Читать книгу Tom Slade Motorcycle Dispatch Bearer - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

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Tom Slade, dispatch-rider, knew well enough what kamerad meant. He had learned at least that much of German warfare and German honor, even in the quiet Toul sector. He knew that the German olive branch was poisoned; that German treachery was a fine art—a part of the German efficiency. Had not Private Coleburn, whom Tom knew well, listened to that kindly uttered word and been stabbed with a Prussian bayonet in the darkness of No Man’s Land?

“Stand up,” said Tom. “Nobody can talk to me crouching down like that.”

“Ach!” said the voice in the unmistakable tone of pain. “Vot goot—see!”

Tom turned on his searchlight and saw crawling toward him a German soldier, hatless and coatless, whose white face seemed all the more pale and ghastly for the smear of blood upon it. He was quite without arms, in proof of which he raised his open hands and slapped his sides and hips. As he did so a long piece of heavy chain, which was manacled to his wrist clanged and rattled.

“Ach!” he said, shaking his head as if in agony.

“Put your hands down. All right,” said Tom. “Can you speak English?”

“Kamerad,” he repeated and shrugged his shoulders as if that were enough.

“You escape?” said Tom, trying to make himself understood. “How did you get back of the French lines?”

“Shot broke—yach,” the man said, his face lapsing again into a hopeless expression of suffering.

“All right,” said Tom, simply. “Comrade—I say it too. All right?”

The soldier’s face showed unmistakable relief through his suffering.

“Let’s see what’s the matter,” Tom said, though he knew the other only vaguely understood him. Turning the wheel so as the better to focus the light upon the man, he saw that he had been wounded in the foot, which was shoeless and bleeding freely, but that the chief cause of his suffering was the raw condition of his wrist where the manacle encircled it and the heavy chain pulled. It seemed to Tom as if this cruel sore might have been caused by the chain dragging behind him and perhaps catching on the ground as he fled.

“The French didn’t put that on?” he queried, rather puzzled.

The soldier shook his head. “Herr General,” said he.

“Not the Americans?”

“Herr General—gun.”

Then suddenly there flashed into Tom’s mind something he had heard about German artillerymen being chained to their guns. So that was it. And some French gunner, or an American maybe, had unconsciously set this poor wretch free by smashing his chain with a shell.

“You’re in the French lines,” Tom said. “Did you mean to come here? You’re a prisoner.”

“Ach, diss iss petter,” the man said, only half understanding.

“Yes, I guess it is,” said Tom. “I’ll bind your foot up and then I’ll take that chain off if I can and bind your wrist. Then we’ll have to find the nearest dressing station. I suppose you got lost in this forest. I been in the German forest myself,” he added; “it’s fine—better than this. I got to admit they’ve got fine lakes there.”

Whether he said this by way of comforting the stranger—though he knew the man understood but little of it—or just out of the blunt honesty which refused to twist everything German into a thing of evil, it would be hard to say. He had about him that quality of candor which could not be shaken even by righteous enmity.

Tearing two strips from his shirt, he used the narrower one to make a tourniquet, which he tied above the man’s ankle.

“If you haven’t got poison in it, it won’t be so bad,” he said. “Now I’ll take off that chain.”

He raised his machine upon its rest so that the power wheel was free of the ground. Then, to the wounded Boche’s puzzled surprise, he removed the tire and fumbling in his little tool kit he took out a piece of emery cloth which he used for cleaning his plugs and platinum contact points, and bent it over the edge of the rim, binding it to the spokes with the length of insulated wire which he always carried. It was a crude and makeshift contrivance at best, but at last he succeeded, by dint of much bending and winding and tying of the pliable copper wire among the spokes of the wheel, in fastening the emery cloth over the fairly sharp rim so that it stayed in place when he started his power and in about two revolutions it cut a piece of wire with which he tested the power of his improvised mechanical file.

“Often I sharpened a jackknife that way on the fly-wheel of a motor boat,” he said. The Boche did not understand him, but he was quick to see the possibilities of this whirling hacksaw and he seemed to acknowledge, with as much grace as a German may, the Yankee ingenuity of his liberator.

“Give me your wrist,” said Tom, reaching for it; “I won’t hurt it any more than I have to; here—here’s a good scheme.”

He carefully stuffed his handkerchief around under the metal band which encircled the soldier’s wrist and having thus formed a cushion to receive the pressure and protect the raw flesh, he closed his switch again and gently subjected the manacle to the revolving wheel, holding it upon the edge of the concave tire bed.

If the emery cloth had extended all the way around the wheel he could have taken the manacle off in less time than it had taken Kaiser Bill to lock it on, for the contrivance rivalled a buzzsaw. As it was, he had to stop every minute or two to rearrange the worn emery cloth and bind it in place anew. But for all that he succeeded in less than fifteen minutes in working a furrow almost through the metal band so that a little careful manipulating and squeezing and pressing of it enabled him to break it and force it open.

“There you are,” he said, removing the handkerchief so as to get a better look at the cruel sore beneath; “didn’t hurt much, did it? That’s what Uncle Sam’s trying to do for all the rest of you fellers—only you haven’t got sense enough to know it.”