Now started on his way toward the thing he most dreaded, Bixton had determined to take the bit in his teeth and bolt. From the time he entered the train he busied himself with concocting schemes for a successful get-away.
As the day wore on toward evening, Bixton grew desperate. He had managed on entering the train to place himself in a seat near the rear end of the last car. Only a few feet from the rear platform, it seemed impossible to win it without being observed. To add to his difficulties, Jimmy Blaise was also in the same car as himself. To be sure, he made frequent trips to and through the two cars ahead, specially reserved for the detachment. Still, he appeared to be spending most of his time in the last one. Bixton regarded this merely as a “happen-so.”
Following Christmas, the weather had moderated. A thaw had set in on the Wednesday afterward that had rapidly turned the recent snowfall to slush. Two days of brilliant sunshine had left the ground fairly bare of white. Dawn that morning had hinted of rain before evening. Bixton fervently hoped that it would rain. Given an early twilight, and a pitch-black night, he could make good use of it.
By nine o’clock that evening the rain had come—a slow, dispiriting mist, reinforced later by a heavy fog. It was an ideal night for a deserter. Hunched in his seat, Bixton feigned a drowsiness he was far from feeling. From under his half-closed lids his pale blue eyes divided their vigil between his companions and the foggy world glimpsed through the car windows. As time dragged on the low hum of voices around him began to die out. One after another grew sleepy and dozed off. By ten o’clock comparative silence reigned. Occasionally a soldier roused himself with a jerk to make a trip to the water cooler directly behind Bixton.
At five minutes to eleven o’clock, Jimmy Blaise walked through the car, and dropped rather wearily into a vacant seat on the opposite side from Bixton, but a little ahead. Jimmy was beginning to feel the strain of the long day’s responsibility. Still wide awake, he felt very tired, but well content. Everything was moving along smoothly. Half the trip had been made, and all was well. Not a man had yet attempted to desert. He doubted if anyone would. Even Bixton had behaved like a lamb. Small chance now of doing anything for Schnitz. With this thought Jimmy’s contentment vanished in a rise of bitter reflection against the injustice of Fate. Poor Schnitz! How terribly he had been already misjudged! And the worst was yet to come! With a deep sigh, Jimmy closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat, sick at heart.
For perhaps ten minutes he remained thus, eyes closed, but otherwise keenly aware of his surroundings. Due to increasing fog, the train was running more slowly over a flat stretch of country, the roadbed of which was almost level with the rails. Alert to catch every sound, the monotonous hum of the train itself, as it sped along through the night, had a slightly blurring effect on his acute hearing powers—not great enough, however, to prevent him from distinguishing above it a faint click from behind him. It brought him instantly to an erect sitting posture, his head turned in the direction whence it had come.
There came a muffled cry, a flash of olive-drab down the aisle, the reverberating slam of a door; then silence. At intervals throughout the car, drowsy heads bobbed up, the glances of their owners sleepily directed toward the rear door. Several of their comrades nearer to the door than themselves were up, and making for it. Undoubtedly, something unusual had happened. But what? They could not then know that already some distance behind them, two soldiers, mud-plastered, and shaken by their mad leap in the dark, were, nevertheless, engaged in the fight of their lives. A battle in which Honor strove against Dishonor; a conflict between Loyalty and Disloyalty.