Frank covered them with his rifle, whose muzzle darted from one to the other in the line.
“Hands up!” he commanded.
The words were American, but the Germans understood what it meant. If they had any doubt, the rifle would have enlightened them.
Their guns dropped from their hands and they raised the latter above their heads.
“Kamerad!” they shouted in chorus.
Still keeping them covered, Frank motioned them to come out one at a time. They did so and formed in line, their hands still upraised. The look of amazement on their faces, when they looked around for Frank’s comrades and failed to see them, was comical beyond expression. But Frank was too keyed up at that moment to pay any attention to the humorous side of it.
He shot a glance at the machine gun. It had been knocked down by the falling log and the machinery by which it was fed with cartridges was unusable.
“March!” Frank commanded, taking his station in the rear of the line of prisoners.
They obeyed sheepishly enough, and one or two of them in the rear of the line were inclined to be sullen, but a sharp jab of Frank’s bayonet decided them, and they went off at a jog trot toward the American lines.
They had covered perhaps two-thirds of the way, when Frank met a squad of his own regiment who were advancing after clearing out a ravine. They raised a shout as they saw Frank coming along herding his flock, and in a moment he was surrounded and overwhelmed with eager questions.