THE SNIPER
All stood looking from the trench at the actions of Ned Slade.
“Look!” cried Bob, pointing to his chum. “He’s picking up pieces of wood!”
“Has he gone crazy?” murmured the officer, peering through his glasses at Private Slade. “Does he think he can salvage anything from the wreck?”
Just what Ned was thinking of was not evident. He moved here and there amid the ruins of the ammunition automobile, picking up bits of wood until his arms could hold no more. It was raining heavily, and when Ned stepped into a puddle the mud and water could be seen to splash.
And then, when Ned could carry no more and turned to come back to his own trench, the Germans, in theirs, suddenly awoke to the chance they had been missing. There were sharp reports, and something besides rain drops splashed into the pools of water all about Ned. 124
“They’re firing at him! He’ll be killed!” cried Bob.
“It seems very likely!” said the officer grimly. “Who gave him permission to go out like that, and why did he do it?”
No one answered. No one knew what to say.
And now Ned, aware of his own danger, began to run toward the trench. He came on, stooping over to offer less of a target to the Germans, and he zig-zagged as he leaped forward. But through it all, through the hail of lead, he did not drop the pieces of the demolished truck he had picked up.
The firing from the German lines became hotter, and a machine gun began to splutter.
“It’s all up with him now!” said the officer, with something like a groan. “I’ll order our guns to shell the Hun trench, but it will be too late!”
He jumped down off the firing step, where he and the others, including Jerry and Bob, were standing, and started for the nearest telephone that connected with a battery.
Just then Ned was seen to stagger.
“He’s hit!” some one cried.
But if he was the lad who had taken such a desperate chance did not stop. He dropped a piece of wood, but still he ran on, stooping over, and darting from side to side.
And at last he reached the trench where Bob, Jerry, and his other comrades awaited him. The 125 rain had made the top of the trench slippery, and Ned, striking this while going at full speed, fairly slid down into the ditch, the wood dropping from his arms all about.
“There you are!” he cried, as he recovered himself. “Enough wood for two fires! Now we can have something hot for breakfast! Bob, start the coffee boiling! I’m like you—hungry!”
For a moment the others stood staring at him, and then the officer came back.
“Did they get him?” he cried. “If they did they’ll pay for it. We’ll wipe out the Hun trench in another minute!”
Then he saw Ned, standing, surrounded by the splintered, wooden parts of the ammunition truck.
“Oh, you’re here,” said the officer, mechanically, as Ned saluted. “Well, what in the name of General Pershing did you want to do that for?”
“I wanted some wood to make a fire for breakfast, Sir,” answered Ned simply. “Some one took our supply last night, and when I saw the truck blown to pieces and noticed that the driver was safe, I thought it a good chance to get some fairly dry fuel. So I took it. Better pick it up though, or it won’t be dry long,” he added to Jerry, and the latter, with Bob’s help, obeyed. Ned had done his share.
The officer stared at Ned as though the young soldier were a new sort of fighter, and then, with 126 a shake of his head, turned away. It was past belief or understanding.
As the three chums moved back to where they had set up an improvised stove, where they could build a fire with the truck pieces Ned had brought in, the ground shook with the thunder of the American guns that soon enforced silence in the German trenches. It was revenge for having fired on Ned.
Technically Ned had been guilty of a breach of the regulations, but though his venture into the open had resulted in a whole battery being sent into action, nothing further was said, officially, of his conduct. Perhaps his bravery was admired by the officer who saw it.
At any rate Ned, Bob and Jerry had a warm breakfast, which they shared with some of their chums, and then the day’s duty began. It was performed in the rain, that seemed never-ceasing. The bottom of the trench was a ditch of mud, in spite of the duck boards laid down.
“Too bad Professor Snodgrass isn’t here,” remarked Ned, as he pulled one foot up from the mud and looked at it with the remark that he wanted to make sure he still had the foot attached to his person.
“Too bad the professor isn’t here! Why?” asked Bob.
“Oh, he might find some new kind of bug in 127 this—soup!” and Ned stirred the thick mud in the bottom of the trench with the butt of his gun. “It might be more interesting than seeing how noises affect French crickets.”
“Crickets!” cried Jerry. “I feel sorry for any self-respecting cricket that would stay here to be affected. But, speaking of the professor, I wish we could see him again. It would be like hearing from home, and the letters are few and far between.”
“That’s right,” admitted Ned. They had had some missives from their people, and also the girls, Alice, Helen and Mollie, while Bob, in addition, had had a note from Helena Schaeffer, who said she was knitting for the Red Cross. But, of late, no mail had come in.
“I shouldn’t be surprised to see the professor walk in on us any day,” mused Jerry. “He’s likely to do it.”
“Then he’d better get a hustle on, or he may not find us here,” observed Ned.
“Why not?” Bob inquired.
“Well, there’s a rumor that we’re soon going to attack again,” answered Ned. “And when we go over the top we don’t come back to the old trenches. We make new ones. So the professor, if he doesn’t come soon, may find we have changed our address.”
“Going to make an attack!” Jerry spoke softly. 128 “Well, that’s the way to win the war. I hope it will stop raining, though. I hate to fight in the rain.”
But still the dreary drizzle kept up, and through it the soldiers plodded in the mud of the trench. It was nearly time for the three chums to be relieved when Ned, who had a post at the right of Jerry, suddenly gave a start, following a distant report.
“What is it?” asked his tall chum.
In answer Ned pointed to a spattery hole in the trench wall behind him.
“The German sniper again,” he said. “And I’m going to see if I can’t spot him. We’ve got to get him!”
Ned took off his tin helmet and put it on his bayonet. Then he slowly raised it above the top of the trench, at the spot where the bullet had come in. A moment later there was a vicious “ping!” and the helmet bore a deep indentation.
“Spotted!” cried Ned. “I see where he keeps himself! And now, fellows, if you’ll help, we’ll get Mr. Fritz Sharpshooter, and get him good! I’ve got his address now!”