CHAPTER XVIII

A GRIM REALITY

The strumming ceased and the banjo fell to the floor. For a moment confusion reigned supreme.

The shock and the glare had a paralyzing effect but it lasted only for an instant. Then the army boys pulled themselves together.

"Is anyone hurt?" shouted Frank, as he looked about him.

A groan came from a distant corner. They rushed in that direction.

Fred Anderson was trying to struggle to his feet and in an instant willing arms supported him. His face was pale, blood was flowing from a gash in his forehead and his right leg crumpled up beneath him as he tried to bear his weight upon it.

"I guess the old pin's gone back on me, boys," he said with a faint attempt to smile. "I don't seem to have any feeling in it. I guess the Huns got me that time."

A quick examination showed that the leg was broken just below the knee.

They quickly improvised a temporary splint and a field ambulance was called. The gash in the head proved to be only a flesh wound of no great importance. But it bled freely and gave the impression that Fred was dangerously, perhaps mortally wounded.

It was the first time that these young novices in the art of war had seen blood flowing from American veins from a wound inflicted by a German, and it brought home to them that they were really in the war and might at any instant, like their luckless comrade, come to hand grips with death.

"That sure was a close call," remarked Frank, after Fred, having been made as comfortable as possible, had been carried off by the ambulance to the field hospital. "It might have blown us all to bits."

"That roof may be all right to keep out rain," said Billy, "but it wasn't built for bombs."

"It must have been a glancing blow," commented Tom. "If it had come plump through our name would have been Dennis. It must have spent most of its force on the ridge pole and slid off to the ground."

"Very considerate of it," said Bart, dryly.

"There may be more where that came from," suggested Billy. "There may be a whole squadron of Hun flyers up there in the sky."

"I guess it will be healthier to stay outside for a while," said Tom. "We can see the bombs coming and dodge them. It will be a new kind of outdoor sport."

"It's a new game all right," Bart flung over his shoulder as they made their way outside. "And a game where the stakes are high. You pay dearly if you lose."

They all reached the open, where they found that the entire camp had been aroused by the nocturnal raid. They quickly learned from their excited comrades that other billets had been targets for the marauders and that several soldiers had been severely injured, while one was killed.

Searchlights were sweeping the sky in the attempt to locate the hostile planes. Anti-aircraft guns were popping, and the French escadrille had already mounted to give battle.

"There comes one!" shouted Frank, as his keen eyes caught sight of a tiny blaze coming through the air. "That's the fuse of a bomb."

"And it's coming right toward us!" yelled Bart. "Run fellows--quick!"

They needed no second injunction and it was well they moved quickly, for a moment later, the messenger of death came down close to the spot where they had been standing and exploded with a tremendous roar.

But they had thrown themselves flat on their faces, behind whatever shelter they could find and the rain of iron missiles zipped over and all around them without inflicting much damage.

"I went down in a mud puddle that time," growled Bart, as he rose dripping.

"I notice you stayed there, though," grinned Tom.

"Any port in a storm," laughed Billy. "There's no time to pick and choose when those ticklers are coming down. It's a case of 'the quick or the dead'."

"I was quick all right," grumbled Tom, as he rubbed his knee, "and I'd almost rather be dead than do it again. See that stone? It got me!"

For some minutes more occasional bombs dropped down over a wide area, especial attention being devoted to the field hospital in accordance with the usual brutal German tactics.

But there were no more casualties, and after awhile the bombardment ceased.

"Guess they're all out of ammunition," conjectured Frank, when at last quiet reigned.

"Either that or our aviators have driven them off as they did this afternoon," returned Bart.

"Let's go back to the mill," Tom suggested. "There'll be plenty of ventilation in the old crib to-night."

"And my cot's right beneath that hole in the roof," grumbled Bart.

"Safest place in the whole shebang," comforted Frank. "Lightning never strikes twice in the same spot."

"Yes, but suppose it rains," grouched Bart.

"Aw, it's good for the complexion," grinned Tom. "Anyway, you're soaked through now, aren't you? Some fellows are never satisfied."

"Ah, stop fighting!" said Frank. "It couldn't rain if it wanted to with a moon like that."

Once back in the mill, the army boys set about repairing the havoc wrought by the bomb.

Billy picked up the banjo, patted it lovingly and was relieved to find that his favorite instrument had come through the German attack uninjured.

"Glad you're all right, old girl," he said, running his fingers over the strings. "But I guess you're through for one night."

"Yes," chuckled Tom, as he started to unlace his shoes. "The Huns have given us their idea of a moonlight serenade!"