Outed
Whistles blew shrilly amid the roar of battle. Several of the
Tank-Commanders, hearing and understanding the import of the order,
brought their ponderous craft to a standstill. Others began to wheel
in order to give a wide berth to the highly-dangerous locality. Fifty
yards ahead, and separated from them only by three almost flattened
trenches, was an objective which, if gained, would be the master-key
to this phase of the important operations, and yet with success in
sight the nerve-racking attempt bid fair to end in failure.
At this critical juncture Derek, to the surprise of the crew of the
abandoned tank, suddenly sprang upon the parados. In a couple of
strides he overtook the Major, and, throwing his arms round the
latter's neck and planting one knee in the small of his back, bore
him backwards to the earth. Then, not content with this comparatively
mild form of attack, Derek pinioned the officer's wrists by means of
the lanyard of his whistle. He was dragging his captive into the
trench when a Tank-Commander intervened.
"What on earth are you doing?" he demanded.
"It's all right," replied Derek reassuringly. "The fellow's a Boche.
I know him. Get the tanks to carry on."
Fortunately the officer grasped the situation and had the retirement
order annulled. The mammoth machines resumed their forward progress,
blazing away with their quick-firers and machine-guns, until Derek
found himself well in the rear in the company of a handful of men and
Count Hertz von Peilfell.
It was a freak of fortune on the battle-field that had played into
Lieutenant Daventry's hand. The Count, having succeeded in escaping
from the Le Tenetoir aerodrome, had passed through many adventures
before he regained the German lines. Then, in a desperate bid to
regain prestige, he had volunteered again to act as a spy. Knowing
that there were many changes in the personnel of the Tank Corps, he
determined to assume the rôle and uniform of a major, and await an
opportunity to thwart the victorious advance of the ponderous
Behemoths.
Succeeding the tanks came swarms of infantry, of whom, but for the
assistance of the mobile armoured forts, the Boche machine-gunners
would have taken heavy toll. As it was they were able to consolidate
the position already taken with but slight losses in proportion to
the numbers engaged. There were engineers, busily engaged in laying
telephone wires, while numerous stretcher-bearers and ambulance-men
were strenuously working to remove the wounded from the
stubbornly-contested field. Meantime Fritz was shelling the lost
ground to the best of his ability, the guns taking impartial toll of
khaki and field-grey. Having no further use for cannon-fodder that
had fallen into the hands of the victorious Allies, the Boche
artillerymen seemed to show not the slightest compunction at
slaughtering their comrades.
A stretcher-party halted within a few yards of Derek's prisoner. The
Corporal in charge pushed back his steel helmet and mopped his face.
"Set to, chums!" he exclaimed. "Here's another of 'em."
The bearers had been hard at work for five hours and under shell-fire
the whole time. The straps of their equipment were cutting into their
shoulders; their boots were galling their feet owing to the incessant
pull of the tenacious mud. Men of low category, and deemed unfit to
handle a rifle, they were sharing the hardships and dangers of their
comrades in the firing-line, without being able to experience the
thrill of "going over the top" shoulder to shoulder behind a line of
glittering bayonets. Yet their work was of a noble and enduring
nature, often performed under highly-dangerous conditions, without an
opportunity of striking a blow in self-defence.
"Stretcher here!" exclaimed Derek. "Get this man back. I'll come with
you."
The Corporal betrayed no outward sign of surprise at finding a
supposed British major insensible and with his hands lashed behind
his back. At Derek's suggestion the lanyard was unlashed and Von
Peilfell's hands bound to his sides. Then, lifted on a stretcher, the
spy was carried off.
It was a hazardous, uninspiring journey. The heat of the advance
over, the grim aftermath of battle lay revealed in all its stark,
hideous brutality. It was yet early morning. Mist still hung over the
marshy ground. As far as the eye could reach the soil was cut up with
the distinctive tractor-marks of the tanks. Barbed wire, crushed
deeply into the earth wherever a tank had passed, was still in
evidence, snake-like coils clinging tenaciously to posts still rising
slantwise from the stiff clay. And sometimes half buried, sometimes
still held up by the horrible barbs were khaki and field-grey
uniforms still covering what were but a few short hours ago human
beings capable of reasoning. Derelict tanks, some still glowing red
and emitting clouds of smoke, dotted the landscape, cheek by jowl
with crashed aeroplanes. Shell-craters, old and new, abounded, while
already light railways were being laid with a rapidity that is hardly
conceivable. The while there were constant streams of motor traffic
to and fro; heavy guns being brought up to prepare for a fresh
advance. Everywhere there were abundant indications that this was
"some" advance and that the ground gained was to be held.
Mile after mile Derek trudged with his captive. He was determined
that on this occasion the airman-spy should not escape. Von Peilfell
was too dangerous a man to be allowed to get away a second time.
Several times Derek glanced at the man on the stretcher. Von Peilfell
was lying on his right side, his face almost hidden against the
canvas. His manacled hands were resting on the edge of the stretcher.
His features, or rather that portion of them visible, were sallow and
wore a bored, apathetic expression. He seemed quite unconcerned at
his position, not even showing the faintest trepidation when shells
burst within a hundred yards of him or bullets kicked up little
cascades of mud almost at the feet of the stretcher-bearers.
"Guess he knows the game's up this time," thought Derek. "Poor devil!
Pity he hadn't been brought down in fair fight."
Then, recollecting that he had previously given expression to similar
sentiments, Daventry found himself wondering whether Von Peilfell was
under the special protection of fate, and whether he would again
cheat the firing-squad.
Just then another stretcher, moving on a converging route, came level
with Derek's party. On it was a man still wearing an airman's
flying-coat. One hand encased in a leather fur-lined gauntlet trailed
limply. Blood was welling from an unseen wound and staining the white
fur. A blanket had been thrown over the wounded man's lower limbs.
His flying-helmet had been removed and was serving as a pillow. He
was smoking a cigarette and apparently taking a lively interest in
the journey to the dressing-station.
"Hallo, Daventry!" shouted the wounded airman. "Don't you know me?"
Derek, astonished at hearing his name, looked intently at the man on
the stretcher.
"Hanged if I do," he replied.
"Ungrateful old bean!" chortled the other. "What on earth are you
doing with a tin hat? Doubly ungrateful, considering I taught you all
you know about a 'bus."
"You're not Rippondene?" enquired Derek incredulously.
"What's left of me," was the nonchalant reply. "I think I'm right in
supposing that I'm half a leg short, although I can swear that I can
feel the missing toes tingling like billy-ho. There's one thing to be
thankful for: that leg was a source of trouble since I crashed at
Armentières in March, '15. It won't worry me again, and with a cork
leg I'll be able to wangle a rudder-bar. Hope the war isn't over by
the time I'm pushed out of hospital."
Rippondene, now a Flight-Commander, had had many adventures since
relinquishing the post of instructor at Torringham. In spite of
certain physical disabilities he had gained well-earned promotion,
and was "down" for participation in the elaborately-perfected scheme
for bombing Berlin. Then, owing to exigencies on the Western Front,
he had been ordered to France, and had performed excellent work in
the operations during the great German offensive and the greater
German retreat.
[Illustration: IN A COUPLE OF STRIDES HE OVERTOOK THE MAJOR, AND BORE
HIM BACKWARDS TO THE EARTH]
"Bit of sheer hard luck," he replied, in answer to Derek's question
as to how he came to be hit. "Had a chance of a lifetime. Caught a
whole Boche battalion out in the open and started machine-gunning the
bounders. Put the wind up them properly; they scooted like hares.
Used up all my ammunition and, like Oliver Twist, came back for more.
I got more--of a different sort. A bullet through the arm--that
didn't worry me very much--and then a regular crump. Thought the old
'bus was blown to bits. Felt like it anyhow. But she wasn't, so I
managed to pancake just behind some tanks and here I am. Who's the
old bird?"
"The old bird," repeated Derek, "is a pal of yours."
"Don't know him," replied Rippondene, raising his head and looking
across to the other stretcher. "Haven't had much to do with fellows
in the Tank Corps, and so I'll swear I haven't met him. Bet you a
sovereign on it."
"Don't throw good money away," protested Daventry. "This is Count von
Peilfell."
"Rot!" ejaculated the Flight-Commander.
"Fact," declared Derek; "and I'll explain why he's in this rig."
"Another time, old thing," said Rippondene feebly. "I'm feeling jolly
rummy. I'm----"
"He's fainted, sir," announced the Corporal in charge of the party.
"We'll soon fix him up all right when we get to the dressing-station.
And, sir----"
"Yes; what is it?"
"It looks as if there's something wrong with this Hun, sir."
The stretcher-party halted. The Corporal turned Von Peilfell's head
and placed a finger upon one of his wide-open eyes. Not a muscle on
the Hun airman's face quivered.
"He's gone west, sir," said the Corporal. "'Tain't much good carrying
a corpse. There's plenty of living who want bearing off."
The bearers set the stretcher on the ground. Deftly the R.A.M.C. man
examined the corpse. The cause of the spy's death was soon evidenced.
While he was being carried off a chance bullet had struck him,
passing through his heart. Without a groan or a struggle, Hertz von
Peilfell's career had ended--ignominiously.
"I'll take my men back, sir, if I may," suggested the N.C.O.
"Yes, carry on," replied Derek.
Without ceremony the dead German airman was placed by the trunk of a
shattered tree, and the bearers returned to their work of succour;
while Derek, who was beginning to feel the effect of his strenuous
work, set out in the direction of the still distant air-sheds.