VON PREUSSEN'S BLANK DAY
"WHAT a ghastly welcome!" soliloquised Leutnant Karl von Preussen, as
he approached the "prohibited area" of Auldhaig. For the present his
assumed name was Captain George Fennelburt, R.A.F., and in adopting
the name and character he had left very little to chance. His
pocket-book bulged with spurious official documents, printed in
Germany, and replicas of papers that had either been surreptitiously
obtained from British air stations, or had been found on captured
men.
It was not a pleasant sort of evening. The sea mist had turned to a
steady drizzle, accompanied by gusts of icy-cold wind. On the road,
cut up by exceptionally heavy motor traffic, the mud lay four inches
deep. Wearing a heavy trench coat, thick boots and leggings, and
encumbered by a bulky haversack, von Preussen found himself decidedly
hot and clammy before he had covered many miles of his long tramp.
He had studiously avoided the cliff road, preferring to make a detour
inland and to approach Auldhaig from the railway station.
At length he gained the summit of the hill overlooking the town. On
his left lay the important munition factory of Sauchieblair, shrouded
in utter darkness, although there were aural evidences in plenty of
the activity that was in progress day and night. A mile to the north
gleamed lights. Von Preussen smiled grimly as he saw them. He knew
precisely the meaning of the unscreened gleams. They were decoys,
shown for the purpose of putting a raider off the scent, and up to a
certain point had justified their existence.
Ahead lay Auldhaig, also shrouded in utter darkness. Neither in the
wide ramifications of the landlocked harbour, nor from the vast
expanse of wharves and docks, was there the faintest sign of a light;
but the clatter of pneumatic hammers and the rumbling of locomotives
indicated pretty plainly that the shipyards were running at high
pressure.
Without difficulty, von Preussen passed the guard at the block-house
on the bridge and entered the sombre town. It was now four o'clock in
the morning, and the spy wisely decided to make for an hotel and have
a much needed rest.
In response to a knock the door of the Antelope Hotel was opened by a
sleepy night porter, who evinced no surprise at the belated arrival
of a guest.
"You'll be registering in the morn, sir," he remarked.
"Thanks; I may as well register at once," replied the spy, not that
he wanted to take the trouble to do so, but because he had ulterior
motives.
In a bold hand he made the perfunctory declaration:--"George
Fennelburt, Captn. R.A.F.; business--on duty; where stationed
--Sheerness; name of Commanding Officer--Lieut.-Colonel H. B. L.
Greathooks, O.B.E."
"Silly lot of rot, sir," remarked the porter, "giving a gent no end
of trouble. If you was to put down 'Julius Caesar' or 'Christopher
Columbus' I don't see as how it 'ud matter."
"It's regulations, you know," said von Preussen, handing the fellow
half a crown. "Now get me a glass of something hot and a snack. I'm
hungry."
The porter hurried off to execute the commission, pondering in his
mind on the inconsistency of the officer, who almost in one breath
had upheld the regulations and had broken them in the matter of
obtaining liquor during prohibited hours.
Seizing his opportunity during the man's absence, von Preussen
scanned the pile of registration forms lying on the reception clerk's
desk. It behoved him to ascertain "who's who" with regard to the
naval, military and air officers staying at the hotel--particularly
the latter, as he had no desire to meet anyone hailing from Sheerness
or Isle of Grain air stations.
Satisfied on that point, the spy went to bed, apologising for the
muddy state of his boots by stating that he had missed the last train
from Nedderburn, and had been compelled to walk to Auldhaig.
He slept soundly till close on eleven in the morning. At noon, spick
and span, he made his way to Auldhaig Dockyard, with the plausible
intention of inspecting X-lighters, but with the real object of
keeping his ears and eyes open.
Noon was a well-chosen time. The dockyard "maties" had knocked off
work for dinner, while the officials, with the prospects of lunch in
the near distance, would almost certainly request the pseudo-Captain
Fennelburt to call again at three. That meant, once inside the
dockyard gates, the spy had three hours in which to make useful
observations.
The first official he called upon was the Senior Naval Officer, who,
forgetting that the X-barges had left early that morning in the
charge of Sub-lieutenant Jock McIntosh, R.N.V.R., referred Captain
Fennelburt to the Captain of the Dockyard. That individual, who had a
dim recollection that the craft in question were in his charge and
were about to be handed over to the Royal Air Force, requested the
_soi-disant_ representative of that branch of the Service to inquire
of the Chief Writer. The Chief Writer, about to go to lunch, summoned
the Head Messenger, who in turn told off a messenger to accompany
Captain Fennelburt on his search for the elusive X-lighters.
For the next three-quarters of an hour the spy was hurried to and fro
over the slippery cobble-stones of Auldhaig Dockyard. He saw very
little that would be of service to the Imperial German Government.
For one reason, the messenger stuck like a leech and lost no time,
since he too was wanting his dinner. For another, everything in the
way of new ship construction was being done under cover, while
zealous, lynx-eyed policemen--picked men from the Metropolitan Police
Force--were everywhere in evidence; and von Preussen had a wholesome
respect for men in blue.
"What's that vessel?" inquired von Preussen, indicating a tramp
steamer with her sides and deck covered with tarpaulins.
"Merchantman, sir," replied his escort.
"Why is she in a Government dock?" continued the spy. "I thought
tramp steamers would be repaired in the commercial dock."
"So would she," answered the man. "Only there wasn't room. Torpedoed,
she was, 'bout a month ago."
"Then why all that canvas over her?" asked von Preussen, beginning to
find himself on the track of something mysterious.
"'Tis like this, sir," explained his companion with the utmost
gravity. "Her captain is living on board, an' 'e's got a bald 'ead.
When it rains they rigs up an awning to keep the drops off 'is pate,
'cause 'e gets awfully up the pole an' leads the crew a regular dog's
life if he's upset by gettin' 'is 'ead wet."
"I perceive you are a humorist," remarked von Preussen drily.
"Didn't know it, sir," rejoined the man. "My mates usually call me
'Mouldy Bill.' But hangin' around 'ere won't find what you're lookin'
for, sir, so let's make a move."
It was an application of "official reticence and reserve" on the
part of this minor servant of the Admiralty. He knew perfectly well
that the tramp was in reality a Q-boat, and that under those canvas
awnings lay hidden a collection of mysterious "gadgets," for a
detailed description of which the authorities at Berlin would give a
high sum in gold.
To linger would arouse suspicion, so reluctantly the spy followed his
guide on what he knew to be a vain quest for craft that were no
longer at Auldhaig.
"Why not try the Kite and Balloon Section of the R.A.F.?" suggested
an official. "The depot is just across the harbour. I'll let you have
a boat."
Von Preussen debated before replying. The offer was a tempting one,
for not only would he get a chance of having a closer view of various
warships in the stream, but there was no telling what information he
might pick up at the depot. On the other hand, he didn't want to be
asked awkward questions by men wearing the same uniform as himself.
He knew, however, that it was no exception to detail perfectly
incompetent officers on inspection duties. He had heard of a case of
one who hardly knew one end of a boat from another who was sent on a
700-mile journey to report upon some rowing-boats about to be
purchased for a station in the south of England.
"Thanks," he replied. "I may even yet get on the track of those
elusive X-barges."
Twenty minutes later von Preussen was seated in the stern-sheets of a
harbour service duty boat. To his guarded inquiries of the coxwain as
to the names of the vessels lying at the buoys, he received an
equally guarded answer:
"Dunno, sir they comes and goes all hours of the day and night, an'
not havin' no names painted on 'em, and bein' all disguised-like, I
can't tell no more'n a nooborn baby."
The duty-boat rubbed gently alongside the stone steps of the jetty.
Von Preussen stepped ashore, returned the sentry's salute, and
inquired the way to the adjutant's office.
"X-barges?" queried the adjutant. "None this side. We used to borrow
'em from the dockyard, but we transferred most of our observation
balloons more than a month ago, and so we don't require the barges.
But now you are here, come and have lunch. It's close on one-thirty."
"Many fellows here?" asked the spy, as he accompanied his host across
the wide parade-ground to a long wooden hut used as the mess.
"Twenty," was the reply. "All old R.F.C. and R.N.A.S. men. Most of
them have been here for quite a long time. It's a posh station, and
once here a fellow doesn't want to be transferred elsewhere."
In the absence of the commanding officer, the head of the table was
taken by the major. On his right sat the adjutant. Next to him was
placed von Preussen, who on his right had a youngster who looked
barely eighteen, yet he wore a captain's uniform, embellished by the
ribbons of the D.S.O. and M.C.
The lunch was liberal and appetising. Deft-handed girls in W.R.A.F.
uniforms were kept busily employed in attending to the wants of
twenty odd ravenous officers, for the keen northern air, combined
with plenty of out-door activity, created vast appetites.
As the meal progressed, conversation, at first desultory, grew in
volume and interest. Although "shop" figured largely, strictly
official matters were rigidly tabooed. Von Preussen had again to
confess that from his point of view he was getting precious little
change out of the entertainment.
"Did you say you were from Calshot?" inquired the officer on the
spy's right.
"No--from Sheerness," replied von Preussen, devoutly hoping that none
of the men present had been stationed there recently.
"Who said Calshot?" inquired an indignant voice lower down the table.
"Beastly hole!"
"What's that?" demanded the major.
"Had to spend a night there, sir," was, the reply. "Forced landing.
They gave me a cubicle that was more like a condemned cell. Concrete
walls and floor dripping with moisture; not even a mat on the floor;
a bedstead without a mattress and only two blankets. No other
furniture. In the morning I had the worst breakfast I ever had on
this side of the North Sea. Filthy margarine, rancid bacon and weak
tea; and they took jolly good care to make me plank down half a
dollar on the nail for my breakfast. Ugh! Makes me shudder to think
of it."
"Sheerness," remarked the captain, returning to the attack. "You must
know Smithers, then? A big, fat chap, with a mole just under his eye.
He's been quartermaster there since '16."
Von Preussen acknowledged that he knew the quartermaster. He could
not very well have denied it in the face of his inquisitor's remarks.
"And Tomlinson?" continued the latter. "Suppose he's still there, but
I haven't heard from him recently. A short, very dark-featured old
bean, with a very dry sense of humour. Plays 'pack and brag' every
available five minutes, and uses most atrocious language when he's
put out and when he isn't."
"Tomlinson was sent to Dunkirk last month," declared von Preussen
mendaciously; then, eager to change what was a most distasteful and
embarrassing topic, he inquired:
"Is there a decent theatre at Auldhaig?"
"Not bad," replied Captain Cumberleigh--for that was the name of
von Preussen's heckler. "'Maid of the Mountains' is on to-night. Seen
it? Then, by Jove, you must, you priceless old thing!" he exclaimed
effusively. "No, we won't take a refusal. We've booked a box, and you
simply must come. After your fruitless journey to inspect those
X-lighters, you owe yourself some relaxation. And I say, Jefferson,"
he continued, addressing a lieutenant across the table, "we'll take
Fennelburt out fishing this afternoon, just to kill time. Fine sport
just off the harbour."
"I ought to be on my way back," protested von Preussen, as he weighed
up the possible advantages and disadvantages of remaining at Auldhaig
Air Station.
"Rot, you conscientious old blighter!" said Cumberleigh boisterously.
"In any case, you wouldn't get further than Edinburgh to-night. We'll
fix you up with a cabin, and you'll be all O.K., old bean!"