The bullets ceased to sing above his head. He peered cautiously above the edge of the hole. The wicked looking muzzle of the machine gun was pointing considerably to his left. He leaped from the hole and raced for the barricade. There was a startled shout and a frantic effort to slew the gun around. The next instant Frank sprang high in the air, struck the topmost log of the barricade with both feet and sent it tumbling down upon the machine gun crew while he went down with it. CHAPTER VIII PUTTING IT OVER There was a wild scrambling and confusion in the machine gun nest, as the log came down, followed by Frank. The latter lost his balance and went down on all fours, but was on his feet again in a second. The log had struck one of the crew in falling and knocked him unconscious. But his companion in serving the gun had risen to his feet at the same moment with Frank and had drawn his revolver to fire. Frank had no time to raise his rifle, but quick as lightning he swung it from the level of his waist against the upraised arm of his opponent. There was a sharp crack that told that the bone was broken, and the man sank to the ground with a groan. Frank heard a shout just behind him and wheeled about. A helmeted head was emerging from a trench that had been dug in the rear of the machine gun, and in this a squad of Germans had been stationed to support the crew. Frank’s rifle spoke, and the German sank back with a bullet through his shoulder. Two jumps carried Frank to the head of the trench, where he saw seven Huns, who had evidently been rattled by the fall of their leader and were hesitating, not knowing how many enemies might be waiting for them on the ground above. Frank covered them with his rifle, whose muzzle darted from one to the other in the line. “Hands up!” he commanded. The words were American, but the Germans understood what it meant. If they had any doubt, the rifle would have enlightened them. Their guns dropped from their hands and they raised the latter above their heads. “_Kamerad!_” they shouted in chorus. Still keeping them covered, Frank motioned them to come out one at a time. They did so and formed in line, their hands still upraised. The look of amazement on their faces, when they looked around for Frank’s comrades and failed to see them, was comical beyond expression. But Frank was too keyed up at that moment to pay any attention to the humorous side of it. He shot a glance at the machine gun. It had been knocked down by the falling log and the machinery by which it was fed with cartridges was unusable. “March!” Frank commanded, taking his station in the rear of the line of prisoners. They obeyed sheepishly enough, and one or two of them in the rear of the line were inclined to be sullen, but a sharp jab of Frank’s bayonet decided them, and they went off at a jog trot toward the American lines.