stumbled forward, sagged to his knees, and then sprawled on his face. Harold, who had been struggling to his feet, was knocked down by the great bulk of his enemy, and presently found himself pinned to the ground under the body of the German.

* ‘ The son-uv-a-gun, ’ 9 cried Boyle angrily.

He was mad for two reasons, first because he had been unable to withdraw his bayonet in time to prevent its being broken off when the German fell, and secondly because the German in falling had sprawled on top of Harold.

“Lay still, Lieutenant,” he called. “I’ll get him off ye.”

He seized the German by his left arm, and with a great effort rolled him over. Then he extended his hand to Harold and assisted him to his feet.

“Are you hurt?” he exclaimed.

Harold was wiping mud and blood from his face. “No,” he said shortly.

‘ * That Dutchman nearly got you. ’ ’

IN THE DARK

“I know it,” said Harold. “Is he dead?”

“I fixed that,” said Boyle. “The beggar broke me bayonet though.”

“Take his,” said Harold.

In falling, the German’s gun, with bayonet affixed, had slipped from his grasp, and now lay neglected on the ground. Boyle sprang to pick it up.

Some one was quicker than he, however. As Boyle started forward some other American appeared out of the dark and snatched up the abandoned rifle.

“Give me that!” shouted Boyle. “That’s mine.”

He suddenly recognized the man who had taken the gun as Lieutenant George Carter.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he exclaimed quickly. “I thought it was one of the men. ’ ’

“Give me your gun!” ordered Carter.

“But the bayonet’s gone, sir,” Boyle protested.

“I don’t care. I’ll swap with you. Be quick!”

Under the circumstances there was nothing for Corporal Thomas Boyle to do but to hand over his rifle, though he could not understand why the lieutenant should prefer a gun which had no bayonet. He exchanged rifles, however, and then turned to look for Harold.

The men were fighting in little groups. On all sides were Germans and Americans engaged in mortal combat. It has often been said that Germans do not like the look of cold steel, and whether this be true or not, it was certain that the struggle was going against them. The Yankees fought like terriers, all shouting, slashing, and clubbing, and the bodies of many Germans lay strewn about, bodies which had a short time before been men. Nor had the Americans escaped unscathed. They saw that the fight was going in their favor, however, and they pressed forward with new vigor. They knew that the right was on their side and that feeling is a great help to any fighter.

In some places the Germans seemed to be giving way. Between the scene of the struggle and the American trenches the Germans had laid a barrage fire (a wall of exploding shells) to prevent help from coming up; similarly tiie American gunners laid up a barrage fire in front of the German trenches. The result was that the opposing hordes were out in No Man’s Land, cut off on both sides. It looked like a fight to the finish.

Chapter III

H AROLD placed another clip in his revolver, and fired point-blank at a big German who was about to run his bayonet through the body of one of the wounded Americans. Down went the German, sprawling headlong in the mud. Boyle, equipped with the German rifle he had received from Lieutenant George Carter, darted into the midst of a group of fighters and began stabbing right and left. The struggle grew more and more desperate. The Americans fought like men possessed and presently the Germans began to waver.

Suddenly a man sprang forward, brandishing a rifle around his head. He held it by the end of the barrel, and swung it like a club. It was George Carter.

4 ‘Follow me,” he shouted.

“To Berlin if you ask us,” Harold heard a big private exclaim, as he hastened after the young 31 lieutenant. With a hoarse cheer the men charged.

In the forefront was George Carter. He swung Boyle’s old rifle like a flail, and catching up with a squad of fleeing Germans he began to lay about him. On account of his great strength the rifle seemed light in his grasp, and he whirled it about as easily as a baseball player would his bat. Using the clubbed end, he brought it down squarely upon the head of one of his enemies; there was a dull thud and the German collapsed like a punctured balloon. The other Americans, encouraged by this success, went at their foes like demons.

But the Germans had had enough.

“Kamerad! Kamerad!” they cried eagerly, throwing away their weapons and holding up their hands. At least fifteen of them surrendered on the spot, and were quickly taken in charge by the American infantrymen.

“Get the rest of them!” shouted Harold, but the Germans had gone. Every one of them who was able to run had made for his own lines at top speed. The Americans rounded up several of them, cutting off their escape wherever possible, and sending bullets whistling after them when no chance of capturing them remained.

The barrage fire cut down many of the fleeing

Germans, but they feared the cold steel of the American bayonets more than they did shell fire, and they continued their mad flight, until it became useless to pursue them farther. The Americans turned back and began to round up their prisoners. Nineteen in all had been captured, and they were soon on their way to the American trenches.

“I said we’d fix ’em,” exclaimed Boyle to one of his friends, Corporal Howard Beam.

Thomas Boyle was a freckle-faced, sandy-haired boy of eighteen, who had volunteered at the outbreak of the war. He loved fighting and he hated all Germans, an ideal combination in these times. He was a strong, thickset youth, with an endless supply of cheerfulness and quick wit. He seemed always to be good-natured except when the word Germans was mentioned; then he swung to the other extreme and almost foamed at the mouth with rage. He adored Harold, and seemed to consider himself the young lieutenant’s special guardian and protector, and if he thought it would be of any advantage to the youthful officer he would gladly have sacrificed his life for him.

Howard Beam had grown up on a farm. His movements were slow, and his mind did not work very quickly. He was a “plugger,” however, and could always be depended upon for any task, great or small. He was tall, had dark hair and brown eyes, and enormous feet and hands. Corporal Boyle liked practical jokes and delighted in witticisms at other people’s expense, and the particular mark for his activities was Howard Beam. He teased him sometimes until the big corporal was almost ready to commit murder, but despite all this the two were fast friends. Howard seemed to forgive the artful Thomas entirely, between teasing periods.

“We did fix ’em, too,” said Howard Beam in reply to Boyle’s remark.

‘ ‘ I thought I saw you running away there once, ’ ’ said Thomas slyly.

“What’s that?” demanded Beam, falling easily into the trap. “I run away?”

“That’s what some one told me.”

“You lie!” cried poor Howard angrily. “You’ll live to be a thousand years old before you ever see me run away from any greasy German pig.”

“It’s queer how those things get around,” mused Thomas. “I hope for your sake the captain doesn’t hear of what you did. You can trust me not to say anything about it.”

“But I didn’t run, I tell you,” shouted the big corporal, now almost beside himself with rage. “Who told you that anyway?”

“I forget who it was.”

“What did he say?”

‘ ‘ He said you started to run but your feet were so big they got stuck in the mud, and you had to stop. Tell the truth, now, is that so ? ”

For the first time Beam suspected that his comrade was not serious. He turned and looked at Boyle narrowly, but in the darkness could not see the expression on his face.

“You little red-headed shrimp,” he grumbled.

“Don’t you believe me?” demanded Thomas in an injured voice.

Howard Beam was still not quite sure whether his friend was serious or not. He believed, however, that Boyle was fooling, and while he forgave him, his anger at being accused of running away had not yet cooled, even though he knew his bantering was not true. He spied one of the German prisoners in the file ahead lagging behind the others, and in him recognized a means of smoothing his ruffled feelings.

“Get up there, you beggar,” he cried, and pricked the German gently in the seat of his trousers with the tip of his bayonet.

“Yah!” cried the German suddenly, as he clapped his hand over the injured spot. He sprang forward and fell to the ground.

“What are ye doin' there?” demanded Boyle angrily of Beam.

‘ 4 1 hardly touched him, ' ' said Beam stoutly. ‘ ‘ I couldn’t have hurt him. He’s bluffing.”

“If he is, we'll soon find out,” cried Thomas, as he and Howard leaned over the German, who was now lying face downward in the mud.

“Roll over and give us a look at you,” he ordered.

The German made no move.

“Roll over,” repeated Thomas.

“He can't understand English probably,” suggested Beam.

“I never thought o' that,” said Boyle sheepishly.

“What's going on here?” demanded a voice, and Harold appeared on the scene.

Boyle and Beam both saluted.

“This here Hun,” said Boyle, “is lying on his face and won 't move. ' '

“How did he get there?” asked Harold.

“Beam here gave him a prick in the seat of his breeches with his bayonet,” Boyle explained. “He gives a yowl and falls down in the mud.”

“You must have stuck him pretty hard, Beam,” said Harold sharply. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“I hardly touched him, sir,” said Beam. “I’m sure he’s faking.”

Harold produced a pocket flash and turned it on the prostrate body of the prisoner.