There were evidently only three courses open for Phil to pursue. One was to stand where he was and compel his prisoners to remain in their present positions, with hands over their heads until help came. Another was to shoot the six men down in their tracks as rapidly as he was able to discharge his repeater accurately. The other was to turn and flee with all his well practiced fleetness of foot.
The last he could not consider for an instant. The second was contrary to American principles opposed to unnecessary frightfulness in war. The first was impracticable in view of the fact that the sun was setting and darkness would soon cover the ravine.
It occurred to the young sergeant that he might also compel his doubtfully secured captives to divest themselves of their uniforms in order to make certain that they had no concealed firearms, but such a course would not guarantee his ability to prevent them from escaping in the woods after dark. It might, however, be the means eventually of saving his life if the men should escape from him, and Phil decided to adopt it as a precautionary measure.
But at the same time he cast about him in a vague hope that help of some kind might be at hand. He glanced quickly up to see if perchance the French flyer was not about to offer him further assistance, but that very thoughtful air-fighter was now engaged in a skirmish with an enemy plane, which was taking them farther and farther away from the precarious scene in the ravine. Then the young officer bethought him of his fallen companion, and with almost hysterical hopefulness he cast a quick glance toward the spot where the corporal had dropped without a groan. As he did so, it seemed that he must behold his friend rising on his hands and knees in a determination to lend his much needed assistance.
Phil shuddered as he saw the bullet-headed boy lying as still as any corpse on a battlefield.
“Poor Tim,” he muttered. “He was sure he wouldn’t be killed. Well, so am I,” the doubtful captor of six doubtful prisoners added. “I’m not going to be killed—I know it. I’m going to kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, as Tim said I should do. There, I said ‘kill’ six times. That means that these six prisoners have to die as rapidly as this repeater can repeat. Fortunately, I’m a sharpshooter and can do the job before the last one of them can much more than shudder and look pale. Well, here goes, converting my army rifle into a machine-gun.”
CHAPTER X
A NOVEL DISARMAMENT
“No, I can’t do it. I’m no Hun.”
That sentiment, which flashed revulsively through Phil’s brain, probably saved the lives of those six boches, but it also must be held responsible for certain subsequent misfortunes and hardships that rendered Sergeant Speed’s army experiences worthy of a many-chaptered record. Meanwhile there was nothing in the boy’s manner or actions that indicated what was going on in his mind. None of them knew how narrowly they escaped execution at the hands of a “firing squad of one.”
Phil’s next order to his captives was such a mongrel admixture of English, poor French and worse German that he has asked that it be not recorded against him. But it was thoroughly understood, being in several short sentences intended to carry something of an explanation of his purpose, and was obeyed.