CHAPTER IV
OUTCAST
When Jim Horton, Corporal of Engineers, took his twin brother's uniform and moved off into the darkness toward the German lines, Harry Horton remained as his brother had left him, bewildered, angry, and still very much afraid. The idea of taking Jim Horton's place with his squad nearby did not appeal to him. The danger of discovery was too obvious—and soon perhaps the squad would have to advance into the dreadful curtain of black that would spout fire and death. He was fed up with it. The baptism of fire in the afternoon had shaken him when they lay in the field. It was the grinning head of Levinski of the fourth squad that had done the business. He had found it staring at him in the wheat as the platoon crawled forward. It wasn't so much that it was an isolated head, as that it was the isolated head of Levinski, for he hadn't liked Levinski and he knew that the man had hated him. And now Levinski had had his revenge. Harry had been deathly ill at the stomach, and had not gone forward with the platoon. He had seen the whites of the eyes of his men as they had glanced aside at him—and spat.
Why the H—— he had ever gone into the thing ... And now ... suppose Jim didn't come back! What should he do? Why had the Major picked him out for this duty! His thoughts wandered wildly from one fancied injury to another. And Jim—it was like him to turn up and plunge into this wild venture that would probably bring them both to court-martial. And if Jim was shot, what the devil was he to do? Go on through the service as Jim Horton, Corporal of Engineers? He cursed silently while he groveled in the gully waiting for the shots that were to decide his fate.
For a moment he gathered nerve enough to pick up Jim's rifle and accoutrement with the intention of joining the squad of engineers. But just at that moment there were sounds of shots within the wood, followed by others closer at hand, and then bullets ripped viciously through the foliage just above him. By a movement just ahead of him he knew that the line was advancing. He couldn't ... his knees refused him ... so he crawled into the thicket along the gully and lay upon the ground among the fallen leaves. More shots. Cries all about him. A grunt of pain after a shrapnel burst nearby ... the rush of feet as the second wave filtered through ... then the rapid crackle of the engagement in the wood. Jim was there—in his uniform. He'd be taking long chances too. He had always been a fool....
From his cover he marked the dawn while the fighting raged—then sunrise. The fire seemed to slacken and then move farther away. The line was still advancing and only the wounded were coming in—some of them walking cases, with bandaged heads and arms. He eyed them through the bushes furtively—vengefully. Why couldn't he have gotten a wound like that—in the afternoon in the wheat field—instead of finding the head of Levinski and the terror that it had brought? Other wounded were coming on stretchers now. The gully near him made an easy path to the plain below and many of them passed near him ... but he lay very still beneath the leaves. What if Jim came back on a stretcher...! What should he do?
Then suddenly as though in answer to his question two men emerged from the hollow above and approached, carrying something between them. There was a man of Harry's own platoon and a sergeant of the company. He heard their voices and at the sound of them he cowered lower.
"Some say he showed yellow yesterday in the wheat field," said the private.
"Yellow! They'd better not let me hear 'em sayin' it——"
They were talking about him—Harry Horton. And the figure, lying awkwardly, a shapeless mass——?