{Illustration: cover & spine}
THE FRITZ STRAFERS
{Illustration:
"DEFIANTLY DISPLAYED THE EMBLEM OF FREEDOM." [_p. 284_}
THE FRITZ STRAFERS
A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
AUTHOR OF
"BILLY BARCROFT, R.N.A.S.," "A WATCHDOG OF THE NORTH SEA"
"A SUB OF THE R.N.R."
ETC. ETC.
LONDON
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO. LTD.
OLD BAILEY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. "COMING EVENTS...". . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
II. THE DANGER SIGNAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
III. THE OBER-LEUTNANT'S JAUNT . . . . . . . . . 34
IV. FOILED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
V. THE PURSUIT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
VI. VON LORINGHOVEN LEARNS NEWS . . . . . . . . 62
VII. BRUNO'S ESCAPADE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
VIII. TORPEDOED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
IX. THE SKIPPER OF THE "GUIDING STAR" . . . . . 95
X. THE BLIMP TO THE RESCUE . . . . . . . . . . 106
XI. THE STRAFING OF U 254 . . . . . . . . . . . 118
XII. PRISONERS OF WAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
XIII. THE END OF THE "TANTALUS" . . . . . . . . . 135
XIV. A CHANCE SHOT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
XV. LAID BY THE HEELS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
XVI. THE STRUGGLE IN THE LONELY COTTAGE . . . . 168
XVII. THE BURNING MUNITION SHIP . . . . . . . . . 176
XVIII. THE FUGITIVE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
XIX. BILLY'S FLYING-BOAT . . . . . . . . . . . 201
XX. RAMMED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210
XXI. THE LAST VOYAGE OF S.S. "ANDROMEDA" . . . . 221
XXII. FARRAR'S FIRST BAG . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
XVIII. THE STORM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246
XXIV. THE SINKING TRANSPORT . . . . . . . . . . . 254
XXV. HOLCOMBE'S SURPRISE . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
XXVI. A FIGHT TO A FINISH . . . . . . . . . . . . 276
XXVII. IN THE HANDS OF THE HUNS . . . . . . . . . 291
XXVIII. "A SECOND KOPENICK HOAX" . . . . . . . . . 304
XXIX. A SURPRISE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313
XXX. COMRADES IN A STRANGE LAND . . . . . . . . 326
XXXI. A DASH FOR FREEDOM . . . . . . . . . . . . 337
XXXII. TOUCH AND GO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352
XXXIII. THE GREAT STRAFE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 366
XXXIV. AND LAST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 376
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"DEFIANTLY DISPLAYED THE EMBLEM OF
FREEDOM" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
"A COUPLE OF BLUEJACKETS BURST
THROUGH THE UNDERGROWTH" . . . . . . . . . . . 52
"SEIZING FARRAR, BEGAN TO HAUL HIM OUT OF THE
COTTAGE, DESPITE A STRENUOUS RESISTANCE" . . . 172
"'GOOD HEAVENS! IT'S OLD SLOGGER!'" . . . . . . . 324
THE FRITZ STRAFERS
CHAPTER I
"COMING EVENTS..."
"QUITE right for once, Moke. Young brothers are unmitigated
nuisances," declared Hugh Holcombe. "If I hadn't been such a silly
owl to let my young brother try his luck with my motor-bike, I
wouldn't be sitting here in this muggy carriage. Any sign of Slogger
yet?"
The youth addressed as Moke thrust his bulky head and shoulders out
of the open window and made a deliberate survey of the road that ran
steadily down the hillside until it merged into the station yard of
the little town of Lynbury.
It was a case of somewhat regrettable inadvertence when fifteen
years previously Sylvester's parents had had him christened in the
name of Anthony Alexander; for when, in due course, the lad entered
Claverdon College the fellows, the moment they saw his initials
painted boldly upon his trunk and tuck-box, dubbed him "Moke," and
the name stuck like tar.
He did not resent it, which showed tact. In fact, he rather rejoiced
in the nickname. It harmonised with his slow, plodding, deliberate
ways. _Imprimis_, he was a swot; modern languages were his forte,
although he was no mean classical scholar for his age. Anything of a
mechanical nature failed to interest him. He knew a motor-bike when
he saw one, but that was all. Ask him "how it worked"--a question to
which his companion would reply by a fusillade of highly technical
explanations--and he was "bowled middle stump."
Hugh Holcombe was cast in a different mould. Except in point of age
there was little in common between the two lads. Holcombe was tall
for his age, and possessed the appearance of a budding athlete.
Although in mufti--he was spending the last week of the Christmas
vacation with an uncle at Southsea before rejoining Osborne
College--there was a certain self-assurance that the natural outcome
of a training that inspires manliness, self-reliance, and courage
from the first moment that an embryo Nelson sets foot in the cradle
of the Royal Navy.
And the still absent Slogger----?
Slogger must wait until he enters this narrative. Sufficient to say
that the three lads--as yet mere strands in the vast fabric of
Empire--were to make their mark in the titanic struggle that was to
convulse the whole world, each working in a different manner to one
and the same just purpose.
It was in those halcyon, far-off days preceding the fateful 4th day
of August 1914. To be more precise, it was January of the preceding
year. Little did hundreds, nay thousands, of doting parents then
imagine that on land and sea, in the air and in the waters under the
earth, would their sons risk, and often give their young lives, for
King, Country, and Freedom's Cause.
"Not the suspicion of a sign," replied Sylvester to his companion's
inquiry. "He'll miss the train if he doesn't buck up. Here's the
guard toddling along the platform."
"Hope that silly cuckoo of a Slogger won't miss it!" exclaimed
Holcombe, resting his hands on the Moke's back and peering through
the narrow space betwixt the latter's broad shoulders and the top of
the carriage window. "He promised he'd bring an accumulator along
with him, and I want to have some fun with the beastly thing during
the next few days."
It was nearly eight o'clock in the morning. The sun was on the point
of rising, while over the town the retreating shadow of night still
contended with the grey dawn of another day. Passengers in twos and
threes, most of them carrying luggage, were hurrying towards the
station in the knowledge that the 8 a.m., although it was usually
later in starting, sometimes did steam out at five minutes to the
hour. Still no signs of Slogger.
"Dash it all, the train's starting!" exclaimed the Moke, as a cloud
of white vapour drifted from under the carriages.
"Not much," corrected Holcombe. "It's only the steam from the
heating apparatus. The guard isn't ready yet."
He indicated the venerable official on whom under Providence
depended the safety and welfare of such of His Majesty's lieges who
adventured themselves upon the Lynbury and Marshton Branch Line.
Usually the guard would walk along the platform, exchanging scraps
of conversation with his patrons, most of whom he knew by name, but
on this occasion he was seated on a large wicker hamper and was
studiously and laboriously writing in a note-book.
Curiosity was one of the Moke's failings, in that he was unable to
restrain an outward display of a desire for knowledge. The mere fact
that the guard was seated within four yards of the carriage-window
and yet failed to exchange the usual pleasantries with the hefty
youth wearing the Claverdon College cap rather puzzled him.
"Hullo, guard!"
At this greeting the official raised his eyes, looked at Sylvester
for a brief instant and resumed his absorbing task. It was too much
for the Moke's curiosity.
"Hullo, guard!" he repeated. "You look busy."
It was just what the guard was waiting for. Slowly and deliberately
he rose and walked up to the carriage window.
"I am, young gentleman," he replied. "I'm looking up the names of
those passengers who remembered me last Christmas."
Holcombe chuckled audibly. His companion, striving to hide his
confusion, fumbled in his pocket.
"Sorry, guard----" he began.
"Quite all right, sir," interposed the guard, waving aside the
proffered sixpence. "I take the will for the deed. When you come to
Lynbury as a member of the Diplomatic Corpse (the guard knew Moke's
ambitions, although his rendering of the title of that branch of the
Civil Service was a trifle gruesome and wide of the mark), an' you,
young gentleman (indicating Holcombe), as a full-blown captain, then
perhaps, if I'm still here to see you, I'll drink your health in a
bottle of Kentish-brewed ale--best in the world, bar none."
He pulled out and consulted a large silver watch.
"Time we're off, young gents," he announced, as the clanging of the
station bell resounded along the now almost deserted platform.
"Slogger's missed it," declared Holcombe as the whistle blew.
With a jerk the little train started on its five-mile journey.
Already the last carriage was half way down the platform when a loud
shout of "Stand-back, sir!" attracted the two lads' attention.
The next instant the door was thrown open, and with an easy movement
the missing Slogger swung himself into the compartment and waved a
friendly salute to the baffled porter who had vainly attempted to
detain him.
"By Jove, Slogger!" exclaimed Hoke, "you've cut it fine. Incurring
penalties, too, under the company's bye-laws."
"P'r'aps," rejoined the unruffled arrival. "What's more to the
point, I've caught the train--see? Oh, by the by, Holcombe, here's
that blessed accumulator I promised you. 'Fraid I've spilt some of
the acid, but that can't be helped. Had to shove it in my pocket
when I sprinted."
Holcombe took the proffered gift and, reluctantly sacrificing an
advertisement paper from a recently purchased motor-journal,
carefully wiped off the residue of the spilt acid, while Slogger,
perfunctorily turning the lining of his pocket inside out and
shaking it against the sill of the window, dismissed from his mind
the possibilities of the corrosive action on his clothes.
Nigel Farrar, otherwise Slogger, was a tall, broad-shouldered youth
of sixteen. His _nom-de-guerre_ was singularly appropriate, as
indeed most nicknames bestowed by one's chums in a public school
usually are. He won it on the cricket field; upheld it in every
sport and game in which he took part. His remark to the Moke was
characteristic of his thoroughly practical manner. To attain a
desired end he would, even at his present age, "force his way
through a hedge of hide-bound regulations." It was on this account,
and to a certain extent because he did not shine at studious work,
that he did not wear a prefect's badge on his cap, although by far
and away the most athletic youth at Claverdon.
Farrar and Holcombe were similar in more than one respect. Both were
physically and morally strong; both were deeply interested in things
mechanical and practical. They were typical examples of the modern
boy. Even at an early age fairy tales would have "bored them stiff."
Show them an exact model of an intricate piece of machinery they
would probably pronounce it to be ripping, and almost in the same
breath put forth sound theories as to how the mechanism actuated.
But Farrar was rather inclined to be what is popularly described as
"slap-dash." With him everything had to be done in a violent hurry,
while Holcombe was slow and precise in his movements, although far
in advance of the painstaking Moke, who stood an excellent chance of
passing the "Civil Service Higher" provided he could speed up
sufficiently to get his examination questions answered within the
specified time limit.
As the train rattled and jolted on its journey the three travellers
fell to discussing the still remote summer holidays.
"I'm off to Germany," announced the Moke. "The governor takes me
every year, you know."
"You'll be nabbed one of these fine days, my festive, and clapped
into a German prison," declared the naval cadet with the air of a
man who enjoys the confidence of High Officialdom and is actually in
the know.
"What for?" inquired Sylvester. "I don't run up against regulations
every time I get the chance, either here or abroad," he added. "I'm
not like Slogger, you know."
"Thanks for small mercies," rejoined Farrar. "As a matter of fact,
Holcombe, my governor talks of taking the yacht to the Baltic. How
about it? Like to come along too. Spiffing rag we can have."
"Thanks, no," replied Holcombe ungraciously. "When war with Germany
breaks out I want to have a look in. It's on the cards that the
Dartmouth cadets will be embarked for duty with the fleet if there's
a scrap, and by that time I hope I'll have passed through Osborne."
"There'll be no war with Germany," declared the Moke with a firm
conviction based upon his father's views upon the subject. "Germany
is our very best friend at the present day."
"A good many fools think that," said Holcombe bluntly. "Those are
the fellows who would barter our naval supremacy for the sake of a
paltry six or eight millions a year."
"You talk as if you were a millionaire yourself," remarked
Sylvester, with thinly veiled sarcasm. "Of course the navy's your
firm that is to be. You're only a cadet yet, Holcombe, an' don't you
forget it. What's the use of an expensive navy when disputes can be
settled by arbitration?"
"Arbitration!" snorted Slogger. "What's the use of arbitration? It's
all right for little nations when the big ones are on the spot to
keep order. I guess Holcombe's right. There'll be a most unholy
scrap some day between England and Germany, and we'll all have to
chip in--every man-jack of us."
"Think so?" inquired Holcombe with professional jealousy. "The
navy'll manage the business properly, and you civilian chaps can
stop at home and thank your lucky stars there is a navy."
"Of course we'll return grateful thanks," agreed Farrar; "but all
the same, the navy won't be able to see the business through without
the assistance of the Naval Reserve and all that jolly crowd, you
know. So it's just possible, my dear Holcombe, that you and I may be
in the same scrap. Before that comes off I want to work in that trip
to the Baltic this summer, so don't induce the Government to declare
war just at present, will you, old sport?"
Half seriously, half in jest, the trio continued the discussion,
unconscious of the fact that the subject was the shadow cast by
coming events.