Web of Discord

by Norman Russell

  Captain Adams had sat apart from the others, towards the rear of the carriage. From the start of their venture, he had seemed preoccupied, and it had come as no surprise to Box to see Adams suddenly leave the train when it had paused on the bridge. He had asked Colonel Kershaw what Adams was doing, and had received the cryptic reply, ‘Well, Mr Box, I expect there’s somewhere he wants to go, so he’s gone.’

  The military train kept a steady pace, its wheels clacking and clattering over the track, and Box found his eyes closing again. The trouble was, there was nothing to do. Not everyone could read a book, like Colonel Kershaw, or look steadily out at the dark landscape, like the Prussian officer.

  The Hatpin Man…. He was going to get the Hatpin Man. Here he was, now nodding and smiling, his clown’s face painted white, each finger ending in a gleaming hatpin. ‘Which would you like, Mr Box? Take your choice.’ Perhaps he’d have to speak to him in German? No, because here was Martha, and Arthur, and—’

  Box woke again with a start. The train was coming to a halt. He peered out of the window beside his seat and saw a dimly lit platform, upon which stood a man in a black uniform with gleaming silver epaulets, and wearing a braided pill-box hat. He was clutching a leather briefcase to his chest. The train stopped, and the man climbed up the iron ladder into the carriage. Sergeant Major Schmidt had jumped up from his seat in the next carriage and opened the door for the visitor.

  The man with the briefcase came into Colonel Kershaw’s carriage. He had a fat, wide face, and little eyes that peered around through tiny round steel spectacles.

  He spoke briefly in German to Colonel Kershaw, then turned to face the other passengers.

  ‘Herr Box?’

  ‘What? Yes. That’s me. But I never—’

  Box saw Colonel Kershaw smile in evident amusement. The man sat down next to Box, and opened his briefcase.

  ‘This will not take long, Herr Box. I am Inspector Langendorf of the Königsberg District Police Headquarters. You have warrants for the arrest of a German citizen, one Hans Bleibner, of 5 Königstrasse, in Berlin, otherwise known as Johannes Bleibner, and wanted in London on charges of murder. You can produce these warrants?’

  Wasn’t it lucky that these foreigners could speak English? He wouldn’t have to beg the colonel to hold his hand. English must be a very easy language to learn.

  ‘Yes, Inspector, I’ve got them here.’

  Box brought the warrants out of his inside pocket, and presented them to the German policeman. Everybody in the other carriage seemed fascinated by what was going on. A group of officers had congregated in the little vestibule between the carriages, and were listening avidly.

  Inspector Langendorf muttered his way through the two warrants, occasionally glancing quizzically at Box through his little steel glasses. Finally, he placed the documents flat on his briefcase, and produced a rubber stamp and ink pad from his pocket.

  ‘All is in order, Herr Box. Now I will stamp these warrants with my dated consent – so! And now, with this special pen, which has a fountain of ink already contained inside it, I sign across the stamped consent – so. Bleibner is now yours, if you find him here in Ost-Preussen. Find him, and you may take him to England. Good night, Inspector.’

  Langendorf turned towards Colonel Kershaw, and delivered a smart bow.

  ‘Herr Oberst, your servant.’ Catching sight of the curious gaggle of officers, Langendorf saluted stiffly, which provoked an outburst of clicking heels.

  In a moment the policeman had left the train, and they could see him hurrying along the platform of the little unnamed station. Everyone returned to his seat, the engine roared back to life, and the train continued its journey along the Prussian Military Railway.

  13

  The Fight at the Rundstedt Channel

  The military train left the main track just after dawn on the Thursday, and turned on to a branch line that took them through a stunted, overgrown wood. In minutes they had emerged into a small railway yard, where the train stopped. All around them were wooden huts, and two long barrack blocks built in stone. As they lowered their cramped limbs down from the train to the track, a group of officers, dressed in the rather drab uniforms of Prussian militia, came forward to greet them. There was a lot of saluting and raising of hats.

  One officer came forward from the group, a man of forty or so, who looked more like a country schoolmaster than a warrior. The Iron Cross pinned on his uniform jacket belied his appearance.

  ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Kershaw?’ said the officer. ‘I am Major Kerner, of the German Militia Field Intelligence. You will have already met my Clerk Strategist, Oberfeldwebel Schmidt, who has been temporarily attached to us from Number 7 Military District. Welcome to Gehrendorf Militia Barracks. Orderlies will be here presently to show you to your quarters. Breakfast will be available at seven o’clock. After that – well, we have a lot to do today. There is a nest of traitors to be taken!’

  Later, as they were being escorted to one of the long wooden huts, Box said to Kershaw, ‘Do I detect a hint of ozone in the air, sir? I keep thinking of Southend.’

  ‘You think correctly, Mr Box. Gehrendorf is only three miles from the Rundstedt Channel, where the Eidgenossenschaft have their lair. That hint of ozone is wafting to you from the waters of the Baltic Sea.’

  Major Kerner unrolled a map, and spread it out on the table. The four Englishmen stood with the Prussian soldiers, allies in a common enterprise. They had all assembled after breakfast in one of the stone-built barrack blocks of the militia headquarters at Gehrendorf.

  ‘Here, gentlemen,’ said Kerner, ‘is a sketch-map of the area where our mission today will be carried out. At the bottom of the map, you can see this barracks, and the arms park adjacent. The public road to Klagenfurt crosses the area diagonally from south-east to north-west. Minimal but sufficient cover is provided by thin lines of trees on either side of the road.’

  ‘What is the scale in miles, Major?’ asked Kershaw. ‘Between us and the target, I mean.’

  ‘It is three miles from Gehrendorf – here – to the cable station, which you can see at the top of the map.’ He smiled at Kershaw, and added,’ “Target” is a true artilleryman’s word. I’d prefer to call it our rendezvous. The cable station, as you see, stands on the edge of the land at Rundstedt, which is little more than a hamlet. On the right here you can see the Rundstedt Channel, coming in from the sea, with the dock belonging to the Brandenburg Consortium facing the cable station on the opposite bank.’

  Major Kerner turned towards Sergeant Major Schmidt.

  ‘Oberfeldwebel,’ he said, ‘you will please outline the general strategy for today’s exercise, for the benefit of the English observers.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Schmidt, ‘the land slopes gently down from Gehrendorf to the coast, which gives us a certain advantage. Our object is to seize a number of civilians who are manning the station. They may or may not be armed, but we will take no chances. We propose to take a platoon of twenty-five men, armed with rifles, and four officers with pistols. We will move on foot along this line, here, over the rough terrain, until we can cross the Klagenfurt road in the shelter of the trees. That covers one and a half miles.’

  ‘Do you propose to provide artillery cover?’ asked Kershaw.

  ‘Most certainly, Herr Oberst. Once we have left the belt of trees above the road, we will be more or less exposed to enemy view. It’s not likely that eight civilian telegraph operators – we believe there are eight men in there – will make an attempt to engage with a platoon of armed soldiers, but why take a chance? So we will attach a light field-gun to a pair of horses, and have it follow the attacking party at a sensible distance. A warning shot or two from that would soon bring those civilians tumbling out into out hands.’

  ‘Do you have a late intelligence report?’

  ‘We do. At this moment there are thought to be eight men in the cable station. There is no one living in the immediate area, so other civilians are not threaten
ed.’

  ‘There were armed civilian guards down there until last week,’ said Major Kerner, ‘but they seem to have gone. The dock is deserted at the moment, but we know that the Lermontov is at anchor in the bay lying beyond the headland, and to the rear of the dock promontory. The whole area has been closed to transport since three o’clock this morning.’

  Major Kerner nodded briefly to Schmidt, who rolled up the map, and slid it neatly into a cylindrical leather case. Major Kerner cleared his throat.

  ‘It is now eight-fifteen,’ he said. ‘The exercise will commence at nine o’clock. Let us show the authorities that the militia is equal to any regular army unit in a crisis. I want those men taken without loss of life if possible, and with minimal damage to the cable station. Once the building is cleared, the English party will enter, and carry out their own assignment. The sun has risen, it will be a clear day, and victory will be ours. Long live the Kaiser and the Fatherland.’

  As they walked away from the barrack block, Box thought of the civilian guards who had conveniently disappeared from the scene, and of the deserted dock. An empty wilderness. Or was it? He saw Colonel Kershaw looking at him quizzically, and asked, ‘What do you think, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Mr Box, but I’m recalling the old adage, or proverb, or whatever it is: “There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip”. Let’s wait and see.’

  At nine o’clock the raiding party set off from the barracks on foot. The men marched slowly in the heavy German infantry fashion, so that Box, Bob Jones and Mr Boniface had little difficulty in keeping up with them. Colonel Kershaw seemed quite used to exercise of this type. After a mile’s walk they came to an isolated clump of gnarled beeches, where Kerner insisted that the Englishmen should take up their position as observers.

  ‘You must stay here, gentlemen, until the cable station has been subdued and secured, which will be within the hour. Once that has been accomplished, you may break cover, and carry out your mission.’

  The Englishmen stood among the trees, from where they could see down the sloping terrain to the Baltic, which shimmered in the bright morning sun.

  ‘There’s the tree-lined road that we saw in the map,’ said Kershaw. ‘On the face of it, those two ranks of trees will provide sufficient cover, but once on the other side of the Klagenfurt road, as Kerner admits, our troops will be exposed on the right flank.’

  The platoon, comprising twenty-five well-disciplined and well-armed young men, was led by four older officers. Major Kerner brought up the rear. The troops broke formation as they moved down the slope towards the road. Behind them, two horses, with soldiers in the saddles, pulled an eighteen-pound field-gun on its carriage.

  Box looked beyond the soldiers to the cable station, a long white building comprising a central block with a short wing on either side. It stood exposed on the headland, less than a mile away. The morning sun glinted on the waters of the Rundstedt Channel, and gilded the few derricks and cranes of the private dock.

  ‘Sir,’ said Box, ‘none of this seems real to me. It’s as though we’ve gone on a day excursion to Eastbourne. It’s hard to believe that anything’s going to happen.’

  ‘Battles are like that, Mr Box. They don’t seem real at all until the carnage begins. Things may look peaceful, but I can assure you that appearances in this case are deceptive. You’d be far more comfortable at Eastbourne.’

  ‘What would you have done, sir, if this had been your task?’

  ‘Well, Box, I would have brought up that eight-inch howitzer I saw back there in the arms park, and blown the cable station to smithereens. Howitzers have a high trajectory, and throw a forty-five pound shell. They’re lighter than field-pieces, but deadly in their own special way. Then I’d have sent the troops in to mop up. But look! They’ve reached the road. It’s time we all moved closer down the slope, whatever Major Kerner said to the contrary.’

  Keeping close behind Colonel Kershaw, the English contingent left the clump of beeches, and crossed the Klagenfurt road.

  The militiamen had already burst out from the further line of trees, and had begun to run down the grassy slope towards the cable station. They crouched as they ran, their rifles trailing low, and Box could see how they fanned out into three groups, each led by an officer. It was clear that they intended to surround the cable station in one swift, co-ordinated manoeuvre. The field-piece clattered off the road and on to the stunted grass behind them.

  At a signal from Kershaw, the Englishmen crouched down in the shelter of a shallow embankment. The Rundstedt Channel was very near now, its waters glassy and undisturbed. Mr Boniface passed his field-glasses to Bob Jones, who surveyed the cable station in silence for more than a minute.

  ‘They’ve channelled their land lines underground,’ he said, handing the glasses back to Mr Boniface. ‘They’ve dismantled the original system of telegraph poles, but have left the old dispatch frame on the roof. It’ll be interesting to see what engines they’re using—’

  Suddenly, a volley of shots rang out from the building. Box could see the stabs of flame at half a dozen windows, and was reminded of Killer Kitely’s desperate fusillade from the house in East Dock Street. The soldiers immediately fell to the ground, and soon the crackle of rifle-fire filled the air.

  ‘They were expecting us,’ said Kershaw quietly.

  The men in the cable station were now returning fire fiercely. Sergeant Major Schmidt passed near them, breathing heavily as he made his way back up the slope, to where the field-piece stood, its gunner lying beside it. Evidently Kerner and Schmidt thought the time had come for a warning artillery shot.

  The section of men moving towards the left of the cable station suddenly rose to their feet and charged, firing all the time. Box saw a number of windows shatter, and at the same time two of the soldiers screamed and fell on the grass. The sun shone bright, and a pleasant breeze was blowing.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Kershaw, ‘there’s something wrong up at the gun emplacement. Schmidt is shouting something, but the wind’s carrying his voice away. He may need a specialist gunner. I’m going back up to see what’s amiss.’

  ‘Sir, be careful—’

  ‘We’re out of range here, Box. I’m quite safe. We’ve lost two men at least, despite Kerner’s optimism. They were only waiting for us to get within their sights.’

  Colonel Kershaw hurried away. The troops on the centre and right flanks were slowly advancing, slithering across the ground like so many grass-snakes. They were keeping up a continuous volley of rifle fire, and more of the windows in the cable station buildings had been smashed.

  Suddenly there came the deafening report of the field-gun. The sound seemed to run around the sky, and glance off the waters of the channel with an echoing roar. At the same time they heard the whistling of the shell overhead. In a moment it had hit the ground in front of the cable station, where it exploded with what sounded like a scream of rage. Clods of turf were torn from the ground and splattered across the front of the building.

  It was the signal for a charge. The soldiers sprang up from the ground and stormed the building, shooting the door off its hinges. In minutes a deadly calm had settled on the scene. The men crouching under the embankment sat up, and looked across the field. Box could see three men lying dead on patches of bloodstained grass.

  Colonel Kershaw came down the slope to where his companions were sheltering. His face was uncharacteristically pale, and his voice tremulous with controlled anger.

  ‘Box,’ he said, ‘when I arrived up there, I found Schmidt beside himself with rage, and the gunner dead. His comrade – there should be two men to a field-piece – had run back to base on an errand—’

  ‘Killed, sir? Killed by a shot? I thought you said they would be out of range up there?’

  ‘They were, and so was I. The gunner had been killed by a hatpin driven through the base of his skull. Box, your fugitive Bleibner is here, and he’s not yet finished his murderous work.’

  Angry vo
ices came to them across the grass as the soldiers emerged from the vanquished building with their captives. The prisoners came out with their hands above their heads, seven – no, eight – surly men in everyday civilian clothes. They were made to kneel, and their hands were tied behind their backs with rope.

  ‘Why did they hold out like that, sir?’ asked Box. ‘Surely they knew that they couldn’t win?’

  ‘They knew that they were all traitors, Box, whatever fancy language they may have chosen in which to cloak their treachery. So they decided to make a last stand. There’s nothing particularly heroic about that kind of desperate bravery. They’ll all hang, every one of them.’

  Major Kerner emerged from the cable station, looking pardonably pleased with himself.

  ‘Victory is ours, Colonel Kershaw!’ he cried. ‘You see, we were right about using a field-gun to flush them out. I’ve lost three men; but without that gun I might have lost many more. The cable station is now made safe, so you and your party can enter it.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he hurried away to talk to one of his officers.

  ‘Sir,’ asked Box, as they walked across the grass towards the cable station, ‘if the gunner was dead, who fired that shot?’

  ‘I did, Box. I’m a gunner too, you know. Sergeant Major Schmidt helped me. I knew that man would be able to go against convention if he saw the wisdom of doing so. But here we are at the cable station.’

  They followed Bob Jones and Mr Boniface as they picked their way through the broken glass and fallen plaster of the entrance passage. They looked into the four rooms on the ground floor, three of which were clearly living quarters, with truckle beds and rough wooden tables still covered with plates and cutlery. The fourth room was the transmission room, a long chamber at the back of the building. Bob Jones stood on the threshold, and looked critically at the row of eight telegraph machines standing near the long window.