Adventure Magazine Cover — page 181: what you’re looking at

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

The Phantom Major The road over which they were traveling became steeper and more devious. It climbed up and up, crawling along rocky ledges, through aisles of black fir which, arching overhead, shut out the sky. Dim chasms yawned beneath them, filled with a perpetual gray mist that swam up toward them, moistening their skin and turning the leather seat slimy. At intervals on more open spaces, roads which were mere bridle paths diverged to right and left, wandering off into the unknown. When these appeared Hartley slowed the car and looked at Oleson anxiously. The latter, tracing the course on his map with a stubby forefinger, indicated the direction with a nod. The silence began wearing on Hartley’s nerves. He had never been one to keep his thoughts to himself for long. The indigna- tion which he had felt at Oleson’s sulkiness had faded into depression. After all, they had been good friends. Now he sought to heal the breach between them. ‘Want to drive, Oley?” His voice was conciliatory. Oleson turned a pair of cold blue eyes on him. “What the I want to drive for? You think I’ve never driven before?”’ “Well, I thought you might,” Hartley answered mildly. There was silence for another mile. “Say, Oley,” Hartley began again. “It may not be so bad—this Black Lake, I mean. Perhaps you’ll pick up some souvenirs.”’ Oleson had a passion for souvenirs. A belt buckle with Gott Mit Uns on it fas- cinated him, a German helmet, especially one smeared with camouflage, was a prize, and a pair of field-glasses threw him into ecstasies. He had been known to stop his car in the midst of a bombardment to cut the buttons from a prisoner’s uniform, and he had robbed more dead than any one man in three divisions. This mention of sou- venirs was obviously a bait, but Oleson did not rise. “Souvenirs!” he exclaimed scornfully. “The only souvenirs that we’ll get in this place will be pine-cones!”’ “But you might,” Hartley continued eagerly, glad to hear the sound of his own voice. ‘“These woods ought to be full of stuff. I shouldn’t be surprized if you found—” “Will you shut up?” Oleson demanded ominously. ‘‘When I think that I might be 179 getting stewed in Gerardmer at this minute it makes me sick to have to sit here listen- ing to your gas.” “All right, Joe Oleson,’”’ Hartley cried. “T can keep my mouth shut as long as you can. This is what comes of being friends with a Swede! I might have known it would be like this.”’ Oleson did not answer. Again the silence became intense, broken only by the noise of the car and the faint moaning of the wind through the trees. It was dusk when they reached Lac Noir. The place fulfilled their worst ex- pectations. It was more dismal than they had imagined. The lake stretched away for a half mile like veined black basalt, smooth and treach- erous in the darkness, its banks covered with dank and rotting vegetation. Around it the shadows of trees rose sentinel-like, and above them again the Vosges Mountains towered, overpowering and crushing. In the hollow thus formed was the village, a miserable collection of rough houses de- serted now by their owners, goat herders and charcoal burners, and tumbling into decay through nearly four years of war. In the midst of them stood the cantonment, a long wooden barracks with a tar paper roof. Before the door of it French soldiers loi- tered. In some of the other houses were glimmering lights where the officers were quartered. ‘“‘We’ll have to report first,’”’ Hartley said, breaking the long silence. ‘‘You’d better speak, Oleson. I’m not much good at French.” ‘Speak yourself,” Oleson answered. “I’m here to keep you company, not to get your orders for you.” Hartley shrugged resigned shoulders. “Very well, if you leave it to me we'll probably starve to death. I can’t even say ‘fried eggs.’ ”’ There was, however, no need for an in- terpreter. In the largest of the houses they found the officer in charge of the village—a captain with rosy cheeks and a plump figure which bulged in his uniform. He spoke English sufficiently well. The two Ameri- cans stood before him while he looked them over with the critical eye by which French officers appraised their allies. ‘“Soldats Américains , from Gerardmer, is it not so?” he asked when his inspection was finished. DOOLK (C@