“Here’s a poor Turk who seems to be in a bad way,” he said. “I’m going to give him a drink of cold water, and then we’ll get him on our stretcher.”
Amos looked curiously at his chum, but almost immediately cried:
“You’re right there, Jack; they can feel their injuries just as much as the rest. It was only proper that the boys should take care of their own first; but depend on it they’ve got too big hearts to let any enemy lie here in this hot sun and want for a drink of water. There, you can see they are carrying a Turk down on that stretcher.”
Just then Jack gave vent to a cry that betokened some new thrill, and Amos turned quickly to see if the enemy had come in sight again, bent on a fresh attack.
“Do you see that dead man lying there on his face, Amos?” Jack demanded, pointing as he spoke. “Look closer and you’ll see he is no Turk but one of those arbitrary German officers we saw trying to force the men to fight.”
“I see what you mean, Jack. He didn’t die from a Territorial’s blow. There is a bayonet through his body, a Turkish sword bayonet, and it came from behind him.”
“Yes,” said Jack with a shudder, “one of the Turks he may have struck with the flat of his sword repaid the blow. But let us go on and get this man down to the emergency hospital. Then we will come up again, for there are many more Turkish wounded needing attention.”
So they worked diligently on, plodding back and forth, and during that warm afternoon many a feverish Turk called down the blessings of Allah upon the heads of the two friendly American boys who gave him cold water to freshen his parched throat, and then bore him to where his injuries might be attended to.