Wheels Within Wheels
1
Near noon, the following day, a motor cycle with side car snorted to a
sudden stop at the newly erected hangar tents of an American Pursuit
Group, and McGee crawled stiffly from the bone-racking, muscle-twisting
"bath tub." He thanked the mud-splashed, goggled driver, adding, by way
of left-handed compliment, that he had been given more thrills in the
last five kilometers than he had received in all his months in the
Allied Air Service.
He turned toward the hangar. There was but one ship on the field, a
two-seater. By its side stood Siddons and his air mechanic. They seemed
to be in close-headed conference.
McGee clicked his teeth in a little sound of suppressed emotion, slipped
through the hangar door and stood face to face with his own old Ack
Emma.
"For the luva Pete!" exclaimed the startled air mechanic. "When did you
get here, Lieutenant?"
McGee extended his hand in greeting. Williams grasped it, eagerly.
"Well, for the luva Pete?" he repeated, lacking words in his surprise
and pleasure. "Lieutenant Larkin! Oh, Lieutenant Larkin!" he began
roaring. "Oh, Bill! Where's Larkin?"
"Just left a minute ago," came a voice from under the hood of a new
Spad. "Went over to his quarters to wash up. Grease from head to foot."
"I'll go show you his quarters," Williams said, eagerly.
"Never mind, I'll find him," McGee said. "Have to check in at
headquarters first. I hear Cowan is still C.O."
"Yes, sir. He sure is. And he's a darb, Lieutenant."
"So I hear. Piling up quite a record. How many of the old gang still
here, Williams?"
"Not many. If the Hun doesn't get 'em, nerves and the smell of
castor-oil does. Half a dozen of 'em gone flooey in the stomach.
Couldn't eat enough to keep a bird alive and couldn't keep that down.
It's a tough game, Lieutenant. Next war that comes yours truly is going
to join the infantry."
"Don't do it," McGee warned, as he turned away. "I've just had a little
experience with the infantry and it's not such a bed of roses. See you
later, Williams."
"Well for the luva Pete!" Williams commented to himself, standing arms
akimbo as he watched McGee cross over toward headquarters. "And they
said that bird's head was busted wide open and his brains scattered all
over France. Now there he is, big as life. I'll bet ten bucks to a lousy
centime he lives to fall off a merry-go-round and break his neck. For
the luva Pete!"
2
McGee's return to the squadron would have been fittingly celebrated but
for the fact that five o'clock the following morning had been designated
as "zero hour" for the greatest drive ever undertaken by Americans on
foreign soil. He had arrived just in time to hurl himself into the
feverish preparations for the support which all air units must give the
massed ground forces that would hurl themselves upon the supposedly
impregnable Hindenburg Line. With the coming of dawn the combat
squadrons must gain and hold air supremacy. Nothing less than complete
and absolute supremacy would satisfy Great Headquarters, who in planning
the drive were high in the hope that the fresh divisions of American
soldiers could break through the Hindenburg Line and by hammering,
hammering, hammering at the enemy force him into peace terms before the
coming of winter.
McGee was tickled pink by his timely arrival, but it was not all a
matter of rejoicing. For one thing, it seemed that almost the entire
group was made up of new faces. Of those flight pilots whom he had first
met when he came to the squadron as an instructor, only three
remained--Yancey, Nathan Rodd and Siddons. Of course Larkin was still on
top, and Cowan not only held his command, but had established quite a
reputation. Yancey had earned the right to a nickname more appropriately
fitting than "the flying fool," for he was anything but a fool and his
mounting victories proved that he had something more than luck.
Nathan Rodd, his nerve unshattered by his first unfortunate encounter
with the enemy, was still as taciturn as ever, preferring to let his
deeds speak for him.
As for Siddons, McGee could get no information out of Larkin save that
everyone thought that Siddons had some pull. A good flyer, yes, Larkin
admitted, but forever cutting formation, flying off where he pleased,
absenting himself for two or three days, and returning with the thinnest
of excuses. But he got by, somehow, and Cowan was the only one who
appeared friendly toward him. For the past twenty-four hours, Larkin
told McGee, Siddons had been working on a two-seater and had made two
test flights. No one seemed to know what was back of it, but rather
believed Siddons was to be transferred to Observation, at least during
the coming battle.
To this information McGee made no reply, but secretly hoped that Siddons
was in fact being transferred to Observation, where his activities would
be more easily accounted for due to the fact that he would be carrying
an observer.
3
Late that afternoon rain began falling, and at mess time the mess hall
became the stage for exceptionally spirited banter and wild conjecture
as to what would happen on the morrow. Confidential battle orders
carried the information that artillery preparation would begin at
midnight, continuing with great concentration until 5:30 a.m., zero
hour, when the attacking forces of nine American divisions would storm
over the top in the beginning of a titanic struggle to carry the famous
Hindenburg Line and sweep the Germans back through the Argonne and
beyond the Meuse.
Every fighting unit had been given comprehensive plans of the objectives
and of the ground over which they were to advance. The air units were
especially drilled in the battle plans, for Great Headquarters would
look to the Observation section and to the pursuit planes for a full
measure of information as to how the battle went.
Major Cowan's pursuit group was only one of the many ready to begin
operations on this new front, but none could have shown more enthusiasm
and eager expectancy than did this group of young men who wolfed down
their evening meal and jested in a strained, light-hearted manner that
betrayed the nerve tension under which they were laboring. To-morrow
morning was the start of the Big Show!
All the pilots were present at this meal save Siddons, who had taken off
alone, in a two-seater, a few minutes before sundown. He had let it be
known that he was reporting to Observation for special duty, and no one
seemed sorry to see him go.
The evening meal was scarcely finished when McGee and Larkin were forced
to withdraw from the good-natured kidding match by a summons to report
to Major Cowan. They obeyed, grumbling, and with heated, spirited
contention that they were beyond doubt the most command-ridden
lieutenants in the entire A.E.F.
"He wants to spend half the night with those maps all of us have been
getting goggle-eyed over for the last two days," Larkin complained as
they approached Cowan's hut. "He's a map hound, if there ever was one! I
think that bird knows every trench line, strong point, pill box and
artillery P.C., between here and Sedan. And so do I! He's pounded it
into my head."
"I wish I knew as much," McGee quickly resigned himself. "This drive is
all so sudden and unexpected, to me, that I hardly know where I am right
now. I've an idea the Old Man is going to tell me I can't go along."
"Don't worry, fellow," Larkin told him, pausing at the Major's door.
"Every guy with two arms, two legs and two eyes will be along on this
little fracas. Believe me, this is to be some show!"
As they entered they noticed that Cowan stood with his back to the door,
bending over a large map spread out on the table.
"What did I tell you?" Larkin whispered to McGee. "We're in for a
session of night map flying."
McGee did not hear him. His interest was upon a sergeant and four
privates who were seated on a bench against the wall just to the right
of the door. He noted that they wore side arms only, and that on their
sleeves were the blue and white brassards of the Military Police. M.P.,
eh? Then something was up!
Cowan turned from his map. "Ah, you are here. Sergeant," he addressed
the non-com in charge of the detail, "post your detail just outside the
door and wait. If anyone approaches with a--ah--prisoner, admit them."
"Yes, sir." The detail filed out.
Cowan saw the look of question on the faces of the two pilots.
"You are wondering why they are here, eh? Well, they have been sent down
from Corps Headquarters to take charge of a prisoner. We hope to hold a
little reception here within a short time--possibly any minute now."
"Who is to be honored, Major?" Larkin asked.
"A rather well known gentleman," Cowan replied, tantalizingly. "Both of
you are quite well acquainted with Lieutenant Siddons, I believe?"
Larkin looked at McGee in astonishment.
"No, sir," McGee replied to Cowan, "no one in this outfit knows that
fellow very well."
"Quite right," Cowan agreed. "Lieutenant Larkin, I recall that you lost
your old R.F.C. uniform a good while back."
"Yes, sir."
"And in the pocket was your old identification fold, and certain other
papers? An old pass to Paris, for one thing?"
"Why--yes, sir. The identification card was there, but I don't recall
what I did with that old pass."
"It was there," Cowan told him, "and it grieves me to inform you that
the uniform, and all that the pockets contained, was stolen by
Lieutenant Siddons."
"What! Are you sure?"
"There is no doubt about it. Furthermore, he delivered them into the
hands of the enemy." Larkin was too dumbfounded for words, but McGee
displayed little surprise.
"So you have at last found out what I knew all along, Major?" Red asked.
"Not _at last_," Cowan replied, with meaning emphasis. "Your
uniform, Lieutenant Larkin, will be returned to you soon--we hope."
"Oh!" McGee jerked his head toward the door. "So that's the reason for
the M.P.'s. You are going to nab him?"
"Not exactly that." Cowan was enjoying the curiosity provoked by the
suspense he was creating. "I believe both of you have heard of a certain
German ace, Count von Herzmann?"
"_Have_ we!" Larkin replied.
McGee ran his fingers along a white scar still showing through the hair
which had not yet grown out long enough to be the flaming red mop of
old.
"Seems I've heard of him," he said. "And I seem to recall that one of
his flyers left me this little souvenir on the top of my head. I'd like
to pay the Count back--in person."
"You'll never get the chance!" Cowan replied. "But if all our plans work
out, you will meet him in person soon--in this very room!"
"What!" It was a duet of surprise.
"Yes, here. Count von Herzmann in person--and in Lieutenant Larkin's
long lost uniform."
Both McGee and Larkin sank weakly into two convenient chairs, the
expression on their faces disclosing that they were trying to select the
proper order of the first of a thousand questions.
"Well--what's that to do with--with Siddons?" McGee at last found
stammering tongue. "Where does he come in?"
"He comes in a few minutes after the Count. He will land the Count in a
field near here, let him alight, and then take off again and proceed to
this 'drome. The Count, left alone, will doubtless make his way into the
woods bordering the field, where he will promptly be nabbed. That little
drama should be taking place now. For your information, the credit for
this coup goes to Lieutenant Siddons."
McGee and Larkin stared at each other, scarce believing their ears.
"Well what do you know about that!" McGee's half audible remark was the
trite expression so commonly used by those who are staggered by a sudden
revelation.
"I know _all_ about it," Cowan said, actually laughing--the first
time either of the others had ever heard him even so much as chuckle. "I
know all about it, and I've called you here for two reasons: I think
you, McGee, are entitled to see the next to the last act in this
little--ah--tragedy, I suppose it should be called; and I want Larkin to
be present when his uniform reappears. I might need him for purposes of
identification."
"But--"
Cowan lifted a protesting hand. "Don't ask questions. Better let me tell
it. The story will have to be brief, and a bit sketchy, for time flies.
The things you don't know about all this would fill a book. Perhaps I
had better start at the beginning:
"In 1914, when the war first broke out, the man you know as Siddons was
living in Germany, with his father and mother, and was in his second
year in a Berlin university. He was born in America, of German-American
parents. For your information, his right name is Schwarz, not Siddons."
"I always thought he looked like a German," McGee said.
Cowan merely nodded. "Naturally, he does. His father, who had come to
America in his youth to escape four years military service with the
colors, developed into an exceedingly shrewd business man and had been
sent back to Germany as the Berlin representative of one of our large
exporters. Though he had become an American citizen, he was, quite
naturally, genuinely sympathetic with Germany as against England and
France. But when it began to be almost a certainty that America would be
drawn into the war, the Schwarz family held a family conference and the
old man declared himself as being loyal to America, his adopted country,
if war actually came.
"During the months of strained relationship between our country and
Germany, the Schwarz family had to keep their mouths shut and saw wood.
Then, suddenly, America declared war. Many Americans, and
German-Americans, were caught in Germany. This was the case of the
Schwarz family. The old gentleman was arrested, in fact, and the
military authorities claimed that since he had never served with the
colors he was subject to their orders.
"Then young Schwarz--the man you know as Siddons--saw a chance to
relieve the pressure and at the same time serve America in a most
unusual way, a way not possible with one man in a million."
"Serve America? You mean Germany?" Larkin interjected.
"I said America," Cowan replied testily. He did not like to be
interrupted. "You'd better let me tell it my way. As I was saying,
Siddons, claiming to be in complete sympathy with the German cause,
offered his services to them as a secret agent, unfolding a plan which
they, in their alarm and need, swallowed--hook, line and sinker.
"The plan was this: He proposed that he be given instruction in secret
service work and then be returned to America, where he would pose as a
loyal American, get in the army, and serve as an under cover man for
Germany. They fell for it like a ton of brick, following the stupid
reasoning that because of his German blood he must by nature be truly
German. It may sound funny to you, but they preach that very thing, and
they truly believe it.
"Well, certainly young Schwarz was cast perfectly for the role. He was
widely travelled, spoke German fluently, and his English was flawless.
They were quick to see the advantages. His proposition was accepted. He
was given a brief schooling in their spy system, and then, for show, he
was ordered out of Germany--under the fictitious name of Siddons.
"The rest was easy. We had a very poor spy system at the beginning of
the war. There was no such branch of service as we now call G 2. But it
was forming, and to them Schwarz made his way, unfolded his plan, and
after a careful checking up on his story they decided to take a chance.
A spy within a spy! Wheels within wheels! It was a great idea. Do you
see it?"
His two auditors made no sign other than a staring, amazed look.
"G 2 was at first suspicious," Cowan went on, "but he gave them so much
information concerning actual conditions in Germany that they could no
longer doubt him. They sent him to an aviation training school, telling
him to guard his neck at all times and not run any undue risks.
"You know the rest--or most of it. He has been invaluable to us, and
to-night he will pull his greatest job. And since I have made free to
tell you all this, you may be certain it is his last trip across the
lines. He reports that the German High Command is getting a bit
suspicious, and he dare not trust his luck much further."
McGee, who had been listening with intense interest, exhaled audibly as
Cowan finished his narration. "Well!" he exclaimed. "I'll never jump to
conclusions again. Now I know why that fellow has always acted like he
was answerable to no one but himself. And I thought him yellow! And next
I thought he was a spy. Well, I was right about that--but the wrong way
around. I take my hat off to him! It takes nerve to fill his job."
"It does indeed!" Cowan agreed fervently. "Perhaps you recall how I
bawled him out for cutting formation over Vitry that day when we were on
our way up for our first action? And how I sent him over the lines on a
mission to locate von Herzmann's Circus?"
McGee nodded. "I certainly do remember it. You sure said plenty!"
"Hokum! All hokum!" Cowan said. "Actually, he was going over on a
daylight mission of an entirely different nature, and what I said in
your presence was merely to mislead you. Unfortunately, you happened to
see him running the Archie fire and saw the signals which he had used
again and again in crossing over. When you reported to me, we feared the
cat was out of the bag. There seemed to be only one way out--to pledge
you to secrecy and lead you to believe that we were simply waiting for
the proper time to bag him. I knew you would keep your word, and that is
another reason why you are here--as a sort of reward. You are the only
one who has ever had any such suspicions."
Larkin laughed, mirthlessly. "That makes a lot of chuckle-heads out of
the rest of us, doesn't it?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Lieutenant. But you did make life rather hard
for Siddons. He was afraid to form close friendships. Poor Hampden was
the only one he was ever very close to, and Hampden was as ignorant of
the facts as any of you. Siddons had to be careful. He knows that the
Germans also have spies. Should they get proof of his duplicity, he
would be a doomed man."
"Well," McGee sighed again, "he can have my share of that kind of
service. I prefer to meet mine without any blindfold over my eyes. I'll
make my apologies to him, and admit to his face that he has more nerve
than most men I know. But there is one thing I can't get through my
head, Major. How could he keep fooling them if he never took them any
information?"
"He did take them information. But it was always so cleverly false--just
near enough the truth that he could hardly be blamed for not having it
more accurate--or else it was the real truth but too late to be of any
value to them. You can be sure we gained by his work."
"One more question from me, Major," Larkin spoke up. "What makes you so
sure that Count von Herzmann--"
The door was thrown open by a helmeted, muddy doughboy sergeant from the
lines. Then into the room, followed by the mud-spattered doughboy and
the M.P. detail, walked a smiling, confident, blond young man, attired
in the uniform of a member of the British Air Forces.
The suddenness and surprise of the movement started the ends of Cowan's
moustache to twitching.
"Sir," spoke up the muddy infantryman, "here's that bozo we all been
lookin' for."
Major Cowan arose. "Count von Herzmann, I believe?" he said as calmly as
though it were a social meeting.
The prisoner lifted his eyebrows in well feigned surprise. "There is
some dreadful mistake here, Major," he said with a calm assurance as he
took from his pocket a small identification fold, bound in black
leather. "I am--"
"Just a moment," the Major interrupted. "Permit me first to introduce
one of these gentlemen. Count von Herzmann, this is Lieutenant Richard
Larkin, whose uniform you are now wearing and whose identification card
you hold in your hand. I am sure you are glad to meet him."
For the briefest moment von Herzmann's mouth dropped open. He knew the
jig was up! Almost immediately, however, he regained the debonair, easy
grace of a splendidly poised loser. He bowed to Larkin, who stood with
mouth agape and eyes popping out.
"I am indebted to Lieutenant Larkin for the use of his uniform," von
Herzmann said. "I regret that it will probably be returned to him with
bullet holes in it. Oh, well--such is war, eh? Perhaps he can find some
satisfaction in keeping it as a souvenir. He can point to the holes and
say, 'Count von Herzmann, the German ace and spy, was just behind these
holes.'"
Every man in the room felt awed and a trifle uneasy. Here was a man
whose cool courage they could envy. Not every man can face death with so
grim a jest.
"However," von Herzmann turned to Cowan, "it gives me pleasure to report
that I foresaw the possibility of this very thing and so arranged
matters that a certain Mr. Schwarz, whom you call Siddons, will be shot
five days from now."
"What!" Cowan stormed. He wheeled to the sergeant. "Sergeant, where did
this man--"
"The sergeant doesn't know," von Herzmann put in. "He is the third man
in whose charge I have been placed. Perhaps you had better let me tell
you, Major. Your planes are quite wretched and inferior, sir, and when
the engine of the one I was making use of died suddenly, we were forced
to land quickly and take what the Fates had in store. We struck an old
shell hole, turned over, and my pilot was killed, poor fellow! Too bad
it wasn't the other way round. He wore his own uniform, and could hardly
have been shot as a spy."
Cowan sank into a chair, rather heavily. His poise was no match for von
Herzmann's, who seemed to be getting a keen delight out of the Major's
discomfiture.
"I was not at the controls," von Herzmann continued, "but the engine
sputtered as though it were out of fuel."
Major Cowan nodded his head sadly. "It was. Poor Siddons was right," he
mused, seemingly unconscious for the moment of the presence of the
others.
"Only half right," von Herzmann corrected, smiling.
"No," Cowan replied with spirit, "_all_ right. He feared you might
become suspicious and double-cross him, and with that in mind he put
just enough gas in the tank to carry the plane there and part way back.
He made rather careful tests. But he installed another tank, with a feed
line that he could cut in--_in case he were flying the plane_. If
not--well, you see what happened."
Count von Herzmann merely shrugged his shoulders at this piece of news
which must have been irritating in the extreme. "Ah, well," he said
easily, "one cannot think of everything. In our haste to get away,
neither I nor my pilot thought of that possibility. Very clever fellow,
this man Schwarz. We both made good guesses, and we both lose. Kismet!
We both serve our country, and we both get shot. So be it. Wars are very
old, Major; death quite as common as life; and the old Hebraic law still
operative--'an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth!' In this case, an
ace for an ace and a spy for a spy. Even up, and the war rolls on. I
wonder, Major, just when it will close?"
Seemingly, as in answer to his question, from toward the front came the
sudden roaring of thousands of guns. Doors rattled, the ground quivered,
and through the window the sky was alight with a pulsating red-white
glare.
For a few minutes every man in the room stood listening.
"What is--that?" Count von Herzmann asked at last.
"The beginning of the end," Cowan answered. "You wondered when it would
come. Soon now. Nearly five thousand heavy calibre guns are blowing your
trenches to bits, and will continue until we go over in the morning."
"So?" The German's face was a picture of pained surprise. "So the attack
comes here? Gott! Had I known--had _we_ known." He paused,
obviously pained, then again resumed his jesting poise. "You can be
sure, Major, that I regret I am not on the receiving end of your
artillery preparation and that I shall be unable to meet your squadron
with my Circus to-morrow morning over the lines."
"I dare say," was Cowan's reply as he turned to the sergeant in charge
of the Military Police detail. "Sergeant, take charge of the prisoner
and deliver him to First Corps Headquarters. And make sure that he does
not escape."
The sergeant saluted, grinning expansively.
"He's got a fat chance to get away from _me_, sir," he said. "I'm
the spy bustin'est baby in this man's army."
"You will treat him with courtesy," Cowan ordered. "He is a brave man."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant replied. "So was Nathan Hale, sir--but he got
shot just the same."