CHAPTER VIII

STARTLING INFORMATION

Conviction that Franz was in dire straits somewhere became almost certainty with Jimmy and his three chums as the days went by. But where, they did not know. A careful search had failed to reveal his body, and he was not among the wounded brought back to the hospitals.

But no inquiry could disclose where he was in case the Germans had him a prisoner. Jimmy told his chums that. And there was no positive proof that he was not killed. For many bodies were in such a state as to be unrecognizable, and from some even the identification disk was missing.

"Poor Franz!" sighed Bob, as the four talked it over together in the trenches or in some dugout, for they found several that the Germans had been forced to abandon. "It's just his luck to be captured again."

"Well, let's hope that he has that luck," suggested Roger. "Of course, it's tough luck, all right, but being captured, even by a Hun is some better than being killed. There's a chance if you're a prisoner--always a chance of escaping. But there's no escape from death. Of course, I know that to be in some of the prison camps is almost worse than death. But let's hope for the best."

"The worst of it is we can't do anything!" complained Bob. "That's what gets me--having to sit here and let him suffer maybe."

"It is hard," agreed Jimmy. "But we aren't doing much sitting around. There's too much else to be done. I've got to go out on listening post soon."

"I'm down for sentry go," added Roger.

"I a letter will write to mine mothar!" decided Iggy. "I from being up by de front door haf been, so I get a vacation."

"You're entitled to it," declared Jimmy. For the Polish lad had been assigned to a trench where German snipers were active, and more than one American had lost his life by the incautious exposure of just the top of his head. Iggy had had the luck to spot one of these pests, and had brought down the Hun, thereby winning the gratitude of his comrades.

But even the hardest kind of duty could not take from the four Brothers the sorrow that was in their hearts over Franz. It was almost worse than knowing he was dead, not to know what had become of him.

But there was nothing they could do. Jimmy spoke to their captain about it, but the officer shook his head.

"I've made inquiries," he said, "but there isn't a trace of the sergeant. Too bad, too, for he was a fine lad. We can only hope. And, if he is gone, make the beasts pay for him!"

It was about a week after the successful advance of the American forces when the spear-head had been wiped out and the German lines smashed completely through in several places that Jimmy and Roger were detailed to go some distance to the rear with messages and information for headquarters. They were assigned to a motorcycle and side car, Jimmy on the machine and Roger riding beside him.

"Well, this is a whole lot better than hiking it!" said Jimmy, as they started off.

"I don't--know--that--it--is!" stuttered Roger, as the car swerved from side to side over the rough roads. "When you walk you can go slow enough not to bite your tongue, but in this outfit you seem to hit only the high and low spots."

"It isn't what you'd call an asphalt pavement," agreed Jimmy, as he steered to one side to avoid a big shell hole. "But we'll get there."

Their journey was not exactly void of danger, for about halfway to the brigade headquarters, where they were to leave their messages, several Hun aeroplanes passed over the American lines. And at once some Allied machines came swooping along to give them combat. The German machines dropped several bombs, evidently searching out ammunition dumps, and one explosion took place in the road just before Roger and Jimmy passed over the spot on the motorcycle.

"Whew!" cried Jimmy, as he crouched to avoid the shower of dirt and stones. "That was a close one!"

"Too close for comfort!" agreed Roger. "Can you get around that hole?"

"Just about," murmured Jimmy. "It's some hole!"

But that was the only bomb that fell near them, and it was evident that it was not dropped for their discomfiture. For, though the Hun airmen might have observed the motorcycle shooting along beneath them, they would hardly have wasted a big bomb on it, when they might use the same weapon to set off a lot of American ammunition.

"They're getting a bit too personal," observed Roger, as they speeded on. "And look, Jimmy! There are a lot of our planes going to smash up the Huns now."

"Good enough!" returned Jimmy, not taking his eyes off the road ahead of him, for careful driving was required.

"Maybe the Twinkle Twins are up there," added Roger, gazing aloft.

"Maybe," assented Jimmy. And then, striking a fairly good stretch of road, he put on more speed, and they were soon at headquarters.

Most of the officers, as well as many of the men, were out watching the combat of the air. It soon terminated in favor of the Americans, and when two of the hostile craft had been shot down the others turned tail and fled.

"I hope our boys got the Hun who dropped the bomb so near us!" exclaimed Roger.

They delivered their message, and were waiting for an answer to be prepared when they observed a squad of signal corps men passing on their way to duty. The officer in command had to stop at brigade headquarters for instructions, and, leaving his men standing at ease, he went inside the old farmhouse which served as an office for the commanders.

"That's the same outfit the Bixtons are with," said Jimmy to Roger, recalling the incident of the dugout and his subsequent recognition of the two soldiers who had been talking to the civilians.

"Are they there now?" asked Roger.

"Don't see 'em. But maybe I can get some information. I'd like to know if Private Bixton, the chap we exposed at Camp Sterling, is any relation to the two men of the same name here."

Jimmy strolled over toward the men of the signal corps who were waiting for the reappearance of their officers. Some of the lads who formed part of the "eyes and ears" of the army nodded in friendly fashion to the two Khaki Boys, and Jimmy, selecting a man who seemed to be a veteran in fighting and in signal work, remarked:

"Haven't you a couple of fellows named Bixton in your outfit?"

"Why, yes, the Bixton boys are with us," was the answer of the private to whom Jimmy addressed himself. "That is, they belong to our outfit, but they're not here now. They're going to join us before we go much further to the front, though. Why, do you lads know 'em?"

"Not exactly," returned Jimmy. "We've seen 'em," he added, not specifying where. "But we knew a fellow back home--at Camp Sterling, to be exact--whose name was Bixton, and we wondered if he was any relation to these two here."

"Oh, ho! so you knew Mike Bixton, did you?" exclaimed the signal corps private, who gave his name as Anson.

"I didn't know his name was Mike," said Roger. "Guess we never heard his first name, did we, Jimmy?"

"Not that I remember. So he's a relative of these Bixtons, is he?"

"A cousin," volunteered Anson. "Course I don't want to get personal," he went on in a sort of free-and-easy Western style, "but what sort of chap was this Mike Bixton?"

Jimmy and Roger hesitated. It was hardly ethics to talk about a fellow soldier, and yet Private Bixton was out of that class. He was a deserter, entitled to no consideration, and he was worse than a deserter--he was, in fact, a traitor.

"Well, to be frank, and not to spread bad information, we didn't know very much good about Bixton of Camp Sterling," said Jimmy.

"I thought so!" chuckled Anson. "I thought where there was so much smoke there must be a bit of fire."

"What do you mean?" asked Roger.

"Well, these Bixtons here," went on Anson, stepping aside to speak more confidentially to Roger and Jimmy, "are making quite a fuss over their cousin, Mike Bixton."

"What sort of fuss?" asked Jimmy.

"Oh, saying he didn't get fair treatment, that he was misunderstood, that everybody was down on him, and all that. I don't know all the particulars, but I judge Mike must have been punished in some way at Camp Sterling."

"He was sent to prison as a deserter," said Jimmy.

"Cracky! As bad as that! Well, well! I suspected there was an African gentleman in the fuel heap somewhere," chuckled Anson. "That accounts for a lot."

"A lot of what?" asked Roger.

"A lot of talk by these Bixtons. They claim their cousin was persecuted by a couple of lads in Camp Sterling. Say these two lads--whoever they were--did all sorts of mean things to Mike Bixton in the training camp.

"And what's more," went on the old signal-corps soldier, "these Bixtons here say that if they ever find out who the two camp fellows were who helped send their relative away they'll do all sorts of things to 'em--treat 'em rough, and all that. I'd just like to see what they would do if they found out who the camp lads were. I'd just like to see. I'd give a lot to be there to see what happens when they meet those two fellows. They say it'll go hard with, 'em. I shouldn't like to be in their shoes. These Bixtons are tough lads and fighters! If they ever discover the two who were responsible for their cousin's predicament--whew! there'll be something doing."