Under the German Eagle
Dennis picked himself up with a sob of bitter disappointment, as he
realised that the dead mare, which had carried him for a brief moment
among his own people, had now landed him once more a good mile within
the enemy's lines.
His first act was to bury the sergeant's sword in the earth; his next to
reload his Webley revolver; and then, spying a gap in the rim of the
crater above him, he clambered up, to find himself on the floor of a
German trench!
Not twenty yards away men were busy with pick and shovel, making good
the effect of the shell explosion on their parapet; and on the impulse
of the moment he dived unseen into the mouth of a dug-out immediately in
front of him.
It was empty, but a brazier was burning under a cooking-pot, and on one
side of the wall of the unspeakably filthy place hung a row of uniforms.
"I shall never get out of it in these togs," he thought, looking
ruefully at his own tattered rags; and with no very fixed idea of what
to do or how to do it, he put on the first tunic he found, drew a pair
of baggy slops over his own gaiters and breeches, and crammed a forage
cap, with a red band and cockade, on to his head.
Something bulky in the pocket of the tunic attracted his attention. It
was a book, half filled with German shorthand notes, and on the fly-leaf
was inscribed the name--"Carl Heft, 307th Reserve Battalion."
Carl Heft was evidently a stenographer, and to the lad's horror he heard
a harsh voice calling out the name.
"Great Scott! What have I done now?" he thought. And as a
black-whiskered sergeant loomed in the doorway of the dug-out, he
clicked his heels together in the approved German fashion, and stood
stolidly to attention.
"What are you skulking here for, Heft?" demanded the sergeant angrily.
"Come along, pig's head--the general wants you!"
Dennis stepped briskly forward without a word, fastening the last button
on the soiled tunic as he reached the open air.
"They're either in a high state of nerves, or I must be something like
the real Carl Heft," he thought. "Not very flattering to one's vanity,
but it might be useful, who knows? What on earth is going to happen now?
I'm perfectly certain to give the show away this time."
No one paid any attention to him as he passed the busy groups of men in
the firing bays, for everyone was working feverishly to repair the
damage of the British shells; and after some twists and turns, the
sergeant vanished into a covered communication at the entrance to which
was planted a pennant, whose horizontal stripes of black, red and white
denoted the headquarters of a division.
Dennis could not restrain a smile of huge delight, for the flag told
him that we must have penetrated a considerable distance into the enemy
lines.
The passage ended abruptly in a luxurious bomb-proof shelter, where
electric light was burning. There was a carpet on the floor marked with
the white chalk prints of many boot soles, and several comfortable
arm-chairs told a story of loot. There were pictures on the walls, and
various doorways indicated the existence of quite a suite of apartments.
The place was full of the blue haze of cigar-smoke, and there were three
officers standing there, all talking at once.
As Dennis clicked his heels again and saluted with his back to the
entrance, his heart beating sixteen to the dozen, one of the officers
turned towards him and scowled sourly.
"Zo! You have condescended to come at last, miserable hound!" he
snarled--a bald-headed man with a general's shoulder-straps.
"Take this message on to the machine in duplicate." And he pointed to a
corner of the dug-out, where there was a telephone board and a stool;
and on a Louis XV. table, with beautiful brass mountings, stood a
typewriter.
Dennis seated himself with alacrity, thanking his stars that he had
learned typewriting in an odd moment, without any distinct idea of it
ever being any good to him.
And somehow at that moment there flashed through his mind the
recollection of Ottilie von Dussel and the carbon in the pay-book, which
had enabled her to escape with her notes.
"Why not a third copy?" he thought. "If I ever get back to H.Q., who
knows what use it might not be to us?"
Opening the box beside the machine, he quickly inserted two carbons and
three sheets of typing paper; and without a second glance at him the
general began to dictate:
"'To Colonel Schlutz, commanding the 307th Bavarian
Battalion.--Immediately upon receipt of this order you are to entrain
your men with the 89th Ersatz Battalion for transportation to Peronne.
Five Prussian regiments will relieve you here to-night, to fill up the
gap in our third line of defence. You are to be as sparing as possible
of ammunition, both for the rifles and the machine-guns, as we are
warned that the supply may be interrupted. You will use the bayonet on
every opportunity.' Have you done?"
"Yes, your excellency," replied "Carl Heft."
"Then I will sign the first copy." And he unscrewed a fountain-pen as he
spoke.
Handing him the uppermost sheet, Dennis seized the opportunity to fold
up the end one and slip it into his pocket; and he had just succeeded
when the general added the last scrawl to his indecipherable signature.
"Place this in an envelope," he said, "and deliver it yourself into the
hands of the Oberst" (colonel).
"And the second copy, your excellency?" volunteered the supposed Heft.
"Place it upon the file as usual, and be off!"
The three men resumed their excited conversation, to which he would
dearly have loved to listen.
But he filed the sheet, made an elaborate salute, and joined the
sergeant, who was waiting in the communication.
"Where are we going?" whispered the man, when they were out of earshot.
"To Peronne," replied Dennis.
"Good! I am not sorry!" grunted the sergeant. "I have had enough of
these cursed Englanders! Let the Prussians come and see how they like
it. It was their war."
All doubt as to how he would find the battalion to which he was supposed
to belong was resolved by the sergeant turning sharply to the right, and
already Dennis began to feel a little easier in his mind.
Obviously a man employed on the headquarters staff would to some extent
lose touch with his comrades; and as the sergeant had not discovered
him, he might very possibly pass unrecognised--unless, of course, the
real Carl Heft turned up!
Not that he was happy by any manner of means, for he did not see his way
an inch beyond the broad back of the man he was following; and before he
could formulate any plan, the sergeant saluted a stout officer with the
words: "An order from his excellency, Herr Colonel!"
The stout man snatched the paper, read it, and looked up at the sky,
which was cloudy and lowering.
"Very well," he said gravely. "Let the men fall in by companies at
once." And he retired into his own dug-out, which was a few paces away,
to secure some of his personal belongings.
With incredible quickness the word was passed along the trench, and
Dennis found himself shouldering up in a jostling line, staring at the
sandbags in front of him, while sergeants shouted as a low murmur rolled
along the trench. If only he could make one dash over those sandbags he
might be free, but the thing was impossible; and, picking up a rifle, he
resumed his place, wondering what Bob and Wetherby and the other fellows
would say if he lived to tell them of this extraordinary adventure.
A tall captain with a foxy face and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses forced
his way along the front of the line, and the soldier on Dennis's left
had the misfortune to leave his rifle-butt sticking out in advance of
his feet.
The captain tripped over it, ripped out an oath, and confronted the man.
"Clumsy hound!" he hissed, dealing him a sounding box on the ears. "Let
that teach you to be careful in the future." And he deliberately spat
three times in the offender's face.
Dennis's blood boiled at the coarse indignity, but the man stood rigid
without the slightest sign of resentment; and when the beast had passed,
he quietly wiped his face with his chalk-stained sleeve.
A sharp command came down the line, everyone turned to his right, and
away they shuffled--that grey-green battalion, with Dennis in the middle
of them!
For a long distance they stumbled mechanically through trenches and a
labyrinth of mystifying communications, until the head of the column
reached a light railway, where a train of open trucks was waiting.
The sound of escaping steam mingled with the perpetual thunder of guns,
and the train seemed to stretch away in never-ending perspective along a
chalk cutting.
Hoping against hope to the last minute that something would happen,
almost praying in his heart that one of those whistling shells might
fall in their midst and, tearing up the lines, so stop their going, he
realised how lonely one can be even in the midst of a crowd.
Already the leading companies were entraining, and a hum of voices rose
as the non-commissioned officers drove the men like sheep, with their
rifles held crosswise, now and then pounding some bungler in the ribs
with the butt end.
Even if he had been able to slip aside, he knew that to stay in that
place was to court certain discovery; and now no alternative was left
him, as half a dozen shouting sergeants cut off his retreat, and with a
wildly beating heart Dennis Dashwood climbed up into the nearest truck
with a herd of unwashed, unshaven enemies, packed tightly almost to
suffocation.
Then he grasped the side of the wagon as a great jolt ran along the
train from end to end, and the couplings tightened.
The 307th Reserve Battalion was on its way to fight the French, and
Dennis was going with them!