Fighting with French: A Tale of the New Army

by Herbert Strang

  CHAPTER XII

  DOGGED

  There was great indignation among the men of No. 3 Company when Ginger'scapture was reported. Latterly the German airmen had rarely appearedbehind the British lines; their experiences had usually beenunfortunate. "Like their cheek!" grumbled one of the men. "And tocarry off Ginger, too, after a lucky shot had brought 'em down. Thatfarmer chap must have been a spy, and I hope they'll give him what hedeserves over yonder."

  The loss of the most popular man in the battalion was a blow to theRutlands. And to be a prisoner they counted the worst of luck. Deaththey were ready for; to be wounded was all in the day's work; there wasnot a man of them but preferred death or wounds to captivity, to be themock and sport of a misguided populace, and the victim of brutal andbarbarous guards.

  "And we can't do nothing," growled a sergeant. "Lor bless you, when Ithink of the stories I read as a nipper in the boys' papers, daringrescues, hairbreadth escapes and all that--what a peck of rubbish I usedto swallow! And believe it all too, mind you. It all looked so easy.There was the prison, and the jailer's pretty daughter, perhaps a fileto cut away the bars, or a knife to dig a tunnel underground, or a notecarried to a wonderful clever pal outside, or the prisoner dressing upin the gal's clothes: gummy, how excited I used to get. Them chaps thatwrite the blood-curdlers don't know nothing about the real thing, that'scertain."

  Kenneth laughed.

  "The real thing tops anything ever invented, after all," he said."You've heard of how Latude escaped from the Bastille; and how LordNithsdale escaped from the Tower; and how an English prisoner--I forgethis name--a hundred years ago made a most wonderful escape from theFrench fortress of St. Malo; and only the other day, a German prisonerin Dorchester had himself screwed into a box and nearly got away."

  "Nearly ain't quite, though. But I never heard of those other Johnnies;you might tell us about them--if they're true, that is; I don't want nofairy tales."

  And Kenneth beguiled an evening or two by relating all the historicalescapes he could remember.

  Ginger's case, they agreed, was hopeless. The papers, it was true, hadrecorded the escape of Major Vandeleur from Crefeld, without giving anyof the particulars which the men were hungry for. That a Britishlance-corporal could ever escape from a German concentration camp wasbeyond the bounds of possibility, and they had to resign themselves tothe hope of one day, when the war was over, seeing Ginger again, perhapshalf-starved, ill, wretched, a speaking monument of German "culture."

  The Rutlands were sent into the trenches again, where they again enduredthe tedium of watchful inactivity.

  One evening, Captain Adams sent Kenneth to the village with a message.The telephone between the village and the trenches had suddenly failed.Kenneth found the place busier than he had ever known it. A newregiment had arrived. Officers of all ranks were present; despatchriders were coming in. He was asked to wait for a return message to thefiring line. While waiting he became aware of a considerable movementsome distance in the rear of the British lines. There were sounds ofheavy vehicles in motion in several directions. Something was clearly inthe air.

  It was about three hours before he was sent for and received a writtenmessage from a staff-officer.

  "What's your name?" he was asked.

  "Amory, sir."

  "Oh! You had a hand in destroying that German gun the other day?"

  "Yes, sir," replied Kenneth, rather taken aback to find that his namehad become known.

  "A capital bit of work! Get on with this despatch as quickly as youcan. It's important. And if you have heard anything out there"--hepointed to the rear--"you needn't say anything about it. There arespies everywhere. The telephone wire has been repaired, by the way; itwas cut near the village; but we've a reason for not using it just atpresent. Tell Colonel Appleton that, will you?"

  The night was very dark, but by this time Kenneth knew every inch of theroad to the trenches. There was desultory firing, both artillery andrifle, for a considerable distance along the lines ahead. As he leftthe village the sounds from the rear grew fainter, drowned by the firingand by a moderate wind blowing from the direction of the enemy's lines.

  The road was quite deserted. All coming and going between the trenchesand the billets had ceased for the night. But when he had walked forabout a quarter of a mile he was conscious of that strange, oftenunaccountable feeling that sometimes steals upon a solitary pedestrianon a lonely road at night--the feeling that he was not alone. He hadheard neither footfall nor whisper; the wind sighed through the stillalmost bare branches of the trees. His feeling, he thought, wasprobably due to mere nervousness caused by the knowledge that he wascarrying an important despatch. But it became so strong that he satdown by the roadside and slipped off his boots, slinging them round hisneck, and walked on heedfully in his stockings, keeping a look-out forholes in the road, and stretching his ears for the slightest unusualsound.

  In a moment or two he came to the end of the avenue of poplars; thosewhich had formerly lined the rest of the road had been felled, partly toprovide wood for the trenches, partly for the sake of the gunners. Onthe left, a few yards from the road, was a small plantation. It hadbeen sadly damaged by German shells, but many trees still remained.Just as he came opposite to the plantation his ears caught a soundwhich, though indistinguishable in the wind, was different from therustling of branches or foliage. It appeared to come from behind him.He slipped from the road towards the clump of trees; then, as itsuddenly occurred to him that some other person might be making for thesame place, he reached for a branch just above his head, and swunghimself up with the "upstart" of the gymnasium. It was a frail support,but he sat astride the branch near the trunk, and there, among theburgeoning twigs, he waited.

  His senses had not deceived him. Three vague shapes moved out of theblackness, and passed almost beneath him. His ears scarcely caught thesound of their movements; yet sound there was, a dull muffled tread asthough their feet were blanketed. Who were these nocturnal prowlers?What were they about? Kenneth wished there were no despatch buttoned upin his pocket, so that he were free to follow these stealthy figures.He had not been able to determine whether they wore uniforms. If theywere villagers, they had no right to be hereabouts at night.

  Peering through the foliage, he was just able to discern that the threemen had halted at the edge of the plantation. For a moment or two therewas complete silence. He guessed they had stopped to listen. Then theyspoke in whispers. A few words were carried on the wind to Kenneth'sattentive ears: "Soeben gehoert ... ganz nahe ... ja."

  "They're after me!" thought Kenneth. He had no doubt that it was he whomthey had referred to as "just heard ... quite near." Spies wereeverywhere, as the staff-officer had said. These men must have learntin the village that he was carrying a despatch. He wished that he couldstalk the stalkers, but he dared do nothing that would endanger hiserrand. One man he might have tackled; with three the odds were tooheavy against him. And while he was still debating the matter withhimself the three dark shapes had disappeared as silently as they hadcome.

  He waited a minute or two. They had apparently gone along the roadwhich he himself was to follow. They might suspect that they hadoutstripped him, and ambush him before he reached the trenches. He mustdodge them by making a detour. Dropping lightly to the ground he skirtedthe northern side of the plantation and struck across the ploughed landat what seemed a safe distance from the road. The soil was sticky; hisprogress was slow; and he stopped every now and again to listen. Forsome time he heard nothing but the wind and the crack of distant riflesor the boom of guns. Presently, as he drew nearer to the trenches,there fell faintly on his ear the customary sounds of conversation,laughter, singing. At one moment he believed he heard the tootle ofStoneway's flute. As these sounds increased in loudness, he despairedof recognising the stealthy movements of the spies. He unslung hisrifle, resolving, if he caught sight of
them, to fire. The shot, evenif it failed to dispose of any of them, would probably bring men fromthe trenches in sufficient numbers to deal with them.

  He had to guess his course across the fields, pushing here through ahedge, there descending into a slimy ditch and crawling up the furtherside. At last he caught sight of a landmark: a ruined shed which stoodabout two hundred yards in rear of the trenches. To reach the trench inwhich Colonel Appleton had his quarters he must strike across to theright, and pass between the shed and the road.

  There was no sign of the three spies. The fields were quite bare; theshed was the only thing that afforded cover. Instinctively he gave it awide berth, and was leaving it some paces on his left when he heard asudden guttural exclamation, and two figures rushed from the shedtowards him. There was no time to fire. Uttering a shout he thrust hisbayonet towards the assailants. The stock of his rifle was seized frombehind. And now, at this critical moment, the years of training on thefootball field, in the gymnasium, on Mr. Kishimaru's practice lawn, borefruit in instantaneous decision and rapid action. Releasing his riflesuddenly, the man behind him fell backward to the ground. At the samemoment Kenneth stooped, tackled the nearest of the other men, andbrought him down. The second man toppled over them. Freeing himselfinstantly, Kenneth sprang up and sprinted towards the road, hearing in amoment the thud of heavy footsteps behind him.

  But there were sounds also in front. His shout had been heard in thetrenches, and some of the Rutlands were running to meet him. A wordfrom him sent them at a rush towards the shed. Leaving them to hunt forthe spies, he hurried on and delivered his despatch to the colonel, towhom he related his adventure.

  It was some time before the men returned.

  "They got away," said one of them. "It was no good hunting any longerin the dark. But we've brought these."

  He handed over Kenneth's rifle and a cap bearing the badge of aTerritorial regiment. It was clear that the spies had disguisedthemselves in British uniforms. The colonel telephoned particulars tothe village, asking that a thorough search should be made; but othermatters were then engaging attention.