The Khaki Boys Fighting to Win or Smashing the German Lines

By Capt. GORDON BATES

Author of "The Khaki Boys at Camp Sterling," "The Khaki Boys on the Way," "The Khaki Boys at the Front," "The Khaki Boys Over the Top," etc.

NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY

THE KHAKI BOYS SERIES

By CAPT. GORDON BATES

THE KHAKI BOYS AT CAMP STERLING or Training for the Big Fight in France

THE KHAKI BOYS ON THE WAY or Doing Their Bit on Land and Sea

THE KHAKI BOYS AT THE FRONT or Shoulder to Shoulder in the Trenches

THE KHAKI BOYS OVER THE TOP or Doing and Daring for Uncle Sam

THE KHAKI BOYS FIGHTING TO WIN or Smashing the German Lines

CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York

Copyright, 1919, by Cupples & Leon Company

The Khaki Boys Fighting to Win

CHAPTER I BURIED ALIVE

Distant rumbles, like those of some far-off thunderstorm, penetrated even to the dugout, which was constructed under a greater depth of earth than usual. At times some fearful, though far-removed, explosion would cause the solid ground to tremble, while articles on the rude shelves of the shelter would fall down with resultant crashes.

"Some bombardment—that!" exclaimed one of a number of khaki-clad soldiers who were busying themselves in varying fashion in their bomb-proof quarters.

"I should say so!" agreed another. "If our boys keep this up long there won't be enough Germans left for us to have a scrimmage with!"

"Don't you fool yourself, Bob!" exclaimed Sergeant Jimmy Blaise. "There are more Germans left alive than we have any idea of. There'll be plenty left for you to tackle."

"Now your mind's relieved on that score, would you mind passing that oil can, Bob?" requested Roger Barlow. "There's a spot of rust on my gun, and if we're going to have another big fight soon I don't want the lock to jam at a critical time."

"Another big fight, eh?" mused Robert Dalton, as he complied with his bunkie's request. "That's about all we've been doing lately."

"That's what we're here for," suggested Sergeant Jimmy. "And the more big fights we have the sooner it will be over."

"You said something!" chimed in Franz Schnitzel, who, in spite of his Teutonic name, was one of the best of Uncle Sam's doughboys. "It's the only way to make the stupid Germans, not to call them anything worse, realize that we're not here to play tag with them. The heavier the fighting, the quicker they'll be ready to give up. But what's the use of talking about more fighting? Here we are, relieved of duty for to-day, at least, and let's enjoy it while we can. We'll be back in the trenches soon enough."

"That's so!" agreed Jimmy. "Hello over there, Iggy!" he called to a lad sitting at a table on which glowed an electric light. "Are you writing in Polish or English?" he asked, for the lad he addressed as "Iggy," but whose name was Ignace Pulinski, was laboring with pen, ink and paper.

"It is English I am writ him, an to my mothar," was the answer. "No more Polish do I him write. I am a 'Merican now and for always."

"That's the way to talk, Iggy!" cried Bob. "Do you want any help with that letter? It seems to be more important than usual."

"Sure him is reportment," agreed Iggy, looking up and drawing in his tongue, which, while writing, had been stuck out of his mouth, following every laborious movement of his pen. "I am to my mothar sending my share of the money that Sergeant Jimmy broke up on us."

"Oh, you mean the five thousand francs he whacked up with us, Iggy," laughed Franz. "That's the word, 'whacked,' not broke, though no matter how much money someone whacks up with you, you'll be broke as soon as you haven't any."

"English him is a queer talk," sighed Iggy. "But I am writ to my mothar that I send her the two hundred dollars Sergeant Jimmy gave me. By jolly, that's a heap of money!" and his eyes glistened. "My faothar—he work many a days and he never get so much. But I no send this to my faothar—he is of no good. To my mothar this money goes, and she will kick for joy."

"You mean she'll dance for joy!" laughed Jimmy. "That's all right, Iggy. No offense meant," he went on as he saw his Polish friend look at him rather sharply. "You want to learn English, you know, even if it is a queer language, and you told us to correct you when you made mistakes."

"Sure. So I did. I am of a thanks to you. But my mothar, she will of joy have a lot when she gets this money. It—it is more as she haf ever seen of a once," and there was something in Iggy's tone that put a stop to further joking on this line.

The Polish lad went on with his letter-writing. As he had said, he was enclosing a money order for two hundred dollars. This was his share of a reward of five thousand francs which Sergeant Jimmy Blaise won for putting out of the way a certain "Charles Black," who, it turned out, was an Austrian spy named Adolph von Kreitzen. Jimmy, who in private life was wealthy, had insisted on sharing his reward with the other of the "Five Brothers," as the Khaki Boys were often called.

"Need any help, Iggy?" asked Bob, as he saw the Polish lad shake his head as if in despair over some knotty point in the letter.

"Well, I maybe do," was the answer. "I should tell my mothar about how I was out on night-work, and I of help capture that Russian spy of the name Alexandraiovitch Tarbotchanitzitschi. That is a hard name to spell."

"Spell! You can't spell that name!" and Jimmy Blaise exploded in a laugh. "You can get your tongue around it a whole lot better than any of us, but it can't be spelled. Just put in a wheeze, a couple of sneezes and a hiccough. Then you'll have the name, Iggy."

"Well, I guess maybe you got it right," assented the Polish lad. "I just tell my mothar I of capture a Russian spy what the Germans have—what you call made bad. I tell her the name when I get home."

"That's the idea!" agreed Bob. "Home!" he exclaimed. "Say, fellows, where have I heard that word before?"

"That's what I was wondering," chimed in Roger Barlow. "It sort of rhymes with bath-tub, pie, broiled steaks——"

He was interrupted by a dog-eared magazine which Jimmy tossed at him, narrowly missing hitting the electric lamp by which Iggy was writing his letter.

"Here! Cheese it! Do you want to douse the glim?" expostulated Schnitzel. "We won this dugout from the Germans after too much hard work to let you put it on the blink now. It's the best place we've had to rest in for some time. Don't go putting it on the kazook!"

"I apologize," said Sergeant Jimmy, humbly enough. "It's great to have electric light, isn't it? Those Huns certainly went to a lot of work to make this place like home for their officers. Electric lights, decent berths, and places where you can take it easy and write letters."

"They never thought we'd get this far, I guess," remarked Bob.

And what he said was true. There had been a sudden and substantial advance on the part of the American army, and they had overwhelmed the German lines at this sector, running the Boches several miles back. Thus long lines of well-made German trenches, including a number of dugouts fitted up rather more elaborately than usual, were left in the hands of the Allies in general and the Americans in particular.

The one in which the five Brothers were taking their rest after some severe fighting had been arranged with electric lights, and after the battle the wires were repaired, the dynamo hitched on again, and the place rendered habitable. It was an exceptionally deep dugout, and was safe from all but the very heaviest bombardments of the German guns. And there had been bombardments from time to time ever since the Americans had swept irresistibly and victoriously over the Boche lines.

"Well, this can't last forever," remarked Bob, as he nibbled at a bit of chocolate.

"What we want to do," declared Franz, as he slyly took a bit of Bob's confection, "is to wallop the Huns good and hard, and then put 'em where they can't do any more harm. Then it's us for the good old U. S. A."

"Yes, and it'll be you for the outside if you snibby any more of my lollypop!" exclaimed Bob, with a grin as he moved away from Schnitzel. "I got this off a Salvation Army lassie this morning, and she said I wasn't to give any of it away."

"Pity you didn't get some for all of us," commented Roger. "Did they open a fresh box?"

"Yes, just got a new lot in," said Bob. "I was going to tell you about it and advise you to go out and get your share when we got to talking about Iggy's letter."

"Him is all done now—my letter," declared the Polish lad. "I can for the chocolate go!"

"We'll all have a go at the chocolate!" put in Jimmy. "Come on, fellows. We've been in here long enough. Let's get a bit of fresh air without running danger of poison gas. No telling how soon we'll be sent to the front again. Me for a large, juicy slice of chocolate!"

"We're with you!" cried his four chums.

"Well, I wish I could of see my mothar when she open this letter and of the two hundred dollars take out," said Iggy, as he gave the epistle to a messenger to see that it was mailed, together with cards and letters previously prepared by the other Khaki Boys. "She will hop—no, that is not the word—she will dance for of joy."

"Well, let us dance out and get the chocolate while the going's good!" cried Jimmy.

As he spoke a deeper boom from some distant, great gun came to their ears, and the ground trembled.

"Sounds as though they were coming nearer," commented Bob.

"Or else they're using longer range cannon," added Roger.

"Well," said Jimmy, "as long as we——"

He never finished the sentence. In the midst of it the words were drowned, swallowed up, obliterated in one great crash. It seemed to be exactly on top of the dugout of which the five Khaki Boys were now the only occupants.

And coincident with the crash there came complete darkness, while the deafening noise was followed by smaller concussions.

"It's a cave-in! The walls are collapsing!" cried Bob.

"I'm covered with dirt!" came Roger's voice faintly from the darkness. "Fellows, we're buried alive! Buried alive!"

And the echoes seemed to send back, mockingly:

"Buried alive! Alive!"

CHAPTER II A STRANGE SIGHT

For a moment after the dramatic announcement of Roger Barlow to the effect that he and his chums were in such dire straits, there was intense silence. Silence and darkness reigned in the dugout that, a moment before, had been light and the scene of as much gaiety as can perhaps ever be attained so near the war front. And the hearts of the five Brothers turned sick with fear.

Then Jimmy, perhaps because he was more used to commanding than his companions, though they were all non-commissioned officers, took charge of the situation.

"I say!" he called aloud, after making sure that the worst that had happened to him was numerous cuts and bruises. "I say, are any of you badly hurt?"

"I seem to be all there," answered Roger. "But I'm caught under a beam or something."

"Don't try to wiggle out yet!" warned Jimmy. "You may bring the whole place down about our ears! Wait until I see if I can get my hand in my pocket and bring out my flashlamp. I hope it isn't broken."

"I can get at mine!" came from Franz.

"Are you all right?" asked Jimmy.

"Yes, except for a crack on the head that made me see stars for a minute."

"Stars!" cried Bob. "We'd be well off if we could see comets now. It's as dark as a bucket of tar in here. What happened, anyhow? I believe we must be under tons of earth and rocks."

"I guess we are," said Jimmy, and his voice had a solemn note in it. "We must be buried alive, as you said. The Huns must have dropped a bomb from an aeroplane straight on the location of this dugout, which, of course, they knew. Or else they've got the range with one of their big guns. But wait, I can flash my glim now. We'll soon see what the trouble is."

"Has anyone heard a peep out of Iggy?" asked Roger. "Of course we can't see one another, but we can hear. I say, Iggy, are you all right?" he called, and by his voice it would seem that Roger was not much hurt.

There was silence for a moment, and then the tones of the Polish lad were heard. Iggy said:

"I dunno if I am here, or by a deadness alretty. Only I haf a much pains in my foot. Maybe he is cracked!"

"Let us hope not!" said Jimmy, as he switched on his pocket flashlight. "Oh, I see him!" he cried. "You are under a heap of dirt and sandbags, Iggy. We'll soon have you out."

As Jimmy flashed the light, Bob and Franz began digging with their hands. They very quickly freed Roger. It was soon evident that Iggy, also, could be freed; but when this was accomplished his head sank back limply and his eyes closed.

"He must be worse hurt than we think," said Franz solemnly. "Is there any way out of this hole?"

"There is one if it hasn't been closed by the explosion," answered Jimmy. "Wait until I get my bearings. This is the main German dugout for this section of trench—that is, it was," he added significantly. "Now from here, as I recall it, there ran a tunnel into another bomb-proof. If we can dig our way to that we may be saved yet. And we've got to dig our way out, fellows. We may be buried alive, but it's up to us to dig our way out. But first we'd better get Iggy some water, if we can find any. I'm afraid he's in a bad way."

And while the five Brothers are trying to solve one of the many hard problems that came to them during their war career, I will take a moment to inform my new readers something of the lads themselves.

They were called the "Khaki Boys," and they were first introduced in the volume named "The Khaki Boys at Camp Sterling." Jimmy Blaise, otherwise known as James Sumner Blaise, the son of wealthy parents, Roger Barlow, an orphan who had tried various ways of making a living, Robert Dalton, who after the death of his parents had become a "cub" newspaper reporter, Franz Schnitzel, and Ignace Pulinski, had established a Brotherhood during their preliminary camp training.

They had many thrilling times together during the early days of the participation of the United States in the big conflict, and they formed friendships that meant much. They started for France together, and in the second volume, "The Khaki Boys on the Way," their experiences on the water have been detailed. Being torpedoed was only one of many thrilling things that happened to them. Eventually the five Khaki Boys reached the actual fighting ground, and in "The Khaki Boys at the Front," will be found set down their experiences as real fighters. In that book may be learned how Jimmy earned the reward of five thousand francs by disposing of the "tiger man." And it was this reward, or rather, his share of it, that Iggy sent to his "mothar," as he called her.

In the fourth volume, entitled, "The Khaki Boys Over the Top," are related the details of some rather curious happenings. Jimmy had entrusted his five thousand francs to the care of a friend, Sergeant Maxwell, and, after a certain skirmish, when the five Brothers went over the top, the sergeant was reported missing. The five thousand francs also disappeared.

What effect this had on the Khaki Boys, and how, later, they were saved from almost sure death by a strange officer, and how they denounced this officer as a spy—all this will be found in the fourth book. At the close, the boys, after many hardships, were united again, and they were waiting for the resumption of the heavy fighting where we find them at the opening of this present tale.

Among their friends the five Khaki Boys numbered the "Twinkle Twins," otherwise John and Gerald Twinkleton, two aviators, whose cousin, Emile Voissard, was known as the "Flying Terror of France." He was more than an ace, and it was in helping him that Jimmy won the reward. There was, too, Jimmy's friend Margaret, of Buffalo, but he had small hope of seeing his "girl" in those strenuous war days.

Of course boys like the five Brothers could not progress as they had and not make enemies. The very fact that Jimmy, Roger and Franz were sergeants, while Bob and Ignace were corporals was enough to cause some jealous feelings among the squads they often commanded. And even in camp this had been shown, before they were promoted. There was one young soldier, Private Bixton, who acted very despicably toward the five friends until he was sent to a military prison, mainly through the instrumentality of Jimmy and his chums. For Bixton was a scoundrel, as well as a deserter.

So, it can be seen, the five friends did not have it altogether easy. They fought hard, and they were wounded more than once, but not seriously enough to keep them long away from the firing line.

And now, after having fought hard and been given a short leave of absence, part of which they had spent in the old German dugout, the Khaki Boys are again in trouble, caused by the collapse of the underground place when the big shell or the bomb exploded.

Putting aside, for the moment, all thought of trying to dig their way out of their underground prison, the Khaki Boys proceeded to do what they could for the unfortunate Iggy. Their flashlights gave considerable illumination to the otherwise dark hole, and by looking around Jimmy and the others saw what had happened.

The shell, bomb, or whatever it was, must have landed squarely on top of the dugout. And though this top proper, being made of concrete, was some distance underground, it had been made to collapse as one might push in the end of an egg. The roof of the dugout was depressed while the walls still stood upright, though much cracked. The place was filled with débris.

It was owing to the fact that the strong, thick walls held that the boys' lives were not at once crushed out. They had been along the edges, and not standing in the middle, when the crash came.

"Lift him over to one side, and we'll see if we can tell what's the matter with him," suggested Roger.

Accordingly they scraped as much dirt and débris off the Polish lad as possible, and then half lifted and half dragged him over to a pile of blankets.

"Feel any better?" asked Jimmy, as he gave his friend another drink from a canteen.

"Yes, of a little betterness am I," was the answer. "But do not of mind me. I can get alongs. Look for a way out of these place if you can find him. Do not mind me."

"Well, maybe I'd better be looking to see if I can find the old tunnel," said Jimmy. "We'll need to find that, anyhow, to get ourselves out, as well as Iggy. Roger, you come with me. Bob and Franz can stay with Iggy. We'll be back as soon as we can," he added.

The two boys climbed over the débris, flashing their pocket torches at intervals, so as not to use up the batteries too quickly. Bob and Franz made Iggy as comfortable as possible.

"Seems to me the place was over here," observed Jimmy, as he pulled aside some loose and splintered boards.

Quickly Jimmy flashed the gleams of his small lamp over the cracked and broken walls of the dugout. At first he had no success, but finally he found what he was looking for.

"Here it is!" he cried. "An old door! It's been closed for some time, but here it is."

"Can it be opened?" asked Roger.

"That remains to be seen," replied Jimmy, as he limped nearer to it, for he had been struck on the leg by a piece of timber and he was painfully lame.

An examination showed that the door, though broken and jammed, was capable of being forced open. This was done by Roger and Jimmy, using pieces of planks for levers. At last the broken door swung to one side on its burst hinges, and beyond it a dark tunnel was seen.

"Here's the place!" cried Jimmy. "Now if we can go along this until we reach the other bomb-proof we shall get out all right."

"Yes—if we can," said Roger significantly. "Well, we've got to try, that's sure. Can't stay here very long. It may come down about our ears."

"I don't know about Iggy, though," went on Jimmy. "Of course we could carry him, but it would be hard work."

However, they were not compelled to do this. For when Roger and Jimmy went back to where they had left Bob and Franz looking after the wounded Polish lad, they found that Iggy could walk by leaning on the shoulder of someone.