CHAPTER V

BATTLING ONWARD

Well might Sergeant Jimmy ask himself that question. For a moment he feared lest the injury to his head had caused his brain to wander so that he "saw things." But as he looked about on other sights--noted wounded men being brought in, saw fresh fighters rushing up to the front, to be ready if called on--and when he again looked toward the marching squad of the signal corps Jimmy felt sure that his brain was normal.

And there was no doubt, in his mind, of what he saw. He looked again at the two doughboys who had attracted his attention. They were in strong sunlight, and Jimmy was sure he could not be mistaken.

"They're the same two who were in the dugout talking to the two men in civilian clothes," murmured the wounded lad. "And those two civilians might be almost anyone. I only hope they weren't German spies! That would be fierce--to have two of our men meeting German spies secretly. But hold on--wait a minute. There may be another angle or twist to this game."

Jimmy raised himself on his elbow and looked after the disappearing signal corps squad. The two men carrying the black electrical box were in the rear now.

"They're the same two--no question of that," decided Jimmy. "But I may be wrong in thinking they were having a secret meeting with spies. Those civilians may be spies, but I don't believe any of our soldiers would be in any underhand scheme with them. Maybe they were laying pipes to capture the spies, or even bag bigger game. I guess that was it. Hang it! I wish I could get up and follow them. I'd like to have a talk with those fellows!"

But when Jimmy tried to sit up he found how weak he really was. The blow on the head had put him out of the fighting for the time being.

"Anything I can do for you, old man?" asked a Salvation Army worker, coming along just then. He had been going about giving hot soup to such of the injured as could take it, and now it was Jimmy's turn.

"Yes, I would like a bit," answered Jimmy Blaise to this rough and ready angel of mercy in the guise of an unshaven Salvation Army man. "That's great!" murmured Jimmy, as the soup brought new life to him.

He felt so much revived that a few minutes later, when an orderly came past and stopped beside Jimmy, the Khaki Boy began a conversation.

"Is the signal corps ordered to any special place?" he asked.

"Oh, no, just out on general work," was the answer. "The Germans shot away some of our telegraph lines, and they're going to repair 'em, I guess. Wish I was with 'em, but I can't be," and he sighed.

"Like that sort of work?" asked Jimmy.

"You bet! I'm a telephone repair man back home, and I was in the signal corps until I got a wound that put me out. I'm getting better, and I'll soon be able to chuck this orderly berth, put on my spurs and take my pliers again."

"Know anyone in that signal corps bunch?" asked Jimmy.

"Sure! Every one. I've been working with 'em ever since this shindig started."

"What's in that black box the two rear men carried?" asked Jimmy, though he pretty well knew what the answer would be, as he had seen such boxes before.

"Part of a wireless outfit," was the answer. "I was just taking up that work when I got my wound stripe."

"Who were the two lads carrying the box?" persisted Jimmy.

"You mean the wireless box? Oh, they were two lads named Bixton. One--Wilbur--is a private. His brother Aleck is a corporal."

"Wilbur and Aleck Bixton," said Jimmy, and at once his brain began to do some active work.

"Yes, they claim to be experts in wireless work," went on the orderly. "But, for my part, I think they're a couple of----"

"Orderly!" came a sharp command from a surgeon, "I need you over here."

Some more wounded were being brought in.

"See you later, old man," said the surgeon's assistant to Jimmy. "Hope you get out of this dump soon."

"Same here," and Jimmy smiled. He did not feel the pain so much now, for he was thinking of something else.

"Bixton!" he said to himself. "Aleck and Wilbur Bixton! Where have I heard that name Bixton before? Was it----Ha! I have it! Back at Camp Sterling! Private Bixton! The rascal we helped send to prison, where he belonged. No wonder that name stuck in my mind! He's in prison still, I'm sure, for he was given a long term for desertion and rascality."

Readers of the first volume of the Khaki Boys series will, no doubt, readily recall the incidents referred to.

"Bixton!" mused Jimmy. "It isn't a common name. And yet there may be more than one who can lay claim to it. I wonder if these two Bixtons in the signal corps can be any relation to the Bixton we knew. Let's see--what was his first name--um--no, I can't recall it. Don't know that I ever heard it. But the Bixton part sticks in my mind.

"And I'm sure these two Bixtons--Aleck and Wilbur--were in the dugout with the suspicious-looking civilians. Now, of course, there may be nothing wrong in that, and yet if they're any relation to Private Bixton, late of Camp Sterling, I shouldn't put it past them to have been up to something crooked. The thing to do is to find out for sure if the two here are related to the one left behind. That's what I'll do as soon as I get on my feet! Say, maybe I'm on the track of as queer a mystery as the poison one back in camp!"

Jimmy was not quite as strong as he had thought, for, after trying to puzzle this out and piece together the various threads of thought in his mind, he felt very much exhausted. A little later he was sent to a temporary hospital, where he remained for three days.

During this time Jimmy had no chance to pursue his inquiries about the Bixtons. But he did a lot of thinking. Meanwhile, the tide of battle lulled, but it was only temporary--everyone knew that.

There came a day when Jimmy could rejoin his friends, and he found Iggy with them ready to welcome him, for the Polish lad had recovered from his injuries sustained in the dugout.

"Well, how do you feel, Jimmy?" asked Roger.

"Fit as a fiddle!" was the answer. "That little crack on the head is hardly sore now. The doc told me to wear a cotton pad over it under my tin hat, though, to keep the pressure off. And now, fellows, I've got a bit of news for you."

"Haven't won another five thousand francs reward, have you?" asked Bob.

"No. Wish I had. But this is about something else. Say, you fellows remember Private Bixton, back at Camp Sterling, don't you?"

"I should say I did!" cried Schnitzel, who had good reason to recall the scoundrel. "What about him?"

"Well, there are two fellows here," resumed Jimmy, "who are of the same name and----"

"Fall in! Fall in!" came a sudden order.

There was no time to tell more. Word had come from the front of activity along the German lines, and it was feared there was to be an attack.

Nor were the fears groundless, for the Khaki Boys had no sooner reached the front-line trenches, being sent up to relieve men that had long been on duty, than word was passed along that a big battle was soon to begin.

"I'll tell you later what I started to say about Bixton," said Jimmy, who received instructions to take charge of a squad of men, none of his "Brothers" being in the squad. He hurried away, and a little later they were battling onward against heavy odds.

The Huns had sprung something in the nature of a surprise. It was another of their fierce attempts to break through the American line, and though they did not succeed, they placed parts of it in danger and it required the sacrifice of many lives to hold back the horde of fierce Boches.

"Come on, boys! Come on!" cried Jimmy Blaise, as he led his squad across an open field which, time and again, had been swept by machine-gun bullets. "Come on!"

And with cheers they followed him.