Amos was smart enough to take all necessary precautions when jumping. He did not meet with any accident, and was in condition to wave a jolly farewell to the gunners in khaki, who had turned in their seats to see the last of the American boys carrying that autograph letter from the British commander. “A rough and ready lot of fine chaps, I should say, Jack,” remarked Amos, after they had watched the caisson whirl past an obstruction that shut it out from their view.
“Yes, and it’s tough to think that perhaps not a corporal’s guard of the whole squad will ever go back again to their English homes,” replied the other. “To see the way they joke and make merry I don’t believe that bothers one of them the least bit. When you stop to think of it, the[282] worst of a war in these times is that it takes off so many hundreds of thousands of the finest young men, leaving cripples, old fellows and those who are of little use in the world.”
“Now I hadn’t thought of that before,” admitted Amos, candidly. “It’s really a fact, though, isn’t it? Every soldier nowadays has to be physically sound, of a certain height, and even his teeth are examined to make sure they’re fit. When a million or two such athletes are cut off, the old world is going to take a step backward for years to come.”
“Let’s put our best foot forward, and get to what’s left of the village, Amos.”
They trudged along for a little while in almost absolute silence, each boy being busily occupied with his own thoughts. Perhaps Amos, as would be quite natural, was planning what arguments he should use when he came upon his brother. Jack on his part may have been thinking more of the fate that had overtaken the poor Belgian village which by the fortunes of war seemed to[283] have been in the direct line of fire between the hostile armies.
As they reached a certain little knoll they were given an opportunity to take their first good look at the place where they had passed that never-to-be-forgotten night, when the roar of approaching battle had stirred their young blood to fever heat.
Amos uttered a cry in which astonishment was mingled with pain. He even rubbed his eyes as though he almost believed they had deceived him.
“Jack, it’s gone!” he gasped. “The poor village I mean! Just see how the cottages have been smashed to smithereens by the shells the Germans hurled over here while the Allies were holding the place! Oh! it’s terrible, terrible! I don’t believe there are two stones on top of each other.”
“Well, it isn’t quite as bad as that, Amos,” said his comrade, “because I can see several houses still standing, though they’re wrecks at that. But if ever there was a peaceful village turned into a howling wilderness this one has been.”
[284]
“But, Jack, what’s become of the people?”
“A whole lot of them were wise enough to get away at the time we did,” Jack reminded him. “You remember how we found them strung out along the road. By now we hope they’ve found lodging somewhere in Northern France; for the French people have warm hearts, and owe Belgium such a heavy debt for holding back the Kaiser’s army that they will share their last crust with their neighbors.”
“Still there were some who meant to stay here, Jack?” urged Amos.
“That’s true enough,” came the answer, “and our old landlord the burgomaster was of the number, though I reckon he insisted on most of his people going away. They had a good deep cellar under that cottage, he told us; perhaps no German shell buried itself down there to find them out. Come, let’s head that way. I’ve got an idea the one house we can see standing over there is the very home where we were taken in.”
“I hope so, Jack, I surely do!” exclaimed the other boy fervently. “I’d hate to learn that such[285] a fine old man had been done for. If that is the house, though, I’d never recognize it with the corners torn off, and the chimney fallen in ruins. Oh, Jack, see, there’s a gaping hole in the wall showing where a shell passed through. If it exploded inside we can guess the fate of all that were hiding there.”
“Look again, Amos, and you’ll see that it came out through that hole, and buried itself in the ground right here. It was a German shell, of course, as pretty much all that fell upon this place must have been; for the British were behind the houses holding the enemy off, and every effort was made to chase them out.”
“But they held their ground, it seems like,” said Amos, “and with the coming of reinforcements pushed the Germans back a mile or more. Now to find out what happened to the old burgomaster.
“Jack, tell me, isn’t that some one moving around inside the ruins of the cottage?”
“I do believe you’re right, Amos. We’ll soon[286] know who it is,” replied the Western boy, as he made for the doorway.
The cottage could only be called a ruin, even though its four walls still stood, and part of the roof seemed to be fairly intact. A tree just outside that had given grateful shade for many years was stripped of its limbs, and the trunk stood like a gaunt skeleton, a grim reminder of the furious hail of bombs that had fallen upon that devoted village for hours.
Jack had to almost climb over the mass of debris that cumbered the open doorway. He immediately found that the wrecked cottage did have occupants. Several figures were stretched upon blankets on the floor, and others hovered over them, showing that the place was really being used as a sort of hospital.
Jack immediately saw, however, that those who were being thus attended were not soldiers of the line. One was a woman, another an old man, while the third seemed to be a small figure, presumably that of a mere lad.
[287]
A hand clutched Jack’s arm, and the voice of his chum whispered hoarsely in his ear:
“Our old friend has come through it all with his life, Jack; don’t you see him giving that boy a drink, and passing his hand over the poor little chap’s forehead? Seems to me I’ve set eyes on that boy before, and—yes, as sure as anything, Jack, I do believe it’s little Jacques. He’s been struck down, just as we feared.”
“They seem to be hovering over him in a strange way,” ventured Jack. “There’s a Belgian soldier holding his other hand, and two women doing what they can. Jacques doesn’t lack for friends, it seems. I wonder what it all means, and if he tried to carry out that foolish vow he made about getting revenge for his father’s death.”
Just then it happened that the old burgomaster, who no longer had a village under his charge, looked around. He may have heard the murmur of their voices during some lull in the dreadful chaos of sounds that came from the front, rising and falling as the wind chanced to swerve.
[288]
At sight of the two American boys his wrinkled face showed great pleasure. He immediately got up from his knees and hurried toward them, holding out his hand in warm welcome.
“I am glad to see you again, young messieurs,” he said, simply. “I wondered much what had become of you, and prayed that you had escaped the terrible shells that seemed to cover every mile of territory around this poor village.”
............