“The poor fellow may be worse off than we imagine,” said Captain Obray to Dave. “You remember the fate of poor Williamson?”
“Indeed I do,” answered our hero. Williamson was a somewhat elderly engineer, hailing from the South. Only a few weeks before he had gone to the front without his gas mask. As soon as a gas attack came, Williamson had fled to the rear, hoping to escape the deadly fumes. For several days he had acted as if nothing had harmed him. But then he had suddenly been taken with cramps and a feeling of sickness all over, and he was now in the hospital hovering between life and death.
Once back in camp, Roger lost no time in attending to his injured ankle, being assisted in this by Ben and Shadow. In the meantime Dave had to attend to his duties as a sergeant, while Phil went over to perform his own duties as a corporal, and also those which had been assigned to the senator’s son.
For three days it rained almost constantly—so much so that it was next to impossible for the engineers to do any of the work which had been assigned to them. A large part of that territory in France was rather low, and the rain caused many pools and some lakes to form. One of the main roadways was about a foot under water, and many of the lorry drivers asked jokingly how soon they were going to run boats in that vicinity. It was almost impossible to move anything, and one battery which attempted to shift its position got completely stuck in the mud and had to be left there until the storm let up.
In those days the young engineers had one place to visit which gave them a great deal of comfort. This was a large Y. M. C. A. hut, which had been established in that vicinity only a short while before. Here the boys often gathered in their off time, to write letters, play games, or listen to the music of a small but sweet-toned phonograph which had been set up. Those who cared to do so could smoke, and also obtain chocolate and other sweets, and likewise something hot to drink.
“It’s a mighty fine idea,” was Dave’s comment one evening, after he had spent two hours at the hut, writing some letters and listening to some familiar songs reproduced on the phonograph.
“Right you are! And the Y. M. C. A. people and those who are supporting the movement deserve a great deal of credit for what they have done,” replied Phil.
“I understand the Knights of Columbus are going to put up a hut some miles farther down the line,” put in another of the engineers.
“Yes. And the Salvation Army are doing something of the same thing,” came from still another. “A fellow was telling me the other day that they were dealing out hot pies and doughnuts right close to the firing-line. Some work for the lassies, eh?” and he smiled broadly.
During those days Roger’s ankle grew better rapidly. He still limped a little when he walked, but he could get around, and declared that in a few days more he would be as well as ever. Concerning Buster, however, the report was not so encouraging. Evidently he had got more of a dose of the poisonous gas than he had thought, and he was suffering considerably.