The Rewards of Valour
Von Dussel's head must have been as hard as his black heart, for he had
recovered his senses at the moment Wetherby died, and a mighty gust of
passion swept over Dennis Dashwood's soul.
"He can't be far off, and I'll find him if I die for it. Get you back to
cover, Hawke."
"Is it likely?" cried his companion, giving vent to his overcharged
feelings by a very ugly laugh, which changed into a howl of delight as a
bullet grazed the tip of his ear. "There he is, sir, hiding in that
there crater!--and he's some shot too--look out!"
Von Dussel, armed with a rifle--there were scores lying about littering
the ground--lodged his second bullet in the leather case that held
Dennis's field glasses, and, instantly dividing, the two ran a zigzag
course towards the crater as they saw his head dodging down.
It was not twenty yards away, but as they reached it, one on either
flank, they saw their prey scramble out of the opposite side and bolt
like a hare across the open ground beyond.
There were two shell-holes in the distance, for one of which he was
obviously making, but just as Hawke dropped to his knee and covered him
with his rifle, the German searchlights went out, leaving everything
pitch dark.
"That's done us, Hawke," cried Dennis bitterly, as the marksman of A
Company fired a random shot.
"'Arf a mo, sir. If I didn't wing 'im, I'll bet I've 'eaded 'im orf to
the right"; and he sent a brace of bullets pinging into the darkness.
"Lor lumme!" he chuckled the next moment, "there ain't no fool like an
Allemong. What did he want to fire back for?" And he wiped a great gout
of the chalky mud that had splashed up into his face as a Mauser bullet
struck the ground between them. "'E's in that 'ole to the right--that's
where we'll find 'im, sure as my name's 'Arry 'Awke. Come on, sir, don't
make a sound!"
With the switching off of the searchlights the enemy barrage had ceased,
and the deafening crash of the German shells was succeeded by a weird
silence.
The distant boom of the British firing seemed very far off and almost
insignificant in that sudden transition, and recharging his empty
revolver as he went forward, Dennis wormed himself cautiously to the
edge of the crump-hole, where he hoped to find his enemy.
It was still pouring in torrents as his chin came on a level with the
ragged rim, but the fierce hope died out of his heart.
The shell-hole was an old one, the rain had filled it almost to the
brim, and he ground his teeth, knowing that the spy had outwitted them
after all. He knew now that, in spite of Hawke's shots, the villain with
the charmed life must have chanced his arm and kept straight on between
the two shell-holes, and would even then be nearing the German position,
gloating over his success.
"I have missed the chance of my lifetime," he thought bitterly, when a
star shell burst directly above him, lighting up the rain pool like a
sheet of silver.
He had already picked himself up, and was clearing his throat to give
his unseen companion a hail, when a warning whistle came from the
opposite edge of the hole, and he saw Hawke's head and shoulders and a
pointing arm.
Among the splashing raindrops in the centre of the pool a white face
parted the water.
It was Von Dussel come up to breathe, and as the face sank out of sight
again, Dennis dived in after it, regardless of all consequences.
* * * * *
Major Dashwood and the Brigadier, stumbling forward along the German
communication, met three men carrying something between them, and the
third man had the fingers of his left hand twined in a tight clutch on
the collar of one of the bearers.
"What is all this, Dennis?" demanded the Brigadier, who had been an
indignant witness of that strange chase, without in the least
understanding what it meant.
"Little Wetherby dead, pater, and Von Dussel very much alive, and none
the worse for a cold bath," came the answer; "the court martial that
sits on his wife to-morrow will be able to kill two birds with one
stone."
"My wife!" exclaimed the spy. "Ottilie in your hands!"
"Yes, you brute, we've bagged the pair of you," said Dennis, with a grim
laugh; "it's been Von Dussel versus Dashwood for a long time, but the
Dashwoods have 'won out' in the end."
"I do not understand," faltered Von Dussel in a choking voice, and then
instantly recovering his true Prussian bluster: "I demand the right
treatment accorded to every officer who has the misfortune to be taken
prisoner. I have high connections in my country, and I am willing to
give you my parole."
"Parole for a cowardly murderer!" interrupted Dennis hotly. "You are
talking through the back of your neck, and you know it. Besides, apart
from all that, there is only one end for spies."
Then all the bluster went out of the cur, and he shivered like a man
with ague as they took him away under escort into a safe place.
In the rear of that formidable trench, which they had taken with such
gallantry, the Reedshires buried their dead. There were not many of
them, considering the fury of the fight, but the little row of white
wood crosses told of good comrades gone for ever, and had a grim
significance all its own.
Harry Hawke stood in the rain, leaning on his rifle before one of the
crosses, reading the simple inscription which the armourer-sergeant had
painted for him on the rough wood: "Jim Tiddler, 2/12th R.R.R., aged 21.
He was a good pal."
"Yus, he was a good pal," muttered Hawke, "one of the best, and so was
Mr. Wetherby. I'm glad old Tiddler's planted alongside 'im."
His wicked little eye ranged away to another chalk mound which had no
name upon it. It stood apart from the rest, and was close to that angle
of the German salient where Dennis had crouched on the night that all
the survivors would remember as long as they remembered anything. An
ugly red smear on the sandbags at the head of the mound had not been
washed away by the rain.
Two spies had been buried there, after a court martial held in a
dug-out, and one of them had been a woman, who had tried to brazen it
out in spite of the overwhelming evidence produced against them.
Threats, tears, piteous appeals for mercy, Ottilie's big black eyes, all
had proved in vain.
Then she had swallowed poison, but the tabloid she tried to pass to her
husband was intercepted, and the volley of ball cartridge that dealt
stern justice in the grey light of a wet afternoon had rid our lines of
a deadly and insidious peril that had cost us many lives.
"Shooting was too good for 'im, the dirty dog," said Private Hawke, as
he lit a woodbine and turned away.
And that was the requiem of the Von Dussels!
* * * * *
The weather brightened and the Great Push still rolled on. Day by day
the shell dumps grew to incredible size, and the British guns never
ceased their remorseless preparations. Names hitherto unknown to British
readers became household words to those at home, who, reading between
the lines, knew that at last our great and glorious armies were on the
high road to victory.
It was not to be yet, but it was coming, slowly but surely, and Mrs.
Dashwood, in the old home with the green lawn sloping to the water's
edge, wished a thousand times that she had been born a man that she
might have taken her share in the great achievement.
A month passed, and to the house in Regent's Park came a letter, written
on a folding-table by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle, and in
the writer's ears as he scrawled the lines was the tramp of the relief
filing past his dug-out door.
"Darling little Mater," wrote Dennis, "I'm going to give you a
surprise, unless the _Gazette's_ out already. You've heard me
speak of Private Hawke of ours, the crack shot of my company,
well, he and I have got three days' leave for a special reason.
The King is going to present Hawke with the V.C., which he has
deserved over and over again, at Buckingham Palace next
Thursday. Incidentally I might mention that I am also to
receive it on the same day. Also the Military Cross, likewise
the D.S.O. It makes me positively blush as I sit here, and I
really believe I'm the most fortunate beggar in the whole of
our crush, if not in the Army.
"Don't make any mistake, dear, it has been sheer luck on my
part. I've just happened to be there at the right moment. Some
beggars who have done far more than I have have got
nothing--but there it is.
"By the way, the French have been awfully decent to me.
Somehow, Joffre got to know about a little scrap I had when the
French attacked a German trench, and I helped to carry out the
commandant, who was badly wounded. They have given me their
Military Medal for that, and for inducing a German company to
surrender I've got the Croix de Guerre, their newest
decoration, you know; and I'll be hanged, but on top of it all
the Cross of the Legion of Honour has come along for a little
air raid into the Black Forest with a charming
_pilote-aviateur_ named Laval. It was really only a sort of joy
ride, but I managed to bring Laval back after he was hit. Thank
goodness, they tell me he's almost well again, and I must say I
like the French awfully.
"I never told you anything about that business, because I was
afraid you might think I was risking my neck unnecessarily, but
you know, dear, one's got to do it on a job like this. And oh,
I say, what a pig I am, gassing about myself before I tell you
that dear old Bob is coming over with us to receive the M.C.
It's an awfully pretty thing with silver-and-blue
ribbon--and--though mind you, mater, this is not to be put
about yet in case it doesn't come off--but there's a strong
rumour round here that the Governor's to have a division! Haig
was awfully delighted at the way he handled that business about
a month ago--I mean when we downed your old friend Van Drissel.
Hope you are not running any more refugees, eh, what? Now be at
the station to meet us, and if you like to kiss Hawke, you may.
He's saved my life more than once."
Mrs. Dashwood closed her eyes, and her lips moved in silent prayer. She
was thanking Heaven that her husband and sons were "making good" in the
hour of her country's triumph!
PRINTED BY
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE,
LONDON, E.C.4
F40.617
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