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Brighton Boys in the Radio Service, The

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<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> <h3>The S O S With Pistol Shots</h3> To move from the position they were in was impossible. All that they could do, imprisoned there as they were within a steel and leaden wall of rapidly falling machine-gun bullets, was to hope that the gunners would not change their aim, even by the fraction of a point, and that neither side would send up a torch rocket to divulge their exact whereabouts and bring sudden death or mortal injury to them all. They knew now that they had been discovered by the enemy scouting party which they had observed a short time before—as they thought, without the others knowing of their presence there in "No Man's Land." They also realized now, when it was too late, that the Germans had returned to their own lines, after that brief consultation, in order to procure the machine-gun with which to wipe them out. And through it all they dared not return the fire, could not even utter a word to each other without fear of giving the enemy a closer range upon them. It was a terrible three minutes for that isolated little group of Americans, for bullets were striking all around them, the nearest not more than ten feet away, and there was every possibility that another detachment might be flanking them, to cut them off later in their retreat, in case the machine-gun did not effectively do its deadly work. There was but one desperate course open to them, and that Lieutenant Mackinson ordered at the instant the firing ceased. "Run!" he ordered, in a shrill whisper. "Run straight toward our own lines for about a quarter of a mile and then detour to the south." And off they started, each with all the speed he had in him. The renewal of the machine-gun fire compelled them to take a zig-zag course, however, and in this way for the first five minutes they all kept together. Then Tom Rawle, who, with the lieutenant, had been a little in the lead, gradually dropped back until he was abreast of Joe and Jerry, who were running together, and then behind them, reaching Frank Hoskins and Slim, who were bringing up a loudly puffing rear. Finally, as they began to pass him, too, and his lagging pace became noticeable, he urged them ahead and told them not to mind him. "I got one of those bullets in the hip," Rawle told them, to the surprise of all, for up to that moment he hadn't uttered a sound. "It cuts down my speed, but it's nothing serious, I guess. You keep right on and I'll follow as rapidly as I can." "I'm almost winded myself," said Slim. "I'll stick with Tom; you fellows keep right on. We'll join you in a few minutes after you stop. Joe, I'll give that 'whip-poor-will' call if we can't locate you. At any rate, we know our way back to the American lines." "Not so loud," warned Lieutenant Mackinson, as he slowed down. "I guess you are right," he continued. "You stay along with Rawle, but the two of you try to follow as quickly as possible, so that we can get Tom back to the lines for medical attention. It is necessary that I have the others with me, though, for we must not only accomplish our mission, but also give the commander that intercepted German message." And so the little group parted, there in the blackness of night "somewhere in France," the lieutenant, Hoskins, Joe and Jerry to forge ahead as rapidly as they could in a detour that would again take them back into the enemy territory, but in another place, while Slim and the wounded Rawle came along at a slower pace. The latter had been wounded more seriously than he knew, though, and he had not gone more than three hundred yards further before the loss of blood had so weakened him that he had to stop running and hobble along in a painful, limping gait, leaning heavily upon Slim's shoulder. "Guess I'll have to quit," he said, a little later on. "Can't go much further." And even as he spoke he sank to the ground. While Tom Rawle assured him that it "wasn't much of a wound," Slim, who was doing the best he could to stop the flow of blood with his handkerchief, knew that it was a bad injury, indeed, unless it was given early attention. "I'll try to get one of the others to return," he said, "and then we can send to our lines for a stretcher to get you in." "Nonsense," said Rawle, "I can walk; I'll show you." But it was a pitiful effort, and unsuccessful, and Tom himself had to admit that he "guessed he was out of business" for a little while. Thereupon Slim puckered up his lips and imitated the low but far-carrying call of the whip-poor-will—the call that he and Joe and Jerry had used so much to summon each other at Brighton. He remained silent for a moment listening, but there was no answer except the distant rumble of the heavy artillery fire. He repeated the call several times. Here and there to the north of them occasional rockets went up from either line, but their brief light divulged nothing in the way of encouragement. "It's not doing you any good to sit here without attention," said Slim at last. "Here is your revolver right alongside you. I will be back within half an hour. I am going to scout around for help." "But don't take any chances for me," Tom Rawle warned him. "I guess I could crawl back to camp, at that." "No, you couldn't," Slim declared, "and mind you don't try it. I'll be back for you in a very short time." He disappeared in the direction that the rest of the party had taken, leaving Rawle there to await his return. Half an hour later he managed to find the spot again, but without the aid he had gone to get. Not a trace of the others had he been able to find. But that was not the worst of it. Tom Rawle, helpless for all his big body and physical strength, lay stretched out upon the ground unconscious, a pool of blood by his side! Slim put his water flask to the wounded man's lips and tried to rouse him, but without avail. "Whip-poor-will-l-l," whistled Slim. "Whip-poor-will-l-l." But the sound was lost somewhere in the denseness of the night, and there was not even an echo for response. Slim was growing desperate. At any time they might be discovered by an enemy scouting party, and then they would either be bullets' victims or prisoners of war. Yet he knew that he could not hope to carry Tom Rawle back to the American lines. Rawle's dead weight would have been a difficult burden for a man of twice Slim's strength, and he knew it. What should he do? Unnecessary delay might cost the other man's life. Already his wound had caused him to lose consciousness. As he turned the thing over in his mind there came faintly, ever so faintly, to him from far, far to the south, as though but a breath of wind, the familiar "Whip-poor-will." "Whip-poor-will-l-l," shrilled back Slim. He waited, but there was no answer. It was as though a whip-poor-will itself was mocking his plight. "Whip-poor-will-l-l," Slim whistled again, and thrice, but each time there was nothing but the grim silence for reply. "Tom," he whispered into Rawle's ear, gently shaking the wounded man. "Tom, can you get up? I'll help you back. We can make it somehow together." But here again only the weak breathing of his comrade testified to their plight. "Better to take the one chance that's left us," muttered Slim to himself, as he pulled Rawle's revolver from under him, to make sure that it was fully loaded. "Yes," he continued, "it's better to risk discovery than this fellow's life." He took his own automatic from its holster and carefully examined it also. Then, with a revolver in either hand, pointing them into the air and with fourteen shots at his disposal, he began firing. Bang-Bang-Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang-Bang-Bang! The shots rang out on the night air like a series of interrupted explosions. But to the trained ears of the other men of the party—Lieutenant Mackinson, Joe, Jerry and Frank Hoskins—two miles away, they carried their call for help. It was the S O S of the international code, but in a new sort of wireless—by pistol shots! Trembling for the results that his desperate action might bring upon them, Slim waited, bending now and then over the unconscious form of Tom Rawle. But in fifteen more minutes his inventive genius was rewarded. From a considerable distance, but each time more distinctly, now came the repeated call of "Whip-poor-will," and in less time than it seemed possible that they could make it, the other group had returned. In low commands the lieutenant then directed affairs, and in exactly the way that he had been carried out of the hold of the Everett on the verge of suffocation, so they carried poor Tom Rawle back to their own lines. And when he had been placed upon a cot in the first emergency hospital, Lieutenant Mackinson hurried off to make his report, in the honor of which all shared. For not only had they found a location from which to wireless advance-line communications to field headquarters, but they had also intercepted a message, knowledge of which resulted in a quick change of plans by which the Americans were able to beat the enemy at his own game on the morrow. "Rawle was suffering more from loss of blood than from any seriousness of the injury itself," the surgeon told them when they asked there of their friend's condition, on their way to their own quarters. "He will be around all right again in a week's time." And so, much desperate work accomplished on their first night within the firing lines, the lads threw themselves upon their cots to dream of spies and captured Germans and injured soldiers and calls for help by new methods in wireless. <hr class="major" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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