CHAPTER II
TO THE RESCUE
It was a perilous adventure on which the moving picture boys had entered.
The German fire had increased in intensity, and now was sweeping the woods with a perfect hail of destruction. Great shells were exploding with thunderous roars, digging deep craters in the ground and sending their missiles of death far and wide.
The boys knew that they were taking their lives in their hands by venturing over that ground, but the appeal made to them by that wounded figure was too strong for them to resist.
Moving swiftly, yet taking advantage of every shattered stump and protecting rock as they advanced, they soon reached the injured soldier.
He saw them coming, and his face lighted up with gratitude as he attempted to smile.
“Go back!” he gasped. “I guess they’ve done for me, but what’s the use of you boys getting killed?”
“That’s all right, old fellow,” answered Blake, as he deftly slipped his arms around the man’s shoulders. “Here, Joe, you take his feet and we’ll try to get him into that nearest shell hole. We can give him first aid there, and every minute counts.”
Joe did as his comrade directed, and they hurried the man to a deep crater a little way down the hill. The shell that made it had heaped up the dirt in the direction of the enemy, so that the edge overhung and formed something like a shallow cave.
Under this projecting edge they laid their burden. There they were comparatively safe unless a shell should chance to drop right into the hole itself.
Blake quickly got out the surgical kit he always carried and brought forth a roll of bandage. Joe, in the meantime, had been going over the wounded man with his hands to see how badly he was hurt. A bullet had ploughed through his scalp and blood had flowed freely from the gash, but the boys, who in their various adventures had become fairly expert, recognized that this was not a serious injury. It was only when Joe felt the man’s left leg that he detected at once that it was broken.
“That’s where the Huns got me,” groaned the sufferer. “I guess I’ll go on one leg now for the rest of my life.”
“Nothing like that,” said Blake cheerfully, for to him it seemed like a simple fracture. “You’ll be trotting around as well as ever in six weeks from now. Hand me some of those pieces of wood over there, Joe, and we’ll make a splint.”
The bottom of the shell hole was covered with twigs and branches which had been torn from the near-by trees by the bombardment, and they soon improvised a rough splint, creditable enough for amateurs, that held the broken bone in place. The man’s face went white during the operation.
Blake unstrapped his water bottle and washed out the ragged wound in the scalp. Then he bound it up with a surgical bandage.
“There you are,” he said briskly, when his task was finished and they had placed the patient in as comfortable a position as the narrow limits of the space permitted. “Now, just as soon as the ambulance comes down the line, we’ll get you off to the hospital and they’ll finish the job.”
“It must have been mighty tough, dragging that broken leg along,” said Joe sympathetically.
“It wasn’t any fun,” agreed the soldier. “It was all-fired good of you fellows to come after me. Another shell would likely have got me by this time if you hadn’t. But you boys were taking an awful chance. What regiment do you belong to?”
“We just don’t belong,” replied Blake with a smile. “We’re doing special work for the War Department in taking moving pictures of the fighting. My friend here is named Joe Duncan. My name is Blake Stewart.”
“And mine is Tom Wentworth,” said the wounded man. “So you’re the moving picture boys,” he continued, his eyes brightening with interest. “I’ve heard about you from some of the others. They said you were as plucky as they make ’em, and I’ve found out that’s true.”
“Oh, everybody here is taking risks,” said Blake modestly. “Look at yourself, for instance. You got closer to the line of fire than we did.”
“It was pretty hot,” admitted Wentworth, “but I don’t know that it was any worse than it was at Belleau Wood and Chateau-Thierry.”
“Were you there?” asked Joe eagerly, for he always felt a special thrill when he heard the names of those places where the American troops had covered themselves with glory.
“Very much there,” replied Wentworth with a faint smile. “So much there that I thought I’d always stay there, under the ground if not on top of it.”
“That was some scrap!” exclaimed Blake enthusiastically. “Two green American regiments fighting six crack Prussian divisions and putting it all over them.”
“It was lively work,” grinned Wentworth. “I remember when we first went in. We met the French coming back and their officers told ours that orders had been given to retreat. ‘Go back,’ they said, ‘the enemy’s too strong.’ Our old colonel looked at them. ‘Go back?’ he blurted out. ‘Thunder! We’ve just got here.’”
The boys laughed.
“That’s real American talk,” chuckled Blake.
“American as she is spoke,” added Joe.
“You must have got some mighty good pictures this morning,” went on Wentworth with interest, though a twinge in his broken leg contorted his features as he spoke.
“You bet we did,” answered Blake enthusiastically. “Wasn’t it great the way that bunch of doughboys went up the hill? Say, we’ll have the people holding on to the arms of their seats when they see that film in the States.”
“I knew the boys would take that crest if they could only get to the top before the shells swept them away,” said Wentworth. “When it comes to hack and stab, the Heinies aren’t in it with our boys. The cold steel makes them squeal. They’re all right in a crowd, but we’ve got their goat when it’s man to man.”
The shelling had died down somewhat while they were talking, and Joe, who had thrust his head cautiously above the edge of the crater, gave a sudden exclamation.
“Hullo!” he cried. “The whole regiment’s on the move! They’re swarming out of the trenches like bees out of a hive. They must have ordered a general advance.”
“We mustn’t miss that!” exclaimed Blake. “We’ve got to go along with them. But first we’ll have to see that this man gets to the hospital.”
“Don’t bother about me,” said the wounded soldier. “You’ve done plenty for me as it is. Our ambulances will be along soon and pick me up. You boys just go along.”
“Not on your life, we won’t,” replied Blake. “The pictures can wait.”
“Here come some stretcher-bearers now,” observed Joe.
He jumped out of the hole, waving his hands to attract attention. A group of men with litters came hurriedly toward him.
“Lend a hand here, fellows!” cried Joe. “We’ve got one of the boys here with a messed-up head and a broken leg.”
It was but the work of a moment for willing hands to lift Tom Wentworth out of the hole and arrange him comfortably.
“I’ll never forget the way you boys risked your life to save mine,” he said gratefully, as the men grasped the handles of the stretcher and prepared to start off with him.
“Nothing at all, old man,” answered Blake heartily.
“All in the day’s work,” smiled Joe.
“And now for a quick sneak back to the camera,” Blake remarked, when the bearers with their burden had gone. “I hope that Charlie has been right on the job. It’ll be too bad if he’s missed any of this fighting.”
“Let’s hope a bullet hasn’t keeled him over while we’ve been away,” said Joe with some anxiety.
“Nothing like that,” answered Blake, as his quick eye caught sight of their assistant.
“But he’s turning the crank with his left hand,” cried Joe in alarm. “I wonder if anything could have happened to his right.”
They broke into a run.
Charlie saw them coming and a look of relief came into his eyes.
“So you’re back again safe and sound,” he cried. “I was afraid that perhaps a shell had dropped into the hole and knocked you out.”
“We’re all right,” ejaculated Joe. “But how about yourself? Why are you working left-handed? Did you get hurt?”
For answer, Charlie held up his right hand that was smeared with blood.
“Only a scratch,” he said. “A bullet grazed the back of my hand. Didn’t break any bones, but I bled like a stuck pig. Didn’t have time to bind it up or I’d have missed some of the picture, so I just kept plugging along with the good old left.”
“Give me the crank,” commanded Blake, at the same time taking it from his associate. “Joe, bind that hand up for him. Your nerve is all right, Charlie, but I’d rather lose the picture than have you neglect yourself. How about it, Joe? Is it a bad wound?”
“No, I guess not,” replied Joe, as he fixed a bandage around the injured hand while Charlie involuntarily winced. “But it must hurt a lot. Charlie will have to be a southpaw for a while, but that’s all.”
“I’m mighty glad it’s no worse,” said Blake in a tone of relief. “I’d have felt partly responsible if it were, since I skipped the job and left it to Charlie.”
“Say, it was the best thing you ever did,” broke in Charlie enthusiastically. “I caught the whole action while you were making your way toward that fellow and believe me it’s some sweet film. It’ll make the chills go up and down the people’s spines when they get a squint at it.”
“Well, now let’s be hiking along,” remarked Blake, as Joe completed his work. “The regiment’s on the move and all the rest of the fighting will be done on the other side of the hill. We’ll have a splendid view of it there, too, so get a move on.”
They gathered up the camera and the tripod and hurried along in a line parallel with the advancing troops.
The long slope was dotted now with stretcher parties hunting out the wounded, in order that they might be taken to the first-aid dressing stations, which were established in bomb-proof shelters a little way back of the lines. Prisoners, too, were met coming back in swarms, sullen and dejected for the most part, though on the faces of some there was a look of relief that the ordeal of battle was over. Some of the more slightly wounded had their arms about the necks of their comrades for support as they staggered along.
Most of them seemed to be holding onto their trousers with both hands, and Joe remarked on the strangeness of this.
“There’s a reason,” grinned Blake. “One of the fellows was telling me about it last night. It seems that when they take a big raft of prisoners like this the first thing they do when they round them up is to cut their suspenders. Then they can’t run away, for their trousers would slip down and trip them up. They’re so busy holding them up that they don’t have time to think of anything else and it only takes a few men to guard them.”
“Good idea,” laughed Joe. “It takes away from their dignity, but it does the trick.”
The boys soon reached the top of the hill, and as they surmounted the crest a simultaneous gasp came from all three at the sight that met their eyes.
And while they are standing there, with their eyes shining and their hearts beating like trip-hammers, it may be well for the sake of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this series to tell who the boys were, and sketch something of their lives and exploits up to the time this story opens.
Blake Stewart and Joe Duncan were bright, stalwart American youths, whose early years had been spent in the country. They were working on adjacent farms when they came in contact with a moving picture company that was staging some film scenes in the vicinity. They became fascinated with the work, for which they seemed to be peculiarly adapted, and the manager of the company, a Mr. Hadley, took a great liking to the boys and gave them a place in his organization. They were quick and ambitious and eager to learn, and it was not long before they developed into skilled operators. Their experiences in New York while they were learning the ins and outs of the business are told in the first volume of the series, entitled: “The Movie Boys on Call”; or “Filming the Perils of a Great City.”
Mr. Hadley soon learned that there was no danger so great as to daunt the boys while in pursuit of a picture, and he was able to branch out in a line of work from which many of his rivals shrank because of the peril involved. The boys took pictures of the cowboys and Indians and took big risks in filming a wreck off the Pacific Coast. They had many hairbreadth escapes later on in jungle scenes with wild animals and in regions where floods and volcanoes threatened them with death from one day to the next. Few adventures were more fraught with peril than their going down with a submarine, described in the eighth volume of the series.
While they had been having these experiences, the United States had been goaded into war with Germany because of the intolerable outrages on her citizens. Blake and Joe were ardent patriots, and they eagerly accepted a proposition to visit the battlefront in France and take pictures of American war-like activities for the benefit of the government. The difficulties they met in getting into the fighting zone, their narrow escape from a submarine, the way they met and checkmated the intrigues of a German spy, are told in the volume preceding this, entitled: “The Movie Boys Under Fire”; or “The Search for the Stolen Film.”
Now with their faithful assistant, Charlie Anderson--known familiarly as “Mac,” a shortening of his nickname “Macaroni,” because of his long and lanky shape, they had reached the very forefront of the American army which had started on its victorious drive against the Germans.
As the boys reached the top of the hill, they saw coming toward them a tremendous mass of gray-clad figures on the double quick. The Germans, desperate at the loss of the hill, had hurried up reinforcements and organized a fierce counter-attack in the resolve to sweep the Americans from the hill. On came the ranks, wave upon wave, from as far back as the boys could see.
“Gee whiz!” cried Joe. “It looks as though we were going to be attacked by the whole German army!”
“Quick!” exclaimed Blake. “Set up that tripod and get the machine going. We never had a chance like this, and we may never have it again. Hustle now.”
On came the ranks as relentless as fate. The American guns had been signaled, and they opened up a devastating fire that tore great holes in the close-formed lines. But they closed up at once like water in the wake of a ship and kept coming.
The camera now had been set up, and Joe was turning the crank with apparent calm, although he had never been the prey to such intense excitement.
Then, like a tidal wave, the Germans struck the American lines!
The impact was tremendous, but the Americans were ready for them and the attack beat against granite.
Back and forth the lines swayed like two great anacondas in mortal combat. Men went down in heaps and the survivors fought over their bodies. The lines broke up into struggling groups where resort was had to the bayonet and gun butt. It was a battle to the death.
The boys had found a position a little to the right of the line, where they commanded a view of the greater part of the fighting, and Blake had just relieved Joe at the crank, when suddenly there was a tremendous explosion, the earth beneath them opened, and tons of earth and rock went hurtling toward the sky.
A great blackness came down on the moving picture boys like a blow and for a time they knew no more.
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