Adventure Magazine Cover — page 177: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Paddy Miles, Fighting Man wetting his lips before he placed it carefully at the edge of the pool and worked his way up to an observation point. In the distance a group of wounded men were coming down the slope over which the brigade had passed a few minutes before. Already they skulked along, seck- ing the shelter of bush and tree, trying to dodge the bullets of the insurgent snipers. Two of the men were carrying a stretcher. He could just distinguish the brassards on their arms that marked them as litter bear- ers. He gazed intently trying to locate the direction of fire against them by the spurts of clod that marked the spot where the bullets struck. He thought he had it. At the upper end of the plain stood the mango tree, sturdy, heavily leaved. He leaned his rifle over a rock and raised his sights. His left arm was already stiffening, but he snuggled the butt of his Krag close to his shoulder, easing the trigger firmly and gently to a hair edge, got a bead on the center of the tree and fired. He could see a small branch, evidently clipped at its stem, winnow slowly to the ground. He had the range and was just preparing for another shot when the ping of a Mauser bullet as it hit the rock below him changed his plans. It evidently came from a coulée in front of him that led down from the ridge. He worked a little higher and raised his campaign hat about six inches above him. The ruse succeeded and the impact of three bullets below him gave him an idea of the number of men in the coulée. Again he turned his attention to the distant mango and let drive, aiming a bit to the left of his first shot. The only answer was a volley that fell around the wounded men, who had halted, evidently in a panic. Again the smash, smash, smash, of the bullets against the rock, one of them richocheting over his head. The reports from the coulée sounded nearer. The wounded men were nearing the cogon grass that Paddy had just left, within hail- ing distance. He called to them to make for the rock, but they were unwilling to take a chance, and hid in the grass. One of them stood up and yelled back at him. He could not distinguish the words but he recognized Pug, and saw him clutch at his shoulder and fall. The rattle of the rifles from the mango reached his ears. Paddy began to worry. If Pug was I7I there, it was a cinch that others of “der poys” were in the bunch. Well, it was up to Old Paddy again. He switched his rifle, drew a bead on a small bunch of bushes in the coulée ahead of him, and fired, working out his magazine as fast as he could. That would keep his three snipers down for a - moment. Then he slipped over the op- posite side of the rock, and belly close to the ground, crawled till he reached the clump of cogon. Pug was sitting up trying to improvise a bandage for his shoulder. One of the lit- ter-bearers was dead, the other a raw re- cruit, in a state of blue funk. Three of the other men who belonged to ‘‘A”’ com- pany had slight wounds, but were able to walk, were still able to use the rifles that they carried hung by slings over their shoulders. : Already the bullets were cutting through the grass. If he was to get his comrades into the comparatively safe shelter of the rock it was time to act. Old Paddy rose, unmindful of the sniper’s fire, his shoulders just clearing the cogon. He stepped over to Pug and with a ‘“‘“Gimme a shew, Irisher,”’ deftly extracted the plug from the pocket of his wounded comrade’s blue shirt, bit off a huge chew, tucked it back in his own jeans, cajoled one of ‘‘A’s” men to take the place of the dead litter-bearer, and with Pug in the lead herded the little detachment out of the cogon. With them well on the way he danced up and down waving defiance and making unprintable gestures in the direction of the insurgents hidden in the mango. That drew their fire and before they could reload he ran to the foot of the hill and re- peated his actions, facing the coulée, before he began the short ascent. Half-way up in the shelter of a jagged boulder, he found one of the men lying in a heap, the bloody froth on his lips telling of a fatal wound. Old Paddy left his canteen beside him, took his comrade’s cartridge-belt and rifle and scrambled over the crest, the insurgent bullets peck, peck, pecking at his heels. PUG already had stationed three of the men at intervals around the 4% edge of the hill. One of the litter- bearers was a poor shot, but he was better than none, and in a pinch would probably do good work at close quarters. Paddy joined Pug on the side toward the coulée. S COmiclboo (C@