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Page 55
Glad was the unnerved Corporal Freund when his run ceased and he
stood close to his grossly solid and rank-scented fellowmen once
more. Almost he was inclined to laugh at his fears of the fabled
Werewolf--and especially at the idea that he had been pursued. He
drew a long breath of relief. He drew the breath in. But he did
not at once expel it. For on his ears came the sound of a hideous
menacing growl.
Corporal Freund spun about, in the direction of the mysterious
threat. And there, not thirty feet from him, in the ghostly
moonlight, stood the Werewolf!
This time there could be no question of overstrained nerves and
of imagination. The Thing was THERE!
Horribly visible in every detail, the Werewolf was glaring at
him. He could see the red glow of the gigantic devil-beast's
eyes, the white flash of its teeth, the ghostly shimmering of its
snowy chest. The soul of the man he had slain had taken this
traditional form and was hunting down the slayer! A thousand
stories of Freund's childhood verified the frightful truth. And
overwrought human nature's endurance went to pieces under the
shock.
A maniac howl of terror split the midnight stillness. Shriek
after shriek rent the air. Freund tumbled convulsively to the
ground at his colonel's feet, gripping the officer's booted knees
and screeching for protection. The colonel, raging that the
surprise attack should be imperiled by such a racket, beat the
frantic man over the mouth with his heavy fist, kicking
ferociously at his upturned writhing face, and snarling to him to
be silent.
The shower of blows brought Freund back to sanity, to the extent
of changing his craven terror into Fear's secondary phase--the
impulse to strike back at the thing that had caused the fright.
Rolling over and over on the ground, under the impact of his
superior's fist blows and kicks, Freund somehow regained his
feet.
Reeling up to the nearest soldier, the panic-crazed corporal
snatched the private's rifle and fired three times, blindly, at
Bruce. Then, foaming at the mouth, Freund fell heavily to earth
again, chattering and twitching in a fit.
Bruce, at the second shot, leaped high in the air, and collapsed,
in an inert furry heap, among the bushes. There he lay,--his
career as a courier-dog forever ended.
Corporal Rudolph Freund was perhaps the best sniper in his
regiment. Wildly though he had fired, marksman-instinct had
guided his bullets. And at such close range there was no missing.
Bruce went to earth with one rifle ball through his body, and
another in his leg. A third had reached his skull.
Now, the complete element of surprise was all-needful for the
attack the Germans had planned against the "Here-We-Comes."
Deprived of that advantage the expedition was doomed to utter
failure. For, given a chance to wake and to rally, the regiment
could not possibly be "rushed," in vivid moonlight, before the
nearest Allied forces could move up to its support. And those
forces were only a mile or so to the rear. There can be no
possible hope for a surprise attack upon a well-appointed camp
when the night's stillness has been shattered by a series of
maniac screams and by three echoing rifle-shots.
Already the guard was out. A bugle was blowing. In another
minute, the sentry-calls would locate the gap made by the three
murdered sentinels.
A swift guttural conference among the leaders of the gray-clad
marauders was followed by the barking of equally guttural
commands. And the Germans withdrew as quietly and as rapidly as
they had come.
* * * * * * * * * * *
It was the mouthing and jabbering of the fit-possessed Corporal
Rudolph Freund that drew to him the notice of a squad of Yankees
led by Top-Sergeant Mahan, ten minutes later. It was the shudder
--accompanied pointing of the delirious man's finger, toward the
nearby clump of undergrowth, that revealed to them the still warm
body of Bruce.
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