CHAPTER XVIII
A GRIM REALITY
The strumming ceased and the banjo fell to the floor. For a moment confusion reigned supreme.
The shock and the glare had a paralyzing effect but it lasted only for an instant. Then the army boys pulled themselves together.
"Is anyone hurt?" shouted Frank, as he looked about him.
A groan came from a distant corner. They rushed in that direction.
Fred Anderson was trying to struggle to his feet and in an instant willing arms supported him. His face was pale, blood was flowing from a gash in his forehead and his right leg crumpled up beneath him as he tried to bear his weight upon it.
"I guess the old pin's gone back on me, boys," he said with a faint attempt to smile. "I don't seem to have any feeling in it. I guess the Huns got me that time."
A quick examination showed that the leg was broken just below the knee.
They quickly improvised a temporary splint and a field ambulance was called. The gash in the head proved to be only a flesh wound of no great importance. But it bled freely and gave the impression that Fred was dangerously, perhaps mortally wounded.