A Friend in Need
Dennis Dashwood laughed aloud, but though there was genuine amusement in
his voice at the beginning, it quickly tailed off into a broken quiver,
for the lad was still suffering from the effect of the shell burst.
"You will laugh on the other side of your mouth directly, if I know
anything," said his captor gravely.
"I am quite content to leave that to the judgment of your officer, my
friend," replied Dennis in French. "But have the goodness not to shake
me like a rat. I've got a splitting headache as it is."
"Ha, you spies speak all languages. _Ma foi!_ What a lot of clever
scoundrels you are!" grunted the Alsatian corporal. "What a pity, for
you have not got a really bad face when one comes to look at it."
"Is it far to your headquarters?" inquired his prisoner wearily.
"Not far, so you had better make the most of it. It will be your last
walk on earth. How beautiful is the song of the lark! The little animals
do not seem to mind the gunfire at all. Do you have larks in Prussia?"
"I hope we shall, my corporal, when you and I get there with our
battalions," but the corporal was impervious to the harmless jest, and
squared his shoulders as they came in sight of his commander's post.
The other man whom Dennis had seen on the slope had come down and joined
them, and the pair marched their prisoner in with a brisk, businesslike
stride.
The French trench ended, or began, whichever way you like to take it, in
a wood of oaks, and the smoke of many fires drifted among the
tree-trunks. At the door of a dug-out a group of officers sat round a
trestle table taking their coffee, and they all looked up as the
corporal cried, "_Halt_, prisoner!" and saluted with his rifle.
"Mon Commandant, I found this man hiding by the roadside behind yonder.
He speaks German and French and all the languages under the sun, and I
am convinced he is a spy."
The commandant was a spare, black-bearded man, whose uniform of horizon
blue gave one rather the impression that it had been made by a
dressmaker, but on the left breast was a little strip of crimson and
green ribbon, showing that he had won the Military Cross during the war.
He had black leggings and narrow black belts, and the wristbands of his
shirt were spotlessly clean.
"What have you to say for yourself, prisoner?" said the commandant,
eyeing him keenly from top to toe, through the chalk and dirt that
encrusted him, and Dennis in excellent French told him who he was.
"Where is the dispatch of which you speak?" was the next question, and
Dennis pointed to his torn tunic. "It was destroyed when the car was
blown up, Monsieur le Commandant," he replied.
"But you must still have some proofs of your identity. What is that in
his pocket?" And the commandant, who had lit a cigarette, pointed with
the match.
The corporal thrust his hand into the drab tunic and produced two things
which he laid on the table by the long loaf from which the officers had
cut slices to dip in their coffee.
"Ha!" said the commandant, opening the wallet. "You told me your name
was Dashwood, but here it is given as Alfred Robinson."
"I brought that away from the body of the man who drove me," explained
Dennis. "That is the English chauffeur's licence from Scotland Yard."
"And this?" continued the officer, his face becoming graver as he
examined the German soldier's "small book." "Here you are described as
Hans Schrettelmeyer, Private in the 24th Reserve Battalion of the 108th
Saxons; how do you account for it?"
"That I picked up in the fire trench of my own battalion when we
repulsed the attack last night," said Dennis, drawing himself up a
little and colouring indignantly as he found his position becoming
serious.
"Oh, come, you are evidently fond of picking things up, my friend," said
the commandant with a dry smile. "Is there anything else that you have
found that will help you?"
"I have my own identification disc," said the lad hotly, and then he bit
his lips as he groped between his shirt and undervest.
"Unfortunately, monsieur, it has also gone!" he exclaimed, turning pale.
"Ah, well, I do not think we want it," said the commandant, tilting his
chair backwards. "We have had several of your kind prowling about our
lines lately--one only last night, and an example is necessary. You are
a spy, my friend, and that is the end of the matter."
"Look here, sir, this is all bosh!" exclaimed Dennis hotly in his own
language, realising for the first time that appearances were dead
against him.
"Quite right, my boy," laughed one of the other officers in English.
"You are all Boche. I think there is very little doubt about that."
The commandant leaned across the table and said something in a low voice
to the others, and they all nodded.
"May I be permitted to make an observation, sir?" said the lad.
"With pleasure," replied the commandant, bowing politely.
"A very short question over your wire to Monsieur le General commanding
this army corps will convince you that I am what I tell you I am," said
Dennis.
"Even if I thought there were any necessity it would, unfortunately, be
impossible," said the commandant in a cold voice. "Your wires are not
the only ones that suffer, and ours has undergone some damage during the
night. It may be two hours before it is repaired, and you must not be
surprised if we make short shrift of you."
"But, monsieur!" expostulated Dennis. "This is an outrage! My country
and yours are firm friends, and I repeat, upon my word of honour, that I
am an Englishman."
The officer who had laughed at him and who spoke English, said in an
undertone: "Do you know, monsieur le commandant, I should feel
inclined--with all due respect I say it--to postpone the execution. I
must confess this boy is a marvellous linguist, and there is not a trace
of fear in his bearing."
"My dear Laval, for myself I am convinced, and I shall take all
responsibility," replied the commandant. "Prisoner, if you would like to
write a letter to your friends you are at liberty to do so. We will
endeavour to forward it afterwards. Also, if you care to avail yourself
of the good offices of our chaplain they are at your disposal. But do
not waste time, for you will be shot in half an hour," and he made a
grave inclination with his head to intimate that the interview was at an
end.
A contemptuous smile passed across the young lieutenant's face, and he
bowed in return.
"Very well, sir, I can only say that you will be sorry for this
decision," he said. "I have a fountain pen--will somebody kindly lend me
a sheet of paper?"
One of the officers at the table handed him a blank form, at the same
time offering his cigarette-case.
"No, thanks, I won't smoke," said the boy, and, sitting down on a billet
of wood, he laid the paper on his knee.
"DEAR PATER," he wrote with a steady hand. "It seems a
rotten thing to have to tell you, but the French are going to
shoot me for a spy. The fool man in command here, who was
probably a successful pork butcher before the war started,
declines to communicate with headquarters, and I rather hope
you'll rub it into him when you learn all. It seems I speak
German too well, and I should not be surprised if the sham
English 'brass hat' who upset them last night were that
scoundrel, Van Drissel, whom I nearly shot."
He got thus far, the Alsatian corporal standing rigidly at his elbow,
when he became aware of a bustle at the table, and looked up.
A French _liaison_ officer had just arrived, and was explaining his
mission to the group, while the commandant read a dispatch he had
brought.
Dennis sprang to his feet, and the laugh which brought the corporal's
grip on to his collar again turned every eye towards him.
"Good morning, mon Capitaine!" he cried. "Will you be good enough to
tell the commandant the circumstances under which we met last night, and
why I came to your headquarters with a message?"
"My dear lieutenant," said the _liaison_ officer. "Enchanted to meet you
again! But what in the name of heaven has happened to you?"
"Nothing to what was going to happen in a few minutes if you had not
arrived," replied Dennis, unable to repress the triumph he felt at the
consternation in the faces of his judges.
"_Ciel_, mon Commandant!" exclaimed the _liaison_ officer. "It is a very
fortunate thing for you that I came in time. If you had shot this young
Englishman, Father Joffre would have had something to say about it."
In a few words he established the prisoner's identity beyond any shadow
of doubt, and the good-hearted fellows were round him in a moment,
clamouring out their apologies, while the commandant, with tears
rolling into his beard, kissed him on both cheeks.
Dennis was ashamed that he had called him a pork butcher, for the poor
man was pathetically apologetic, and trembled like a leaf at the thought
of what might have been.
"You certainly gave me a very tight squeeze for the moment," laughed the
lad. "But it was a string of extraordinary coincidences that might have
deceived anyone."
"Then our general's reply has not reached your headquarters?" queried
the _liaison_ officer.
"Unhappily not," said Dennis. "It is somewhere among the wreckage of the
car and the remains of those two poor fellows."
"Never mind," said his preserver. "We will let you into a little secret.
The dispatch you brought to us was a request that this division should
join with your nearest brigades in a raid on the enemy's lines. The
Allied artillery is even now lengthening its fuses, and we are on the
point of giving the Germans a surprise. Will you find your way back,
or----" And he made an expressive wave of his hand in the direction of
the German trenches.
"If Monsieur le Commandant has no objection, and somebody will lend me a
revolver, I should love to take part with the battalion that was going
to shoot me," laughed the boy.
"_Cher ami!_" cried the black-bearded officer. "You heap the coals of
fire upon my head. You and I will march together!"
While Dennis swallowed a cup of coffee the commandant dived into his
dug-out and reappeared with a revolver case, which he buckled on the
boy with his own hands; and meanwhile the little group at the wood fires
had snatched up their rifles and donned their blue-painted steel
helmets, and were falling in by companies, eager to exchange the
monotony of trench warfare for a brisk dash at the hated foe.
The Alsatian corporal, a typical poilu, still kept very close to his
late prisoner, but there was an altogether different look in his eyes
now.
"I should never have forgiven myself, mon lieutenant," he blurted out,
as he slung his rifle behind his back and festooned himself with racket
bombs. "I hope monsieur will bear me no ill will for my stupidity."
"It is nothing, my friend," said Dennis laughing. "A brave man should do
what he thinks to be his duty, and you did yours. What is the distance
to the enemy trench?"
"About a hundred metres, mon lieutenant," replied the corporal, "and
uphill all the way. _Voila!_ There goes the signal!"
A low blast on a whistle, and the long grey-blue line went quickly
forward among the trees, and jumped down into the deep excavation which
wound like a dirty white ribbon along the outskirts of the wood.
The 75's were barking loudly in their rear, the shells now falling
behind the enemy trench, the sandbags of which showed in an irregular
line on the slope against the sunrise.
The _liaison_ officer had come with them thus far, and was looking at
his watch.
"_Bon chance_, lieutenant," he said. "Unhappily, I may only see the
attack launched, but I hope this will not be our last meeting."
"My boys, it is time!" cried the commandant. "_En avant!_" And, climbing
swiftly over their parapet, the active little poilus scampered up the
hill through the yellow charlock.
Half-way up every man flung himself flat upon his face, and looking
back, Dennis saw the second line coming over to their support. Again the
whistle sounded, the little blue figures jumped up, scurrying like
rabbits, and the machine-guns on the German trench opened fire.
Down on their faces sank the first line again, so suddenly that an
onlooker might have thought that everyone of them had been shot, and as
Dennis found himself in a bed of stinging nettles close to the ruins of
a cottage, with the corporal and the commandant on either side of him,
he caught the distant sound of an English yell away to the left, and
knew that the British raid had been well timed, and was acting in
concert with his new friends.
For an instant the commandant, whistle in mouth, lifted his head and saw
that his supports had come up to within twenty yards of their comrades.
"Now, my dear friend," he mumbled, giving Dennis's arm a warm squeeze.
"One bound, and we shall be there!"
The whistle shrilled loudly, and, jumping to his feet, the commandant
shouted, "Forward with the bayonet! _Vive la patrie!_"
Instantly the sandbags in front of them bristled with heads wearing flat
caps, and the volley from the mausers mingled with the murderous tac-tac
of machine-guns.
It floated dimly through the boy's mind that he had no right to be
hazarding life and limb in that place, but the joy of that mad rush with
a fight at the end of it banished the thought on the spot, and, scarcely
conscious of those few remaining yards which they traversed at top
speed, he found himself scaling the sandbags.
Above him was the commandant, sword in one hand and revolver in the
other, but as the active little man poised for an instant on the top of
the parapet and fired into the trench at his feet, he threw up his arms
and pitched backward, Dennis dropping his weapon to dangle at his wrist,
and catching him as he fell at the foot of the obstacle.
"It is nothing," gasped the French officer, clutching at his throat, but
the blood was pouring between the fingers of his hand.
"He is wrong," said Dennis, as the Alsatian corporal knelt beside him.
"We must get him back under cover at once. It is only a surgeon who can
stop this haemorrhage."
"And I haven't thrown a bomb yet!" growled the corporal, tossing the
racket he held in his hand over the top of the sandbags.
Its explosion seemed to satisfy him for the moment, and passing his
powerful arms under the commandant's shoulders, while Dennis lifted his
legs, they walked carefully backwards down the slope again beneath a
whistling hail of bullets.