Phil waited a minute for an answer from other members of his squad, but received none. Then he was about to repeat the call, when something occurred that rendered another shrill whistle through his teeth virtually impossible.
Suddenly a heavy weight landed on him from behind. A pair of powerful arms were thrown about his neck, and he was borne to the ground by the impetus of the onset.
CHAPTER XI
PHIL A PRISONER
Although this overpowering attack from behind was doubtless almost as much a surprise to Phil’s six prisoners as it was to the boy himself, it did not take them long to recover and seize advantage of the situation. Like a football team they rushed forward to tackle their recent captor, but their assistance was scarcely needed, for the fellow who had leaped on Phil’s back was a powerful 200-pounder, and the shock that resulted when earth and the boy came together half stunned the latter.
But it was not enough to deprive him entirely of his senses, and as he was being jerked to his feet, he had the hazy gratification of hearing an answering whistle to his own “siren shriek.” The boches evidently were alarmed by the same sound, for they put greater energy and speed in their actions in order to get out of the ravine as soon as possible.
First they raced about and gathered up their guns, which lay strewn around the crater-like hole made by the explosion of the bomb dropped from the aeroplane. Then they gathered up their uniforms, but did not stop to put them on, and darted into the thick of the timber in the direction of the retreating boche lines, two of them half carrying, half dragging their boy prisoner between them.
But Phil was not the kind of lad who would attempt to hinder the progress of his captors by hanging back and pretending to be unable to keep pace with them. He preferred to conduct himself as thoroughly able-bodied as soon as he had recovered from the shock that attended his capture. In a few minutes he won just a slight manifestation of good-will from the two who had hold of his arms by “going them one better” and actually leading them slightly in the race through the timber.
In a short time the dusk was so heavy in the woods that it was difficult for them to make progress at more than a slow walk. Efforts to push ahead rapidly were sure to result in trouble with tripping underbrush, scratching branches, and bruising boles of trees.
Phil realized that it was next to vain to hope that they would be overtaken by the comrade Marines of his squad; for although answering calls from them had reached his ears, indicating that they had almost arrived at the scene of his capture, there was small likelihood, indeed, that they would be able to hit the trail of the fleeing boches and overtake them and rescue him. He was tempted several times to repeat his whistle and yell out information as to his predicament, but vicious threats from the officer of big girth in charge of the squad now in “underclothing uniform,” accompanied by a significant pressing of a rifle muzzle now and then against his head, advised him convincingly against any such proceeding.
Sergeant Speed’s one hope of rescue was that they might run into a body of Americans who had advanced farther into the timber in their search for retreating snipers and machine gunners. But this hope was only remotely reasonable, for the instruction from the commanding officer had been that the entire raiding force return by nightfall. Undoubtedly he and Corporal Tim, and perhaps the other members of the squad as well, were being reckoned among the missing. It was hardly probable that the latter had yet given up their efforts to rejoin him after hearing and answering his siren whistle. Possibly they had discovered Tim lying on the ground and even now were doing their best to revive him or were bearing him back toward the American lines.