A curve in the road passed close by this line of trenches. It was a road used to take supplies to another part of the American battleline, and vehicles passed along it only at night, as it was within range of some of the German guns, though fairly well camouflaged. But this auto truck, returning in the early hours of the morning after having delivered a load of ammunition, had been caught by a shell. Afterward it was learned that the truck had broken down on the return trip and that the driver had been delayed in repairing it, so that he had to pass the danger point in daylight.
Whether or not the German battery was on the lookout for just such a chance as this, or whether it was a mere fortuitous opportunity of which advantage was taken, could not be learned. But a shell containing high explosive, though, fortunately for the driver, not a large one, landed near the automobile and shattered it.
This was the detonation which had so startled Jerry and Bob, and now, with others, they looked over the top of the trench at the ruins of the 122 truck. It was blown apart, and the wooden body and wheels were scattered about while the engine was a mere mass of twisted and fused metal.
“Look! They didn’t get the driver!” cried Bob, for as he spoke the man in charge of the truck picked himself up from a clump of bushes where he had been tossed, and limped toward the American line. He had escaped death by a miracle.
Then something else attracted the attention of Bob, Jerry, and the others. It was the sight of Ned Slade creeping along toward a pile of splintered wood—all that was left of the demolished truck.
“Who’s that? What is he doing?” cried the officer in charge of that part of the trench. “Does he hope to rescue the driver? Can’t he see that the man is safe and is coming in? Who is he?”
“Private Slade, Sir,” replied Jerry.
“But what is he doing? That’s a foolhardy piece of business, trying to reach that truck. It’s under the fire of the German trench, as well as within range of their battery. What is he trying to do?”