Phil and his captors had by this time advanced some distance into this wooded battle ground, most of which had until recently been occupied by the enemy. But the heavy shell fire and attacks by the air fleet of the allies had driven the main boche division back a considerable distance, and after the Marines had routed out the nests of machine guns and sharpshooters that were concealed in the woods and rendered perilous any further attempt on the part of the enemy to hold these positions, the captured timber terrain was a desolate waste indeed.
No doubt there would be no attempt on the part of the Marines to move much farther toward the enemy’s lines that night. In the morning probably the commanding officer would order another advance unless the enemy anticipated him with a counter attack.
The effects of the shelling of the woods by the American artillery was evident to some extent almost to the very front of the boche new positions. In spite of the darkness, Phil could see with the aid of the stars that peeped down through the foliage, torn, twisted and splintered branches and tree trunks, while every now and then they stumbled into or narrowly avoided a jagged shell-hole in the ground.
But at last they reached the objective of the young non-com’s captors, which was a position of safety behind their own lines, and Phil found himself confronted with the prospect of remaining a prisoner in the hands of the enemy for the duration of the rest of the war.
CHAPTER XII
A BARBED WIRE PRISON
A short distance out in No Man’s Land from the German lines, Phil’s captors stopped long enough to put on their outer clothing and thus cover the comical evidence of their humiliation by the young American who subsequently became their prisoner only through a surprise rear attack. Doubtless they had not stopped sooner for this purpose because they feared the possible consequences of any delay, with a swarm of Yankee “devil dogs” scouring the timber for boches.
Phil was rushed to the rear where he was placed under guard with a dozen other American prisoners who had been brought in from various quarters. Half an hour later, it appearing that no more prisoners would be brought in that night, they were hustled back several miles over a rough road to a physically wrecked village, deserted by its civilian population, and there corralled in a barbed wire inclosure already occupied by more than 200 captured Americans and Frenchmen. There each prisoner was stripped of his helmet and every other superfluous article of use or treasure.
It was a wretched place, from all dim appearances in the darkness. There was not a glimmer of light within the barbed wire prison, and only a few outside. The patrol of guards that paced about outside the inclosure were ghostly looking shadows against the various background of empty darkness or debris of shell-shattered buildings. The other prisoners did not pay much attention as the newly captured Marines were driven into the place like so many cattle. This apparent indifference doubtless was due to the darkness of the night and the weariness of all the prisoners.
The young Marine sergeant at once sought a resting place for the night. He knew better than to expect any courtesies in the way of food, water, or couch for the night from men of the brutal type that characterized most of the boches with whom he had come into contact thus far.
Phil was tired and fell asleep “as soon as his head touched his pillow,” which consisted of his arm curled up under his head. Later when this became uncomfortable for the “pillow,” he rolled over in his sleep, and his only headrest was the uncushioned earth.