The Count's Ruse
Count Hertz von Peilfell, on finding himself alone under lock and
key, began to rave in genuine Teutonic style. He realized that he had
made a mess of things generally. His calculated plans had gone wrong
simply through a careless lack of caution, and now he was confronted
by the prospect of ending his career in front of a British
firing-squad.
The Count was a man who did not hesitate to take certain risks, but
invariably he weighed up his chances. Cool and calculating, he was
not one who would embark upon a project for the mere love of
adventure.
His record as an airman was well known to the R.A.F. The latter
admired his audacity, although they had no love for the means he
employed. He was typical of the brute force of Prussianism--his
mission as an airman was to destroy, ruthlessly and methodically,
and, when the odds were against him, his gaudily-painted biplane was
not to be seen aloft.
So when the time came that the Hun in the air was "having a sticky
time all round", Von Peilfell discreetly kept clear of the British
flying-men. He became an instructor, teaching German quirks to fly in
machines that, by nature of the shortage of certain raw material in
Hunland, could never hope to hold their own against the
magnificently-constructed and powerfully-engined craft bearing the
distinctive red, white, and blue concentric circles.
Then came rumours--rumours that were based upon solid facts--that the
British and French airmen were bent upon reprisals for wanton
night-bombing of undefended towns. Berlin was to be the supreme
objective of the numerous squadrons of huge bombing-'planes that were
being concentrated on the Western Front.
In desperation the German High Command called a conference, to which
the "star" airmen of the Imperial Air Service were summoned. The
return of the boomerang was a prospect that the apostles of kultur
not only failed to appreciate, but dreaded. At all costs the peril
must be staved off--either by counter-active measures or by
hypocritical appeals to neutrals, or, as a last resource, by applying
for an armistice.
It was Von Peilfell's chance. A popularity hunter, he knew that the
cessation of his aerial achievements was rapidly placing him on the
list of fallen idols. The pulse of the German populace--the
picture-post-card dealers--told him this. Where once a hundred
thousand photographs of the "Sky Hussars" were sold, now barely a
thousandth part of that number were disposed of.
To regain his vanished prestige, the Count suggested a scheme,
namely, that he should enter hostile territory disguised, and find
out where these mysterious battleplanes were concentrating, and also
note the details of their construction.
Von Peilfell had carefully counted the risk. He was a fluent speaker
of English. His accent was almost faultless. Several years spent in
England, including a period at a public school, had given him a
remarkable insight into the life of an Englishman, while in pre-war
days he had made the acquaintance of several British officers, with
the sole view of making good use of the knowledge thus obtained when
"Der Tag" dawned.
Having obtained official sanction, Von Peilfell proceeded to put his
plan into execution. A slightly-damaged EG biplane had fallen behind
the German lines, and its pilot had been captured. The machine was
repaired; the Count, dressed in the complete uniform of the captured
airman, set out just before daybreak to attempt his hazardous errand.
The German Head-quarters Staff knew exactly the aerodrome from whence
the captured EG machine had come. The Count, therefore, decided to
give that locality a wide berth, and, by assuming the rôle of a pilot
who had lost his way and had been compelled to descend owing to
engine failure, make his way to Le Tenetoir aerodrome, where, if his
information proved correct, he would find the giant aeroplanes making
ready for their flight to Berlin.
But when he alighted in view of the car carrying Lieutenant Derek
Daventry, R.A.F., he unwittingly committed two grave errors. He was
unaware that Derek, who was in the habit of piloting one of the
somewhat small number of EG's, immediately took a keen professional
interest in the apparently crippled machine. He was also ignorant of
the fact that Derek was his antagonist on the occasion when both
British and German pilots were unable to exchange a single shot; nor
did he know that when he raised his goggles and grinned at his rival,
that grimace had been indelibly printed upon Derek's memory. These
two instances led to the Count finding himself under lock and key in
a dug-out that served as a cell.
Like a caged bird Von Peilfell paced to and fro. He realized that his
case was a desperate one, and that his shrift would be short; a
drumhead court-martial at eight in the evening would be followed by
execution at dawn.
For nearly an hour he maintained his restless promenade, a prey to
dejection. The dug-out was barely twenty feet in length and seven in
breadth, so that there was little room for exercise. He tried to
formulate a plan of escape, but none seemed feasible. The place was
unlighted, save by the dim glimmer of a candle set in a stable
lantern. Ventilation was provided by means of a length of bent
stove-pipe passing between two of the massive girders supporting the
concreted and sand-bagged roof. The walls were heavily timbered, and,
upon examination, found to be backed by cement. A flight of steep and
narrow steps gave access to the open air, but at the top was a
massive oaken door. Incidentally, the Huns who had constructed the
dug-out, had removed the door of the Abbaye de Ste Marie, at Le
Tenetoir, to serve a similar purpose for this subterranean retreat.
The heat was stifling, for, outside, the autumnal air was damp and
humid. Von Peilfell began to feel oppressed by the weight of the
leather flying-coat. Mechanically he unbuckled the straps, and threw
the garment on the wooden bench that served as a seat and a bed. As
he did so his eye caught sight of a glint of scarlet. The lawful
owner of the flying-coat had been guilty of a breach of discipline by
investing in several red-silk handkerchiefs, whereas, by virtue of an
Air Ministry order, he should have provided himself with those of a
khaki colour.
The Count consulted his wristlet watch--a Nurnberg timepiece studded
with jewels. It was a gift from a number of his admirers when he was
at the zenith of his fame. He found himself wondering why his captors
had not taken it from him. The Germans invariably plundered their
captives. Perhaps these Englanders would not do so until he was dead.
He shivered at the thought. In another eight hours all would be over.
Then his thoughts went back to the square of scarlet silk. Even as he
gazed dully at the sheeny fabric an inspiration flashed across his
mind. He glanced at his watch once more. In another ten minutes or so
he would be visited either by the Sergeant or the Corporal of the
guard.
Grasping the handkerchief, he tore the silk into ragged strips. His
next step was to place the lantern on the edge of the plank-bed, so
that the strongest possible light fell on the floor. Then, holding
the torn handkerchief, he waited, every sense on the alert, ready to
act the moment he heard sounds of the visiting guard.
The remaining interval seemed interminable. Through the
securely-fastened door he could hear the howling of the wind. It
ought to have been a bright moonlight night, for, according to the
calendar, it was the time of full moon. He hoped that the shrieking,
moaning wind meant a cloud-laden sky and also a downpour of rain.
Selecting four of the strongest strips of silk, Von Peilfell knotted
them into a long loop. This he hid behind the bench, reflecting that
if his first plan went astray there was material at hand to enable
him to cheat the firing-squad. He found himself wondering which was
the least painful course--for he was a coward when it came to having
pain inflicted on himself--to face the muzzles of a dozen rifles, or
to end his own life by strangulation.
His reflections were interrupted by the tramp of heavily-shod feet.
The visiting N.C.O. was about to enter the dug-out.
Noiselessly the Count placed himself on the earthern floor, and laid
a bright-scarlet strip of silk round his throat. Then with
outstretched arms he waited, scarce daring to breathe.
A key grated in the door. The oak, swollen by the wet, refused at the
first attempt to yield to the Corporal's efforts. Von Peilfell heard
the man swear at the recalcitrant door. Then, with a groaning noise,
the door swung open on its rusty hinges. "Where the----" ejaculated
the Corporal; then, turning to the two men who accompanied him, he
shouted excitedly:
"The Boche 'as cut his bloomin' throat! Run, you blokes, for all
you're worth, and fetch the doctor."
The men obeyed promptly, while the Corporal, setting his lantern on
the floor, approached to examine the prostrate form of the prisoner.
It was an act of mere curiosity on his part. The N.C.O., who less
than twelve months ago was a meek and mild grocer in a quiet country
town, had seen plenty of ghastly sights during the last six months.
The mere sight of a dead Hun hardly troubled him. Without a tremor he
bent over the supposed corpse.
Judging that by this time the two men were a hundred yards or more
away, Von Peilfell took prompt action. Before the Corporal realized
that there was plenty of energy in the "dead" man, the Count drew up
his knee, and, launching out with his right foot, caught the luckless
N.C.O. a knock-out blow on the solar plexus.
Without a sound the Corporal collapsed upon the floor; while the Hun,
waiting only to place his victim's cap upon his head, ran stealthily
up the steps leading to the entrance to the dug-out.
Even as he ran the Count, in a typically Prussian manner, regretted
that he was wearing rubber-soled flying-boots. Iron-shod footgear, he
reflected, would have been more effective when he hacked at the
luckless Corporal. In order to carry out a test effectually, it was
necessary to do it brutally. That is the Hun method of thoroughness.
Through the open door of the dug-out and into the darkness Von
Peilfell ran. Dazzled, even by the comparatively-feeble light within,
he could hardly see his hand before his face in the rain-laden, inky
blackness without. He paused, fearful lest he should blunder blindly
into some obstacle, and rubbed his eyes vigorously with his knuckles.
Then, pulling his recently-acquired cap well down over his bullet
head, he settled down to a rapid walk.
It had been part of his training always to take stock of his
surroundings, and the knowledge thus obtained when a few hours
previously he had walked into Le Tenetoir aerodrome was now of
inestimable service. Carefully avoiding the sentry of the gate, and
crawling through a barbed-wire fence, he gained the open, devastated
country, for the time being a free man again. But between him and the
German lines lay fifty miles of ground firmly held by the victorious
Allies.