CHAPTER XVIII

Through the Enemy's Lines

"Everything's all clear, as far as I can see," reported Kenneth. "The question is, how are we to rejoin our regiment?"

"I can foot it," declared Rollo.

"But not ten miles. Your ankle would give out before you walked a hundred yards. What I vote we do is that I ride the bike and take you on the carrier."

Rollo shook his head.

"Too jolly conspicuous," he protested. "One fellow might stand the ghost of a chance, but two----"

Kenneth turned over the question in his mind for a few moments. To remain where they were was impracticable. They would be starving before many more hours had passed.

"Tell you what!" he exclaimed as an idea flashed through his brain. "We'll rig ourselves out in German uniforms----"

"And get shot as spies if we're collared! No, thanks, Kenneth. If we are to be plugged I'd rather be in Belgian uniform, since a British one is at present out of the question."

"It's a risk, I admit. Everything is, under existing circumstances. If we are spotted, then there's an end to it and us; otherwise we stand a better chance by masquerading in these fellows' clothes."

"But if we are challenged? We couldn't reply in German."

"You're meeting trouble half-way."

"I like to go into the pros and cons," declared Rollo. "If you can convince me that your scheme is a sound one, I'm on; otherwise--dead off. For one thing, where are the German uniforms?"

"You've forgotten the Uhlans we slung into the ditch."

Rollo shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"I draw the line at donning the saturated uniform of a dead Uhlan."

"Come, don't be squeamish. If you are never asked to do a worse thing than that in the course of your natural, then you are a lucky individual. You'll find it's like taking a header into the sea on a gusty summer's day. The wind makes you shiver, and you think twice about it, but once you are in the water it's comparatively warm."

"You haven't got over the language difficulty."

"Yes, I have; at least I think so. If we meet any patrols, you must pretend to be half-dead----"

"I guess I shall be dead entirely if we do."

"Badly wounded, then. I'll bandage you up, and at the same time put a scarf round my jaw."

"What for?"

"Haven't you any imagination, old man? Why, to make out I've been wounded in the mouth and am unable to speak a word."

"You may think me an obstinate mule, Kenneth," said his comrade, "but why should two wounded men be trying to make their way to the front? Naturally they would be making tracks to the nearest field hospital."

"You've done me there," declared Kenneth. "But I can't see how we can go direct towards the German lines. Whether we go to the right or left the road runs nearly parallel to the enemy's front."

"Perhaps we may as well risk it," decided Rollo. "I believe I noticed a plank across the ditch about a mile along the road. The question is whether the bike will stand it over the rough ground."

"She will--she'll tackle anything within reason," said Kenneth optimistically. "So let's make a move."

Overcoming their natural repugnance, the two lads recovered the bodies of a couple of Uhlans from the muddy ditch and proceeded to strip them of their uniforms. These they wrung out, and placed on the broken brickwork to dry.

"I say!" suddenly exclaimed Rollo. "How about these boots with spurs? Do Uhlans ever ride motor-bikes?"

"Rather! They've a couple of motor-cyclists to each troop. All we have to do is to knock off the spurs, and there you are!"

As soon as the two lads had completed their change of uniforms they made a final reconnaissance. Finding the road clear of troops, Kenneth started the engine and stood astride the saddle, while Rollo took up his position on the carrier.

They looked a pair of bedraggled scarecrows. The Uhlan uniforms were wet and plastered with mud. Rollo's forehead was bound round with a grimy scarf, while, to give a most realistic touch, Kenneth had tied the blood-stained handkerchief that had been applied to his chum's ankle round the lower part of his face, completely covering his mouth.

"Ready?" asked Kenneth in muffled tones. Receiving an affirmative reply from his companion, he slipped in the clutch and away the cycle glided.

"Here's trouble!" the lad thought before many yards of road had been traversed, for ahead was a rapidly-nearing cloud of dust that evidently betokened the approach of cavalry or horse artillery.

"Troops of sorts coming," he informed his companion.

"Thanks, quite comfortable," was Rollo's inconsequential reply; for the handkerchief round Kenneth's mouth, the noise of the engine, and the rush of air as the motor-cycle tore along prevented the passenger from hearing the information given, while Rollo was unable to look ahead.

"Germans in sight!" yelled Kenneth.

This time Rollo understood. Resisting the temptation to look over his companion's shoulder, he drooped his head, as becoming the role of a badly-wounded man.

The on-coming troops turned out to be neither cavalry nor artillery, but a motor section, including a machine-gun mounted on an armoured side-car. Fortunately the pace as Rollo and Kenneth tore past was such that recognition or detection was out of the question.

"Here we are," announced Rollo a few seconds later.

Kenneth quickly pulled up. As he did so he gave a hurried look around. There were no signs of more Germans, while the motor-cyclist detachment was almost out of sight.

The plank across the ditch was about nine inches wide. In places it was worn to such an extent that there were holes in the wood. Kenneth eyed it with obvious distrust, yet it seemed the only likely means of gaining the open country beyond, across which a footpath promised fairly easy going.

"I didn't know that it was so rotten as that," said Rollo apologetically. "I don't know whether it will bear the weight of the bike."

"We'll risk it anyhow," declared Kenneth. "Can you put your foot to the ground without much pain? You can? Good! Steady the jigger a second."

Unhesitatingly Kenneth jumped into the ditch. He sank above his ankles in mud, with the water up to his thighs, yet he was able to keep the motor-cycle in an upright position while Rollo, steadying himself by means of the saddle, pushed it along the creaking plank.

"That looks bad," commented Kenneth, pointing to a small object lying on the ground. It was a brass button from the tunic of a Prussian soldier. Some of the enemy had passed that way, and were consequently between the lads and the Belgian lines.

"We may find a gap," declared Rollo, for by this time he was whole-heartedly devoted to the carrying out of his comrade's plans. "If it comes to the pinch we will have to abandon the bike."

"Steady, old man!" said Kenneth in mock reproof. "Because you lost your motor-cycle there is no reason why you should suggest my doing likewise. Now, jump up."

Kenneth maintained a moderate pace, keeping a bright look-out for any indications of the invaders. Judging by the state of the path and the ground for a few yards on either side, a regiment had recently passed that way, marching in fours. That meant that they were some distance from the supposed firing-line, otherwise the men would have advanced in open order. From the north came the distant rumble of guns. An action was in progress in the neighbourhood of Diest and Aerschot.

"Look out!" suddenly exclaimed Rollo. "There's a Taube."

"Where?" enquired his companion, slipping the handkerchief from over his mouth.

"Right behind us, and coming this way. I believe it's going to land."

"The rotter!" ejaculated Kenneth. "I wonder if they have spotted us, and are suspicious."

There was no time to say more, for the aeroplane was now passing overhead at an altitude of about two hundred feet. The motor had been switched off, and the Taube was vol-planing towards the earth.

It descended clumsily, striking the ground with a terrific bump that demolished the wheels and landing-skids. Directly the Taube came to rest, the pilot alighted and waved frantically to the two supposed Uhlan motor-cyclists.

"I'll have to go," mumbled Kenneth, who had readjusted his bandage. "You stay here. Now, steady--let me help you. Remember you are badly wounded, yet you want to skip like a superanimated gazelle. That's better; let your arms trail helplessly."

Having placed Rollo in a dry, shallow ditch by the side of the path, Kenneth walked quickly towards the disabled Taube. Outwardly he was cool enough, but his heart was beating rapidly.

At ten paces from the observer he stopped, clicked his heels, and saluted in correct German fashion.

The flying-officer spoke rapidly, at the same time pointing in a westerly direction. Kenneth knew not a word of what he said, but replied by nodding his head and indicating his bandaged jaw.

The German scowled, then, turning to the pilot, spoke a few quick sentences. Kenneth's hand wandered to the butt-end of his revolver. It imparted a feeling of comparative security. Then, recollecting his role, he pulled himself together and stood rigidly at attention, at the same time ready, at the first sign of suspicion on the part of the airmen, to draw his weapon and blaze away.

Presently the pilot produced some sheets of paper and a buff calico envelope. The observer scribbled a few lines, sealed the missive, and held it towards the pseudo Uhlan.

Although Kenneth could not understand the other's words, their meaning was clear enough. He had been peremptorily told to make tracks and deliver the message somewhere towards the west, where the German lines were. With another salute he wheeled, and returned to his companion. Not daring to speak a word, he assisted Rollo to his seat on the carrier and set the motor in action.

"We're in luck, old man," said Kenneth, when they were well out of sight of the disabled Taube. "If we are spotted by any patrols this letter will pass us through. It's evidently a report to the colonel of one of the regiments in the fighting-line."

"Don't you think you had better drop me?"

"Drop you--what on earth for?"

"You might get through as a German dispatch-rider; but with a supposed wounded man going towards the firing-line? Looks a bit suspicious, eh?"

"No fear; we'll stick together. If one gets through, the other must; otherwise we'll both go under. Hello! Here's a road."

It was a sharp corner as they swung from the path to the highway. Kenneth wisely slowed down, and found himself almost in collision with a German patrol.

The men were evidently exhausted. Two were standing in the centre of the road, and leaning heavily upon their rifles. Half a dozen more, having discarded their rolled coats and cumbersome knapsacks, were reclining on a bank. The two faced about on hearing the approach of the motor. The others sprang to their feet and seized their rifles.

Producing the buff envelope Kenneth waved it frantically, at the same time increasing speed. The Germans stood back, the sergeant grunting a few words as the two lads flashed by. No bullets whistled past them; the aviator's dispatch had proved a safe passport.

For the next two miles they were continually passing troops, some going in the same direction, accompanied by heavily-laden supply wagons; others, wounded in action, painfully making their way towards the nearest field hospital.

The action, whatever the result might be, was no longer in this part of the field of operations. Ahead were the bivouacs of the Germans holding the line of front. The air was thick with the smoke of their campfires. Right and left, as far as the eye could see, were masses of grey-coated men, without a sign of a gap through which the British lads could make a dash for freedom.

Two hundred yards to the left of the road was a battery, the guns of which were admirably concealed from view from the front by a bank of earth on which were stuck branches of trees. The muzzles of the artillery were pointing at an angle of thirty degrees, so that they must have been shelling a Belgian position at a range of about five miles. Since the guns were now silent, Kenneth could only reiterate his belief that the heroic Belgians had had to retire in the face of overwhelming numbers, and that a distance of at least seven miles lay between the two lads and their friends.

After passing numerous detachments of troops without alarming incident, the confidence of Kenneth and his companion grew stronger; but they had a nasty shock when they were peremptorily challenged by a picket and ordered to halt. The sight of half a dozen levelled bayonets left no doubt as to the demands of the sergeant in charge of the party.

Kenneth brought the motor-cycle to a dead-stop, keeping his saddle and supporting the machine by placing his feet on the ground. Rollo, too, made no attempt to dismount, but, clinging to his companion, drooped his head with well-feigned exhaustion.

Pointing to the bandage over his jaw, Kenneth produced the official document. The sergeant took it, read the inscription, and pointed to a turning on the right. That, the lads knew, ran parallel to the German front.

Meanwhile one of the soldiers stooped and peered into Rollo's face. Then he said something to the sergeant, who signified assent. The private began to lift Rollo from his perch--not with any degree of violence, but carefully, as if actuated by feelings of compassion, addressing him as _kamerade_.

Rollo hung on tightly. Kenneth turned his head and expostulated in dumb show. The private again appealed to his sergeant, at the same time pointing to a Red Cross motor-wagon that was standing at some distance off.

With a jerk of his head the sergeant bade the man desist. After all, it was not his business. If the wounded Uhlan preferred to be jolted about on a motorcycle rather than be properly attended to in an ambulance cart, it was his affair.

Not to be outdone, the private gave Rollo a drink from his water-bottle. Then, having returned the envelope to Kenneth and given him elaborate directions, made fairly clear by many movements of his hand, the sergeant allowed the two lads to proceed.

To continue along the road would arouse immediate suspicion. Accordingly Kenneth turned off and followed the route indicated by the German. Here, although there were plenty of troops moving up and down, most of the traffic was across the road between the bivouacs of the advance lines and the supports. Men were hurrying, each with a set purpose, and the two supposed wounded lads attracted but little notice.

The road they were now following was gradually converging upon the line of resting troops. Unless it made a bend to the right it would cut through the mass of German soldiery. And perhaps the officer whose name was on the envelope might be within close distance. His acquaintance neither Kenneth nor Rollo had the faintest desire to make.

So suddenly that Kenneth almost overshot it, a narrow lane, running at right angles to the direction in which they were travelling, came into view. It separated two infantry regiments, while at the cross-roads two machine-guns commanded the approach from the westward.

In an instant Kenneth made up his mind. Round swung the motor-bike, grazing one of the machine-guns by a bare inch; then, at full speed, Kenneth began his hazardous dash for safety. He had not ignored the risk, but there was a chance of success. The lane wound considerably, and, before the machine-guns could open fire, the fugitives would be screened by a bend of the tree-lined avenue.

A dozen voices shouted to him to stop. A bullet whistled high above the heads of the fugitives. A soldier, more alert than his comrades, had let loose a hasty, ill-aimed shot. Other bullets followed, some hitting the ground, others zipping overhead; but to Kenneth's relief there was no tap-tap of the deadly machine-guns.

"An outpost, by Jove!" muttered Kenneth.

He had not reckoned upon this. A quarter of a mile in advance of the line of bivouacs were a dozen infantrymen, lying hidden in a copse. Hearing the rifle-firing they started to their feet.

Kenneth never attempted to slacken his pace. He realized that everything depended upon speed. Before the outposts could solve the mystery of two men in Uhlan uniforms tearing towards them, the motor-cycle with its double burden was upon them. They gave back. One man attempted to lunge with his bayonet, but the tip of the steel flashed a good hair's breadth behind Rollo's back.

A ragged, ill-aimed volley was the parting salute. The two British lads were through the enemy's lines.