But even the hardest kind of duty could not take from the four Brothers the sorrow that was in their hearts over Franz. It was almost worse than knowing he was dead, not to know what had become of him.
But there was nothing they could do. Jimmy spoke to their captain about it, but the officer shook his head.
"I've made inquiries," he said, "but there isn't a trace of the sergeant. Too bad, too, for he was a fine lad. We can only hope. And, if he is gone, make the beasts pay for him!"
It was about a week after the successful advance of the American forces when the spear-head had been wiped out and the German lines smashed completely through in several places that Jimmy and Roger were detailed to go some distance to the rear with messages and information for headquarters. They were assigned to a motorcycle and side car, Jimmy on the machine and Roger riding beside him.
"Well, this is a whole lot better than hiking it!" said Jimmy, as they started off.
"I don't—know—that—it—is!" stuttered Roger, as the car swerved from side to side over the rough roads. "When you walk you can go slow enough not to bite your tongue, but in this outfit you seem to hit only the high and low spots."
"It isn't what you'd call an asphalt pavement," agreed Jimmy, as he steered to one side to avoid a big shell hole. "But we'll get there."
Their journey was not exactly void of danger, for about halfway to the brigade headquarters, where they were to leave their messages, several Hun aeroplanes passed over the American lines. And at once some Allied machines came swooping along to give them combat. The German machines dropped several bombs, evidently searching out ammunition dumps, and one explosion took place in the road just before Roger and Jimmy passed over the spot on the motorcycle.
"Whew!" cried Jimmy, as he crouched to avoid the shower of dirt and stones. "That was a close one!"
"Too close for comfort!" agreed Roger. "Can you get around that hole?"