Part 6 (1/2)

”See if the Captain is with these men. We must hasten: it will be a jolly sight safer in the trench.”

Abandoning their motor-cycles, the two lads made their way along the ditch, which fortunately ran with considerable obliquity to the direction of the fire of the German artillery.

At length they reached the trench where the Belgian infantry, taking admirable cover, were replying steadily to the hail of ill-directed rifle bullets. The only unwounded officer was a slim young lieutenant--a mere boy.

”We have dispatches for Captain Leboeuf, sir,” announced Kenneth. ”He was in charge of an outpost at Vise.”

”Vise is all aflame,” replied the officer. ”No doubt the Captain has crossed the Meuse. But we are about to retire, so look to yourselves.

The enemy is threatening our right flank, otherwise we might hold this trench for another twenty-four hours.”

”Any orders, sir, before we return to Fort de Barchon?”

”Yes; ride as quickly as you can to Saint Andre. The rest of our company is there. Tell the officer in command that I am retiring, and that unless he falls back he is in danger of being cut off. You understand? Good, now----”

The lieutenant's instructions ended in a faint shriek. His hands flew to his chest, and he pitched forward on his face.

A grizzled colour-sergeant instantly took command.

”Retire by sections!” he shouted. ”Steady, men, no hurry. Keep them back as long as you can.”

The caution was in vain. While the untried troops were lining the trench and replying to the German fire, all went well; but at the order to retire, men broke and ran for their lives. Heedless of the cover afforded by the ditch, they swarmed along the road in the direction of Argenteau, shrapnel and bullet accounting for half their numbers. Only the sergeant, two corporals, and the British dispatch-riders remained.

The Germans, advancing in close formation, were now eight hundred yards off.

Without a word the Belgian sergeant crawled along the trench, picking up the rifles and caps of the slain and placing them at intervals along the top of the mound; while the rest, including Kenneth and Rollo, who had taken possession of a couple of abandoned rifles, maintained a rapid magazine fire at the approaching troops.

”Each for himself, mes enfants,” said the veteran at length. ”One at a time and trust to luck.”

With that a corporal cast aside his greatcoat and heavy knapsack. He was about to make a plunge through the zone of hissing bullets when Kenneth stopped him.

”There's a ditch farther along,” he announced. ”We came that way.”

The man hesitated, then, communicated the news to his sergeant.

”Come then, mes braves,” exclaimed the veteran.

One by one, crawling along the ditch the five made their way, till they gained the comparative shelter afforded by the walls of a ruined cottage. Proof against bullets, the house had been practically demolished by sh.e.l.l-fire.

”We must go back and get our bikes,” declared Kenneth. ”It's fairly safe. Those fellows are apparently directing their fire against those caps and rifles showing above the trench.”

They found their steeds uninjured. In record time they were in the saddle and tearing along the avenue, which here and there was dotted with dead Belgians. The wounded had evidently been carried off by their comrades.

As they pa.s.sed the ruined cottage where they had parted from the three soldiers the latter were no longer to be seen, but a hoa.r.s.e cry of ”A moi, camarades!” caused Rollo to turn. He alone caught the appeal, for Kenneth had secured a slight start and the noise of his engine had drowned the shout for aid.

”Hold on!” shouted Rollo; but Kenneth, unaware of the call, was out of ear-shot, and doing a good thirty or forty miles an hour.

Leaving his engine still running, Rollo dismounted and made his way towards the building. Shots were whistling overhead. He crouched as he hastened, for he had not yet acquired the contempt for the screech of a bullet that the old soldier has, knowing that with the whizzing of the missile that particular danger has pa.s.sed.

Lying against the bullet-spattered wall was the old sergeant. A fragment of shrapnel, rebounding from the masonry, had fractured his left ankle.