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

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.”

[2]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.”

[3]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[4] 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[5] 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[6] 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[7] 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,[8] 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.

[9]“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.

[10]“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.”

[12]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[13] 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.[14] “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,[15] 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.

[16]“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[17] 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.