by David Hough
“She knows nothing…”
“Of course she doesn’t.” Rupprecht made an angry gesture. “But the British swallowed the bait. Our spy in London reported that the Belgian and British governments are now on high alert. Smith-Cumming will almost certainly now send in his nearest agent to get her out.”
“Maybe. Or Maybe not.” Wood Wine’s expression showed a definite lack of conviction. “The British could wait until their troops fight on past Ypres and capture the Château.”
“You are making rash assumptions. They will not capture the Château.”
“They may think they will…”
“But they will not!” Prince Rupprecht pulled again at his moustache. “No, we shall hold them at Ypres. The Château will be close enough to tempt them, but tantalisingly outside the reach of their troops. They will want the Gräfin brought out quickly, and they can only do that by sending in an agent ahead of their army. He will have orders to spirit her away.”
“You are sure about this?” Wood Wine asked. “You are sure they will swallow the bait? They may believe it is all a trick.”
“The Gräfin and I are cousins. Distant cousins, but cousins for all that. We talk to each other. Smith-Cumming is no fool and he will know that. He will believe the Gräfin has access to my thoughts and plans.”
Wood Wine laughed cheerfully. “Clever, very clever. And when the British agent gets to the Gräfin?”
“We shall capture him, interrogate him and find out the name of the traitor in our midst. Then we shall kill both of them.” Rupprecht smiled. “And I want you to play a part in my plan.”
Wood Wine drew back in surprise. “It is a long time since I last killed a man.”
“And you did it most efficiently. But this time I haven’t asked you to kill anyone.” Rupprecht adopted a firm tone. “I shall have no uniformed soldiers based inside the Château because I want the spy to walk right into my trap. You will stay with the Gräfin, along with one of my men dressed as a servant. Once the English spy is inside the building, you will send my man back here to warn me. Then you will ensure the spy remains at the Château until I can deal with him.”
“How will I do that?”
“That is up to you.” Rupprecht allowed a cynical expression to cross his face. “Use whatever means you can to keep him there. Violence is not your forte, but you must force yourself to do what is necessary in this war. Hold him, but don’t kill him.”
The words had hardly escaped the Crown Prince’s lips before the door opened and a fat man in civilian clothes waddled into the room.
“Ah, Johann!” Prince Rupprecht stood up sharply and thrust out a hand to the intruder. “Come in and meet the agent who is going to help us capture the English spy.”
The fat man was no oil painting: he had heavy jowls, tufted red hair and a head that seemed to grow straight out of his shoulders, but he was liked by the Kaiser and that alone made him a valuable friend to Rupprecht.
“You have briefed…?” the fat man nodded towards Wood Wine, his pig-like eyes showing some doubt.
“Of course. Of course.” Rupprecht glanced down at the seated spy. “You two have not met, have you?”
“No.” Wood Wine gave a small smile, but seemed uneasy at the fat man’s presence.
Prince Rupprecht held the man’s hand firmly in his. “This is my very good friend, Herr Doktor Johann Schatzenberger. He knows more about dealing with spies and making them talk than any other man in Germany.” He grinned. “You do, don’t you, Johann? Yes, you know exactly how to make spies talk.”
“I have my methods,” Schatzenberger replied.
“I’m sure your knowledge will enable us to find out all we want to know, Johann.” The Prince nodded vigorously. He turned and stared again at Wood Wine. “Well, be off now. Johann and I must have some serious discussions.”
He waited until Wood Wine had left the room and the door was shut before he gestured the fat Doktor into a seat.
Schatzenberger sat down slowly and nodded towards the door. “The bait?”
“Yes, Johann.” Rupprecht felt pleased with himself. “The real bait. Easily fooled and dispensable. Hasn’t cottoned on to why I chose the name Wood Wine.”
“The Gräfin…”
“Is as hard as nails and will accept the inevitable if things go wrong. Now I must send out some invitations to Smith-Cumming and his spies. Uncoded messages making mention of Wood Wine at Gheluvelt. That should draw in Smith-Cumming’s top man.”
Chapter Five
Crossing the River Scheldt took longer than Wendel expected. It was early afternoon before he and Donohoe were able to set off along the road that led south to Ghent.
All about them, the atmosphere was tense. In summer, the fields on either side of the road would have been red with poppies, but they were devoid of colour now. Wendel wondered whether the next summer would see a resurgence of poppies in the war-scarred landscape. A return of bright colour in the fields would mean hope for the future.
It was a thirty mile walk to Ghent, and the heavy crowd continued to hinder their progress. This was not what he had anticipated when he told DeBoise to take the seat in the aeroplane. Again he cursed himself for his stupidity. He should have made every effort to get himself to Ghent as quickly as possible, whatever it took… whatever fears he would have faced.
He glanced up and down the line of evacuees, fixing on the bobbing military caps one hundred yards ahead of him. Could the Royal Naval Division be of use to him? Unlikely. He deliberately held back from approaching them because their commanders had enough problems without him adding more. Besides, someone might ask awkward questions about his presence in Antwerp. What would he say? I’m here to spy on the situation? There seemed to be no other option than to keep walking.
They had been shuffling along the road a full hour when Wendel called a halt. He led Donohoe into an adjacent field and sat down on a fallen log.
“This is getting us nowhere fast, Private.” He lifted his cap and scratched at his head. “At this slow pace we’ll be two days getting to Ghent. Let’s rest a while.”
The Irishman sat down on the same log. “Reckon you must be hungry by now, sir. Brought some food with me, so I did.” He reached into his knapsack and pulled out a paper bag. “Got these from the hotel kitchen before we left. Thought we might need them, sooner or later.” He took two sandwiches from the bag and offered one to Wendel. “There’s more for later.”
“Very thoughtful of you.” Wendel cursed himself for failing to think of it himself. He was not handling this mission with any degree of competence and C would be sure to berate him for it.
“Got a couple of bottles of beer in here as well, sir.” Donohoe patted his knapsack as he lifted his own sandwich to his mouth.
“From the hotel kitchen?” Wendel frowned.
“No, sir.” Donohoe spoke with his mouth half full and the words came out distorted. “I noticed they had a well-stocked cellar in that hotel. Beer as well as wine. It seemed a pity to leave it all to the Huns.” He took another bite. “I was going to take a bottle or two of decent wine, but then I got to thinking and decided the beer would quench our thirst a whole lot better, even if it is that Belgian stuff. Pity they had no good Irish porter.”
Wendel laughed with a notable lack of humour. “I’ll buy you a pint of Guinness when we get to Ghent.”
“’Tis a Belgian place, sir. They’ll probably have only the Belgian stuff. Might as well be drinking cat’s pee, beggin’ yer pardon, sir.”
“Even weak beer is better than cat’s pee.” Wendel chewed at the sandwich. It was thickly filled with cold chicken and mayonnaise. It was only after the first bite that he realised he had eaten nothing since the previous day and he really was hungry.
“What do ye make of that, sir?” Donohoe pointed to where two aircraft flew high in the eastern sky.
Wendel shaded his eyes. It was difficult to make out the identity of the aircraft, they were too far off. “Keep an eye on the
m until they get closer. Might be a couple of Hun planes out scouting.”
“D’ye think Lieutenant DeBoise is safe in Dunkerque now, sir? I got the impression he really didn’t like the idea of flying.”
Wendel glanced at his watch. “He should be just about there, as long as nothing went… Good God!” He dropped the remains of his sandwich and leapt to his feet. The two aircraft were flying directly towards the long line of civilians, diving as they approached. He was able to clearly identify them now: German Taubes. Their bird-like wings made identification easier still as they came closer.
The first aircraft came over the road at no more than five hundred feet. The pilot held one arm out into the slipstream, a black object clasped in his hand.
It was a bomb.
*
The Avro’s engine had shown itself to be even more unreliable than DeBoise expected. A few miles south of Antwerp it started misfiring. The pilot brought the machine down in a field and began tinkering with it while DeBoise sat beneath a nearby tree and fretted over the delay. The longer the bearded naval officer took to fix his aeroplane, the more DeBoise agonised.
Life, it seemed, was being very unfair on him.
His one-time dream of being a Catholic priest was now out of the question. Two months ago, he had killed a youngster, a boy-soldier who had no business being caught up in this war. It had not been a cold-blooded act of killing. He had simply lost his mind when the boy shot a young Belgian girl who had so tenderly captured DeBoise’s heart. He had killed the boy with his bare hands, beating the life from him in a fit of rage. How could he now possibly expect to be accepted as a priest, a man of God? He wrapped his arms about his knees and wished the war would end and he could go home and find some way to appease his conscience. Meanwhile, the aeroplane’s engine problems appeared to be drawing more and more heavily upon the patience of the pilot. DeBoise heard him swear profusely.
It was mid-afternoon when the Avro 504 finally landed at the Royal Naval Air Service base at Dunkerque on the Opal Coast. DeBoise felt uneasy on his legs when he clambered down onto the grass landing field. Never again, he promised himself as he leaned against the frail aircraft’s fuselage and took in a long, deep breath of fresh air, air that was untainted by oil and petrol fumes. For a few minutes he wondered if the ground was moving beneath his feet.
“Most people feel like that the first time,” Lieutenant Commander Polmassick told him. “You’ll get used to it eventually.” He took a pipe from his pocket and lit up.
DeBoise shook his head. He had no wish to take to the air again. Ever. “Thank you for the ride, sir, but please don’t offer me the chance to repeat the experience.”
The naval officer grinned cheerfully. “You’ll soon feel better. I’ll get hold of a staff car and take you into the town. I’ll even buy you a drink to cheer you up. Anywhere particular you want to go?”
“The Hôtel du Nord.”
“Suits me. They have a decent bar there.”
DeBoise felt his senses slowly return to normal as they drove into the town. He noted that Dunkerque was purposefully busy, the streets littered with British, French and even a few Belgian troops. How easy it was, he thought, to distinguish between those fit and hearty Tommies who were newly arrived from Blighty, and those walking wounded soldiers returning from the front line. The bandaged faces and limbs were an obvious giveaway, but there was more to it. One group marched with an air of cheerful optimism. The faces of the other group were lined with grim resignation.
“You should take the opportunity to relax here,” Polmassick told him. “Get drunk if you need to, and wipe all those bad thoughts from your mind.”
“You think I have bad thoughts?”
“We all have.” He stared at DeBoise as if he had some inkling of the Lieutenant’s troubled mind.
“Some bad thoughts can never be wiped away,” DeBoise responded, and turned his head to one side in case his face should betray his sadness. The memory of the young girl who died still sat heavily with him, and he knew he would one day be forced to kill again. Maybe the next time would be easier. He was, after all, now a proven slaughterer.
It was what war had done to him.
At the hotel, while Polmassick headed towards the bar, DeBoise went straight to the reception desk and asked for Marie Duval.
“You are…?” The steely-faced receptionist gave him a stern look.
“Lieutenant DeBoise,” he said, allowing a note of mild frustration to colour his voice.
“DeBoise? Ah, in that case I have a message for you.” The Frenchman reached beneath his desk and pulled out a sealed envelope. “Miss Duval said I was to look out for you, Lieutenant. She left this before she went out this afternoon.”
DeBoise opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of lined writing paper. The message was scrawled in pencil.
I will be back this evening. Wait for me in the bar.
Mine is a Dubonnet.
Marie
“Thank you.” DeBoise nodded to the receptionist, stuffed the letter into an inside pocket and walked through to the bar. He looked forward to seeing Marie again. His admiration for her stretched beyond the attraction of her long fair hair and deep green eyes. She was, he thought, one of the bravest people he had met. Far braver than himself. In some ways he still thought of her as Mariele Bach, the German name she used when operating behind the enemy lines, but he preferred her French name. It was mellower to his ear and that softness suited her better.
“I bought you a beer to start with.” Polmassick was seated at a bar stool. “How’s your stomach now?”
“Reckon it’ll cope with a beer.”
“Of course it will. And you’ll feel better next time. You do get used to flying, you know.”
“Like you get used to killing?” DeBoise took a deep gulp of beer.
“Wouldn’t know. You’ve killed Germans, have you?” The pilot eyed him warily.
“One.” DeBoise drank again. His actions behind the lines had probably resulted in several German deaths, but only that single one – the boy soldier – stuck vividly in his memory. He wondered if the sense of guilt would ever fade. He lowered his voice. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Fair enough. I haven’t killed anyone, as far as I know. That’s one thing I can be thankful for.” Polmassick spoke with an air of calmness that verged on complacency. “All I have to do is scout around and report what I see. No guns in my aeroplane, you see. Just my pistol, and you can’t fight an aerial war with that.”
“Lucky you.”
“They’ll probably give us proper machine guns one day and then we’ll have to shoot at each other while we’re up there. That’s what war is all about, isn’t it? Kill or be killed?”
“That bothers you?”
“Yes. But if I have to do it, I might as well do it up there as down here. Might even have a better chance of survival up there.”
“If you say so.” DeBoise was not convinced. He drank again and the beer seemed to have a calming effect upon him.
He chatted with Polmassick for the next hour, before the pilot announced he had to return to the Dunkerque RNAS base.
“Time to prepare for another scouting trip,” Polmassick said as he downed the last of a second beer and reached for his cap. “Remember what I said, Lieutenant. Your next flight will be easier to endure. When you go up a third time, you’ll actually enjoy it.”
DeBoise strongly doubted that, but he kept his opinion to himself.
Chapter Six
“Get down, Private!”
Wendel dived to the ground and pulled his hands over his head. He held his breath as the Taube’s engine roared past. A loud explosion erupted behind him and he felt the punch reverberate through the ground.
Still partially deafened, he looked up to see the aircraft climbing away.
“You bastard!” he yelled, and shook a fist at the sky.
He turned his head to see a spiral of smoke where the first bomb had falle
n into a field alongside the road. His ears resumed their full function and were immediately overwhelmed by the screams of the victims. Mob panic broke out, scattering the refugees in all directions.
“Here comes the next one, sir!” Donohoe shouted. He lay flat on the ground beside Wendel, his sandwich still clasped in one hand.
The second Taube came in even lower, so low that Wendel was able to see the grim look on the pilot’s face as he held out a bomb over the side of the fuselage. He kept his gaze focussed on the German as the aircraft passed overhead, mesmerised by the pilot’s blatantly brutal attack on the crowd. The machine’s shadow engulfed the two men as the pilot released the bomb.
Oh God! It was going to land on top of them!
But it didn’t. Wendel watched, mesmerised as momentum carried it towards the multitude less than one hundred yards ahead.
“Keep your head down, Donohoe!” At the last moment, Wendel closed his eyes to the explosion. Again, the ground shook beneath him while the noise reverberated inside his head.
He opened his eyes slowly, raising himself onto his elbows. The sound of the Taube flying away merged with the cries of the injured. He waited until he saw both aircraft climbing back up into the clear sky before he jumped to his feet.
Anger, sudden and inconsolable, overpowered his thoughts as he looked around. Panic was everywhere as people ran away from the road, leaving behind a gruesome mess of mangled bodies. An old man struggled to get to his feet before he discovered he no longer had any feet. A young woman screamed in pain as she tried to crawl on shattered legs. Her head and chest were soaked in blood. Other victims lay prone on the ground, twitching and moaning. Many were dead.
“Let’s see what we can do here, Private.” Wendel tried to control the tremble in his voice as he dragged Donohoe to his feet. The soldier allowed his sandwich to finally fall to the ground.
