COMRADES IN A STRANGE LAND
"WHAT did you say, baron?" asked Major Karl Hoffer.
The supposed von Stopelfeld pulled himself together. Giving the
prisoner a swift glance that conveyed a warning, he turned to the
Austrian, thankfully remembering that the latter knew no English.
"I told the fellow to stand to attention," replied the "baron"
mendaciously. "_Himmel!_ he looks a scarecrow. Nevertheless, he
interests me. Do your men speak English?"
"No, baron."
"That is unfortunate. For my part I loathe having to make use of the
jargon. I would far rather that others cross-questioned the fellow.
Does he speak German?"
"He does, but he won't," replied the major. "A more obstinate mule I
never had to deal with."
"You know me, Slogger?" asked the spurious Hun.
"Yes," replied Farrar slowly, almost reluctantly. "You're Sylvester,
usually known as the Moke. But since you are wearing an enemy
uniform and are presumably a traitor I want no truck with you."
"Don't be an ass, Slogger!" said the Moke hoarsely, in order to keep
up the rôle of an arrogant Hun. "And stick to your defiant attitude.
I'll explain. Got away from Ruhleben, changed clothes with a Fritz
and assumed his name and rank. Quite by accident I came here, and it
may prove a fortunate occurrence. Hope so, for I'll do my level best
to get you away."
"Sorry I did you an injustice, old bird," said the sub. "I was
rattled, I expect. This life is hell.... Think you'll manage it all
right? Without landing yourself in the cart, I mean."
"I'll take my chance at that," replied Sylvester. "We'll sink or
swim together. Passive resistance is your cue. Now, I must switch
off and tackle the commandant."
"What do you think of the prisoner, baron?" inquired Major Hoffer.
"Not much," replied Sylvester brusquely. "He looks to have the
strength of a rat. He will be handy, however, with his experience,
and he'll be made to work. What a droll situation! Making poison gas
to be used against his own country. Oh, yes. Send two men with him.
I'll take all responsibility. Now for the register."
Borrowing a blue pencil the bogus Eitel von Stopelfeld went through
the list of prisoners' names, former occupations, and present
employment, "ticking off" the required number.
"You will require a special train for that crowd, baron," observed
Major Hoffer. "After all, would it not be better to send the
Englishman with the others?
"Perhaps.... No; I think we will keep to our original plan. I have
reasons. That is all, major. It will indeed be a pleasure for me to
recommend you to my illustrious master, the German Emperor; so do
not be surprised if in due course you receive l'ordre pour le
Mérite. You deserve it, upon my word."
"I have already sent the prisoner on foot," explained the Austrian
commandant. "The escort will arrive at Judenburg at the same time as
your car, so there is no hurry. A bottle of wine?"
The Moke declined.
"My head aches already," he protested. "Perhaps it is the reek of
the sulphur fumes. Let me see; there is a train for Salzburg at
three?"
"That is so, baron. It arrives at Salzburg at seven, which means
that you will be in Munich by nine."
At Judenburg station Sylvester found his chum standing between two
heavily built, sullen-featured Magyars, with rifles and fixed
bayonets, while a small crowd composed of old men, women, and
children gazed in open-mouthed interest at the prisoner and his
guards.
Outwardly ignoring the sub's presence Sylvester swaggered into the
ticket-office and ordered the woman in charge to issue a pass for an
officer and three men to Salzburg.
"Do not answer any questions from any one except with my
permission," cautioned the supposititious von Stopelfeld, addressing
the Hungarian soldiers.
"Your will is our command, Excellency," replied one of the men in
halting German.
Upon the arrival of the train the bogus baron boarded a first-class
carriage, while Farrar and his escort were placed in a fourth-class
compartment. The Moke had no more intention of going even as far as
Salzburg than he had of making for the North Pole. He knew that the
escort had no notion of their present destination, and holding the
railway pass he could easily browbeat the train officials. He also
knew that by not changing at a certain junction he would be carried
in the opposite direction, through Klagenfurt and Laibach to
Trieste. His plan was to find a pretext for dismissing the two
soldiers, obtain a suitable disguise for his chum, and for the pair
to slip across the Italian frontier. In any case he had good reasons
for not going as far as Trieste.
The journey was a tedious one. A constant stream of troop trains
bound for the Piave front had the effect of holding up the ordinary
traffic almost hourly, and it was dusk before the fugitives reached
a little out-of-the-way village in Carniola, and about fifty miles
from the head of the Adriatic.
Under the pretext that there was no _wagon à lit_ attached to the
train, and roundly abusing the Austrian railway authorities for
their neglect to provide for the comfort of German officers, the
Moke ordered the prisoner and escort out of the carriage, redoubling
his torrent of invective when he learnt that the village was two
miles from the station.
"You will remain here with your prisoner," he ordered, pointing to
an isolated farmhouse. "There will be accommodation for you in a
stable, and with a strong lock on the door the prisoner will be
safe."
"Very good, Excellency," replied the senior soldier.
With the last of the fading daylight glinting dully upon the fixed
bayonets the men marched their prisoner towards the house. As they
approached there was the piercing shriek of a woman's voice, while
almost at the same moment the figure of a man, bending low, darted
from the side of the building and fled across the adjoining fields.
"Now what's the trouble?" soliloquised the Moke.
He was not long left in doubt, for a grey-haired woman appeared,
wringing her hands and begging the officer to have mercy.
Quickly Sylvester grasped the situation. The man he had seen
escaping was a deserter, the woman his mother. Under the impression
that the soldiers were coming to arrest her son the woman was
frantic, knowing full well the strict penalties for harbouring a
deserter and the far more severe punishment for the fugitive, should
he be caught.
With reluctantly assumed harshness the Moke questioned the mother at
great length, purposely giving the deserter time to get well away.
Her son's uniform and equipment, he discovered, were hidden under
the hearth-stone.
"Bring them here," ordered the supposed officer. "Is there no one
else living here?"
"Only my grandson, and he is but nine years old," replied the woman.
"He is asleep."
"Good enough," decided the Moke. "This is a bit of luck, but hanged
if I want to get the old dame into trouble. If I lock her up her
grandson will release her in the morning; but how about Slogger's
escort?"
Ordering the deserter's mother into a room Sylvester locked the
door, leaving the key in the lock. Then, making use of the late
Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld's official correspondence form, he wrote
a request to the Provost-Marshal of Laibach, asking him to keep the
bearers of the letter under arrest until he, Major von Stopelfeld,
appeared to lay a charge against them of conduct prejudicial to
military interests.
"Can either of you read?" demanded the supposed officer, as he
rejoined the escort waiting without.
"No, Excellency."
"Thick-headed louts!" grumbled the Moke. "See to what trouble you
have put me. Lock the prisoner in yonder barn, and show this letter
to the station-master. He will direct you further. Carry out his
instructions and deliver this letter to the person to whom it is
addressed and none other. You understand?"
"Yes, Excellency."
"Then hasten; you ought to return here by midnight."
The two soldiers, strangers in a strange district, saluted and
hurried away, glad to be clear of the obnoxious influence of the Hun
who was temporarily their commanding officer.
The Moke waited until he was fairly certain that the coast was
clear; then he unlocked the door of his chum's place of
incarceration.
"How about a good tuck-in, Slogger?" he asked briskly.
"Right-o, Moke!" was the cheery reply, recalling long-past tuck-shop
days in peaceful England.
A search in the farmhouse larder provided a rye loaf, a piece of
freshly made cheese, and a portion of a meat-pie. This, with a
hastily prepared salad and a bottle of wine, furnished a substantial
repast. Both men were hungry, Farrar especially, and hardly a word
was exchanged until the sub announced that he was "properly
whacked," and "down to Plimsoll line."
"Now change," suggested the Moke, indicating the deserter's uniform.
"For the next few hours you are my soldier servant. We'll make for
the marshes east of Livenza. According to well-authenticated reports
I hear that there are large numbers of Austrian deserters who lurk
there and live on the fish that they catch and the food they steal
from the Italian peasantry. The Austrians have not sufficient
military police to stop the desertions; in fact, several of the
policemen desert themselves. If we are stopped before we get there
I'll have to spin a plausible yarn."
"That's all very well," objected the sub as he struggled into an
ill-fitting tunic; "but the nearer we get to the lines the greater
risk we run of being closely examined. I can quite understand your
being able to ape the blustering Hun in the interior of the Austrian
Empire, but there are numerous German troops on the Italian front,
and they are dead nuts on detecting spies. I don't fancy dangling at
the end of a rope."
"Nor do I," admitted Sylvester, perhaps for the first time realising
the extreme penalty that he had been incurring by his Kopenick
stunt. "Can you suggest anything better? That's the main point."
"The sea," replied Farrar. "That's our trump card. Provided we
strike the coast at a reasonable distance from Trieste, Fiume, or
Pola there's not much risk of being snapped up by the Austrian
patrol boats. Our monitors and the Italian destroyers are top-dog in
the Adriatic, you'll find."
"But we can't swim across to Italy," objected the Moke. "Even
Leander wouldn't have taken on that contract--not for a dozen
Heros."
"There's bound to be a fishing-boat we can collar," continued the
now optimistic sub. "You pilot me to the coast, Moke, and I'll pilot
you across the ditch."
"All right," agreed Sylvester. "Let's make a move."
Just as they were about to leave the farmhouse Sylvester suddenly
had an idea. He went upstairs and knocked on the door of the room in
which the old woman was under lock and key.
"I have decided not to report your son's desertion, or your
complicity," he announced. "For reasons best known to myself I have
formed this decision. If you mention a word of the matter to any one
the consequences will be extremely serious to all parties concerned.
You will therefore deny all knowledge of any person or persons
visiting this house to-night."
With copious blessings and thanks the Austrian mother faithfully
promised to carry out Herr Offizier's instructions, and the Moke
departed with the firm conviction that he had covered his tracks in
this direction. By the time Farrar's late escort had been released
and had told their story, he reflected, the men would be so
thoroughly bewildered that it was a question whether they would
remember where they had been, much less recognise the house, while
they knew nothing of the deserter's flight.
Satisfied on that score Sylvester rejoined his companion and,
steering a course by the stars, walked briskly towards the still
distant coast, the two taking turns at carrying the Baron's
portmanteau. Knowing the valuable nature of its contents the Moke
was reluctant to abandon the trophy.
Avoiding the villages and keeping at a distance from the indifferent
roads the fugitives "carried on" for the best part of two days,
until just as the sun was on the point of setting they reached the
summit of a long, rugged range of hills. Beyond they could see what
appeared to be a bank of mist, tinted crimson in the declining rays.
To the Moke it was a fog bank and nothing else; but to the sub the
sight meant something far different.
"Thalassa!" he exclaimed joyously.