THE BLACK BOX
The three chums, standing in the wet and muddy trench, looked at one another as this significant remark was made. Bob either did not catch what was said, or did not understand, for he asked his companions:
“What did he say?”
“S. I. W.,” repeated Jerry.
“Self-inflicted wound,” translated Ned. “So Noddy Nixon did that to himself to get out of the big battle! Well, it’s just like the coward! I’m glad he isn’t in our company!”
“So am I,” added Jerry.
“Self-inflicted wound,” repeated Bob.
“Well, he’s out of the fighting now,” declared Ned, “though he’ll have the worst time he ever had in his life. He’d better be dead by a Hun shell.”
Silence fell upon the three in the trench while, not far from them, they could hear the commotion caused as Noddy was taken away to a hospital. And there, for some time, he remained safely if not comfortably in bed, while his companions endured 202 the mud and the blood of the trenches, meeting death and wounds, or just escaping them by a hair’s breadth to drive back the hordes of the Boches.
But over Noddy’s cot, and over that of several men on either side of him was a placard with the significant letters:
| S. I. W. |
“Self-inflicted wound.” One of the most terrible tragedies of the war—more tragic, even, than the death of the gallant boys on the day the armistice was signed, yes, within an hour of it. For those letters indicated a disgrace that seldom, if ever, could be wiped out.
Briefly it meant that a soldier afraid of going into action with his comrades, went to some secluded place and, aiming his gun or pistol at some extremity—a hand or a foot—where a wound was likely to be slight and not very painful, pulled the trigger. Then followed the story that a stray German bullet, coming over the top of the trench as the man exposed himself, had done the deed.
But the nature of the wound, the character of the bullet, and, above all, the appearance of the man himself, told the real story. Sometimes the victims would say their weapon went off by accident as they were cleaning it, and this was perhaps 203 worst of all, for it put the canker of doubt into genuine cases of this sort, and there are bound to be some such in every army.
So Noddy was carried away to the hospital, and “S. I. W.” was inscribed over his cot.
As to the causes leading up to the self-inflicted wounds they are many and varied. Sometimes a soldier may become fear-crazed, and irresponsible for his act. Other men are just plain “yellow,” clear through, and ought never to have gone into the fighting. They should have confessed cowardice at first, though, of course, that would be hard.
Sometimes, though rarely, these “S. I. W.” cases “came back.” That is, they were given a chance to redeem themselves and went to the fighting front with a song on their lips and undaunted courage in their eyes. And then, if they died doing their duty they were absolved. But it was a desperate chance.
Every one recognized that there was an element of doubt in these cases, but as for Noddy Nixon, when his significant question to the surgeon as to the relative pain of a hand or foot wound was recalled, he was condemned already. He had shot himself slightly in the left foot. He was dishonorably discharged when he was cured, and sent home, and, therefore, did not trouble the Motor Boys again, nor did Bob get his revenge for the stolen articles. 204
Ned, Bob, and Jerry did not feel much like talking after they learned what had happened. They had no love for Noddy Nixon, and he had treated them exceedingly badly in the past, as well as tormenting them since they had been associated in the army. But they knew that nothing they could have done or said would have been half as effective punishment as that which he had brought on himself. Henceforth, among decent men, he was an outcast; a pariah.
The long night passed. Sentries were changed, a watch was kept to forestall any attack on the part of the Germans, but none came. Save for the occasional clash of a night patrol, or the false alarm of some one on listening post, there was little action during the hours preceding the great offensive.
Their tour of duty ended, Ned, Bob, and Jerry sought rest in the dugout. There, with but few more comforts than in the trenches, they waited until the time should come again for them to go out and take a “mud bath,” as Ned called it.
For it rained often, and the trenches never seemed to dry. Still at this stage of the war there were more comforts for the men on the firing line than when France and England first opposed the advance of the gray hordes.
“When does the big show start?” asked Ned, as he and his chums came out of the dugout for a 205 few hours’ stay farther behind the lines. “I thought the bombardment was to begin this morning.”
“Must be delayed for some reason,” said Jerry with a yawn. “Come on, let’s go somewhere and sit down. We’ll know when it’s time for the shindig to start.”
“Let’s see if we can find the professor,” suggested Bob. “We may have hard work to get word to him after the fighting begins.”
This seemed a good plan, and it was followed. Professor Snodgrass was billeted temporarily in a farmhouse on the edge of a little French village near which the boys were on duty. Thither they went, and found their friend poring over books and papers.
“Well, how goes it?” asked Jerry, after they had all shaken hands.
“Well, indeed,” was the answer. “I have not yet found the young ladies, but I expect to, soon. I have heard that Mr. Schmouder, the father of the janitor, who was looking after them, and who knew something of their plans, moved from his home town, outside of Metz, lately, and started farther back into Germany.”
“Then I should think it would be harder than ever for you to trace them,” suggested Ned.
“No, I think it will be easier,” said the professor, but he did not explain how. 206
“Getting the results you expected from the insect noise campaign, Professor?” asked Jerry.
“Yes, my boy. It is a complete success. I even have some moving pictures taken with my new machine that helped me capture the Germans. Wait, and I will show you.”
He seemed as cheerful as though no cloud of financial trouble hung over his head and as though the World War were being fought to give him opportunity to test the effect of noise on the crickets. He turned to a table in his room, and began delving in a mass of things. To get at something he wanted to exhibit to the boys, he set in the middle of the floor a small, black box.
Just as he did that a soldier, evidently an officer of some kind in the French army, stepped into the room, and in a mixture of French and English asked if Professor Snodgrass was there.
“I am he,” answered the scientist.
“Ah, zen you will please come with me,” said the soldier. “You are wanted at ze headquarters.”
“Wanted at headquarters!” repeated the professor. “What for?”
“Zis will explain,” and the officer handed a note to Professor Snodgrass.
As the professor read it a smile came over his face.
“Ah, I understand,” he said. “I will come at 207 once. Boys, we will let the insect pictures wait a minute. Perhaps you will be interested in my latest discovery. Come, I am ready to go,” and he picked up the black box from the floor and stood in waiting.
The officer looked a little dubiously at the object in the professor’s hand, and then at the three boys.
“My orders did not include—zem!” he said, indicating Ned, Bob, and Jerry, “nor—zat!” and he pointed to the box.
“This has to come,” replied the professor. “It is part of what I proposed. As for my friends, I will be responsible for them.”
“Very well, sair!” and the Frenchman bowed and led the way.
Wonderingly the boys followed Professor Snodgrass, and presently found themselves at field headquarters. A company of French soldiers were standing about, and while waiting for the summons to the presence of the headquarters officer who had sent for him, Professor Snodgrass set down on the ground the black box he had brought.
Then he suddenly saw a curious insect crawling along and became intent on its capture. The boys were watching him and paid no attention to the black box until they heard some one yell:
“Look out, boys! It’s an infernal machine in 208 there—a bomb! He’s a spy and he’s going to blow up the whole place. It’s an infernal machine—I can hear the buzzing of the battery inside.”
An American soldier, who had approached the box and had leaned over to inspect it, leaped away and began running as he cried out his warning. There was consternation among the officers and men outside the headquarters building, and Professor Snodgrass, pausing in his search for the elusive insect, gazed up in surprise at the commotion.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“Some one says there’s a bomb in that black box of yours,” explained Jerry.
“If there is, get it out of the way! Douse it in water. Throw it away. Look out!” yelled several.
One or two soldiers started for the black box, and others with ready bayonets for the professor, for there had been a number of spies discovered of late in that sector.
“Don’t touch that box!” cried the professor. “Don’t open it! Keep away from it!”
And, as he hurried toward it, the soldiers leaped back.