by David Hough
“It’s important,” Wendel assured him. He stood up and straightened his uniform.
He was shown into a large ornate room with an array of over-lapping charts pinned to the walls. General Rawlinson sat at a table, studying a map of his defensive line. A staff officer stood nearby, neatly attired in a pristine uniform with highly polished boots. A Major General, he was round-faced with a cheery expression. Wendel wondered what he had to feel cheery about.
General Rawlinson cut an even more impressive figure. His steely eyes and bushy moustache gave him the look of a man who had uncompromising views. He had once openly speculated that the allies would have to fight a war of attrition in Flanders, but it was unclear whether it would take two or three years. Wendel tended to agree with him. It was not going to be over by Christmas, whatever the newspapers back home might report.
The General sat back in his chair and beckoned. “Come in, Captain Wendel. Tenth Battalion, Intelligence Section? I assume you’re one of Cumming’s spies. Is that right?”
Wendel stood to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir, although we prefer to think of ourselves as reconnaissance agents rather than spies.”
“All right, man. At ease. What do you want?”
“Your help, sir.” Wendel relaxed marginally, but he spoke out clearly. “I’m on a mission which requires me to go down the Menin Road to Gheluvelt. I need the help of your staff.”
“Be more specific.”
“I need a civilian car with an American flag on the bonnet.” Wendel paused and then closed his lips firmly. Even in the presence of a General, it was important not to reveal everything straightaway.
The hint of a smile curved Rawlinson’s lips. “You mean you’ll impersonate an American war correspondent in order to get to the Countess of Birkensaft?”
“Oh. You know about her, sir?” Wendel felt his stance begin to relax. If the General knew about the problem, there was more chance of getting his full co-operation.
Rawlinson rubbed at his eyes. He looked tired. “Of course I damn well know about her, and I can guess at your plan. The Countess could prove to be an embarrassment to all of us. Cumming is right to try to get her back on our side of the line. How can we help?”
“Two ways, sir. Firstly, the car with the American flag. Along with it, I will need one of your officers to escort the vehicle through your defence line. Someone who won’t ask too many questions when I drive on alone towards Gheluvelt.”
General Rawlinson glanced up at his senior officer. “You’ll arrange that, Tony?”
The Major General nodded. “Yes, sir. The car will be no problem. There’s an American journalist in Ypres. Spitz, his name is. He’s been angling for an interview. If you’re prepared to give him ten minutes of your time, I think we can persuade him to lend us the American flag he uses on his own car.”
“And the escort?”
“I’ll get Lieutenant Hart-Wilson to accompany Captain Wendel through our line. He’s met Commander Cumming and knows a thing or two about that particular organisation. He won’t ask questions.”
“Good.” Rawlinson turned his attention back to Wendel. “What’s the latest news about Cumming? Heard he had a nasty accident. Lost a leg, they say.”
Wendel suppressed his surprise at the degree of co-operation he was being offered. “I don’t know how he is, nor where he is at the moment, sir. I wish I did. I’ve been unable to make any contact with him.”
“Hardly surprising when he’s so badly injured.” The General pulled at his moustache thoughtfully. “Maybe we can find out where he is and make contact with him. Is there anyone here we can pass on a message to?”
“Lieutenant DeBoise, sir. He’s under orders to remain here in Ypres for the time being. He’ll be the back-up in the event I fail to return.”
The General raised his eyebrows into a querying expression. “DeBoise? That’s Redvers DeBoise’s son, isn’t it? Heard stories about that boy from the KOHD. Can he be trusted?”
“Yes, sir. He’s at a billet across the square, in the baker’s house, and he can be trusted. I trust him. He’s no fighter, I grant you, but he’s a damn good man to have with you in this sort of crisis. Knows how to use his wits.”
“Really? His father isn’t too pleased with him.”
“Like I said, I trust him, sir, and that’s all that matters to me.”
“Very well. We’ll do what I can for you, Wendel.” Rawlinson scanned his uniform. “You’ll not go off to Gheluvelt dressed like that?”
“No, sir. Of course not. I’ll go dressed as an American civilian.”
“You don’t sound like an American.”
“I rather hope that an aged lady of German descent won’t notice the difference.” Wendel smiled. “I shall do my best to fool the Countess of Birkensaft.”
Rawlinson nodded. “You might meet a few other Germans in Gheluvelt.” He paused briefly. “Know any Germans, do you?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Wendel flinched, already knowing what was coming next.
“Wendel’s not a British name, is it?”
“No, sir. My father was German.”
“Guessed as much.” Rawlinson leaned forward and clasped his hands together across the table “You’re not the only British officer with German ancestry, Wendel. Was that why they put you in with Cumming’s lot?”
“I was denied a front line posting, sir.”
“You weren’t the only one. Cumming trusts you, I take it. Yes, of course he must. Who better to spy for him than someone who understands the Hun mentality? Eh?”
“My father instilled in me a love of England, sir. I don’t intend to sully his memory.”
Rawlinson nodded. “Well spoken, Wendel. All right, we’ll do what we can for you. What documents will you need?”
Wendel relaxed. “That’s another way in which you can help me, sir. I will need some authentic papers.”
Rawlinson glanced again at the Major General. “You’ll see to that as well, Tony. Maybe that American journalist can be persuaded to lend us more than just a flag. Long enough for copies to be made.”
*
The Château Gheluvelt seemed cold in its emptiness. The owners – the Keniglaert family who had lived there since 1737 – had wisely taken shelter well away from the battle front. They left their home denuded of family and servants. Wood Wine mentally applauded their good sense. The noise of heavy artillery seemed to grow louder by the hour and that boded badly for all of them.
Inside the building, the atmosphere was in no way warmed by the Gräfin von Birkensaft’s insistence on dressing formally for dinner. She was used to such convention and clearly had no intention of allowing a mere war to get in her way.
Wood Wine, suitably attired to please the Gräfin, sat down at the dining table and nodded to Feldwebel Lübendorf. The old soldier, now dressed as a Château servant, dutifully brought a soup tureen to the table. He silently ladled a portion into each bowl.
“Where is…?” The Gräfin gestured to an empty seat at the opposite side of the table.
Wood Wine shrugged. “Upstairs, sulking at being cooped up in this place. I don’t think the gunfire helps.”
“Typical! And this food is abominable.” The old lady glared at Lübendorf and complained loudly in German. “Why do we no longer have a decent chef to cook for us?”
“Lübendorf has much experience of cooking,” Wood Wine replied, pointedly ignoring the old lady’s formal title. The Gräfin always had been too proud and haughty for her own good.
“Cooking for soldiers! They must take whatever they’re given. We deserve something better.” The Gräfin raised her voice angrily. “Much better than this man can produce.”
Wood Wine countered the old lady’s anger with a firm response. “He is here on Prince Rupprecht’s orders, Grandmama. There is nothing I can do about that, so we had better make the most of what we’re given.”
“Rupprecht expects too much of me. He should have left me in my own home.”
The Gräfin cast a suspicious eye across the table before she went silent and ate her soup. She maintained an acid expression. The sourness was still evident when she eventually spoke again. “Rupprecht is a good man in most ways. He is a true patriot to the Fatherland. You know, I often felt a sense of disloyalty because I married a Belgian. I still feel I have so much to prove.”
Wood Wine nodded. The feeling was mutual. “Our loyalty is in our hearts. We can take comfort in that.”
“Yes, our hearts are true to the Fatherland.” She drew a long deep sigh. “But sometimes I get so lonely. You will stay here with me? You will not go off gallivanting again? I do not feel safe when you leave and I am left alone.”
“You are never alone. You have…” Wood Wine gestured to the upper floor.
“I do not trust anyone else!” The Gräfin stabbed an arthritic finger into empty air. “Only you do I trust. Your love for our homeland is as great as mine. And, besides, Rupprecht would be angry if anything happened to me.”
“In that case, I shall remain here for the time being.” It was an honest response. There was no point in going anywhere until Cumming’s spy turned up. If he turned up.
Wood Wine picked up a starched white napkin, one small token of the sort of life once common within these walls. A quick dab at the lips was enough to wipe away a dribble of badly-prepared soup.
Idle thoughts drifted away to what would happen to the British spy if he made the mistake of approaching the Château. Lübendorf would immediately run to Crown Prince Rupprecht’s headquarters. Rupprecht would then send Herr Doktor Johann Schatzenberger to the Château, along with armed German soldiers. The spy would be captured and tortured.
Wood Wine pondered on what would happen then. Would Schatzenberger take all the initiatives in dealing with the Englishman? Or would he expect someone else to demonstrate a genuine loyalty to the Fatherland? Wood Wine shivered.
*
It was close to noon when Wendel approached a small café in the square. A single customer sat at a table in front of the building, drinking coffee and smoking a large cigar. He seemed oblivious to the constant background noise, the regular pounding of German artillery.
Wendel thrust out a hand to him. “Victor Wendel. How do you do?”
“Howdy. Hiram T Spitz.” The man remained seated as he took Wendel’s hand. His voice immediately betrayed his nationality. He wore a thick brown tweed suit beneath an open overcoat. His face was shadowed by the wide brim of a hat that would not have been out of place on one of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West cowboys.
“What does the T stand for?” Wendel sat down opposite him.
“It don’t.” Spitz puffed at his cigar and grinned.
“Oh.”
“Guess this is what you came looking for.” Spitz pointed to a brown paper package on the table. “Stars and Stripes. Big enough to get you through any Hun roadblock. Make sure you display it where everyone can see it, though. Some o’ them Huns can be a mite trigger-happy.”
“I’m very grateful to you.”
Spitz waved a hand casually. “No need. Guess I’ll be well rewarded. My editor’s been howlin’ at me to get an interview with General Rawlinson. Now I got one.” He sipped at his coffee and grimaced. “Jeez! This stuff ain’t like the real coffee we get back home.”
“This isn’t ‘back home’ Hiram.”
“You can say that again. Say, when’re you planning on leaving Eepers?”
“Tonight. As soon as darkness falls.”
Spitz shook his head. “Don’t, buddy. Don’t go out so soon. The Huns won’t see the flag in the dark. Take it from me. Wait until dawn. Most o’ them will still be asleep and the ones who’ve been on guard through the night will be tired as hell. They’ll not ask too many questions.”
“Thanks for the advice.” Wendel gestured to his headgear. “Where can I get a hat like yours?”
Another grin spread rapidly across Spitz’s face, a wide toothy grin. He took off the hat and handed it to Wendel. “I’ve got a spare in my luggage. I’ll tell the General he owes me an extra five minutes.”
“That’s very…”
Wendel broke off as the café door opened and loud voices followed a waiter out into the weak daylight. The man looked harassed as he approached the table.
“What can I get you, M’sieur?”
“Just a coffee.” Wendel ordered in French. “And another cup for my friend here.”
“You wish anything to eat?”
“No.”
The waiter glanced back at the café door and then lowered his head towards Wendel. He spoke hesitantly. “You are a British officer. Can you do something about the men inside the café? Please, M’sieur.”
“They’re causing trouble?”
“They are upsetting my waitress. I ask them not to, but they do not listen to me.”
Wendel sighed. This was the last thing he needed. He looked around the square for signs of an NCO, someone who would be better placed to deal with trouble amongst the ranks. There were none in sight.
He sighed again. “All right. I’ll take a look.”
Spitz leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. “Guess you’ll have your hands full, Captain. As a neutral, I figure I ought to wait here.” He jammed his cigar back between his teeth.
“Very wise.”
Wendel followed the waiter into the café where a sudden wall of noise hit him. The men inside were all Highlanders, soldiers of the King’s Own Highland Dragoons. The tables were littered with bottles of brandy and whiskey. Some men lounged in their seats, some were singing out of tune. A small group of them had a wide-eyed waitress pinned against one wall. The only NCO was at the centre of the group of molesters, fondling the girl. Her cries of alarm went unheeded.
Wendel gritted his teeth. He didn’t need this sort of trouble, not now. And he knew enough about the KOHD to realise facing up to them would be no picnic. He recalled the day DeBoise had told him about his experiences with the regiment. It didn’t make a cheerful story. The names DeBoise had revealed came back to Wendel: Cruikshanks and MacRapper. An unholy alliance, the Lieutenant had said. Meanwhile, like it or not, something had to be done here. He drew back his shoulders.
“Leave the girl alone!” He crossed the room and barked out a sharp command.
The weasel-faced NCO rocked on his heels, clearly drunk. He swung round unsteadily to face Wendel.
“You!” Wendel stared into the bleary-eyed face of RSM MacRapper.
The NCO looked him up and down with a contemptuous expression. “Who’re yew? I dinna ken yew. Yew’re nae a Highland officer!” He hiccupped loudly.
“Stand up straight when you address me!” Wendel put on as ferocious a voice as he could muster.
The Highlander wasn’t impressed. He bared his teeth. “Piss off. Yew’ve nae business giving me orders!”
“Say ‘sir’ when you address me!”
MacRapper blew his alcoholic breath into Wendel’s face. “I said piss off, English.”
“You’re under arrest.”
“No, I’m not.” The NCO jabbed a finger hard at Wendel’s breast. “You want tae know why? Because every man here will swear to God that I’ve done nothin’ wrong. They’ll swear that yew attacked me. Got That? Every last one o’ them. So, who’s goin’ tae be under arrest now? Eh?”
Wendel cursed under his breath. He didn’t need this insubordination now, not when he was on the verge of a dangerous mission. He swung round at the sound of the café door opening. He saw Spitz gesture an officer inside, a red-faced Lieutenant Colonel with a cigarette in his hand. Wendel immediately recognised him as the officer DeBoise had pointed out earlier. Cruikshanks, commanding office of the KOHD.
Spitz waved his cigar airily towards Wendel. “Saw this British officer outside, Captain. Decided to compromise my neutrality. Thought he might be
able to give you a hand.”
“What the hell is going on here?” The Highland officer stormed into the middle of the melee. “Who are you and what’s this all about?”
Wendel faced him grimly and saluted. “Captain Wendel, sir. It’s a case of riotous behaviour. Your RSM was abusing this young woman.” He gestured to the waitress who cowered against the wall.
“Is this true, MacRapper?”
“Pack o’ lies, sir.”
“Thought so.” Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks took a deep drag on his cigarette, frowned at Wendel and hissed out the smoke. “What evidence have you that RSM MacRapper did anything wrong?”
Wendel frowned. “The evidence of my own eyes, sir. The evidence of the café waiter. The evidence of the waitress…”
“Rubbish. There were twenty of my men in here and I’ll wager every one of them is going to say you were the troublemaker.”
“They’d be lying.”
Cruikshanks leaned forward threateningly. “Lies or not, you’d better be more careful in future, Captain Wendel. I’ve dealt with better men than you, and seen them suffer. Now get out of here.”
“I must protest, sir.”
“Protest all you like. Now get out!”
As Wendel left the café, he looked aside to where the American was staring at him, open-mouthed. When had he last seen British officers behaving like this?
“You gonna put up with that bullshit, Captain?” The American followed him out into the square.
Wendel shrugged. “Why not? Those men are hard-nosed fighters. A spot of nonsense like that is a small price to pay for what they do on the battlefield.”
Chapter Nineteen
DeBoise was woken in the early hours of the morning by the sound of a heavy artillery shell landing close to the town. He sat up abruptly, and then noticed Wendel preparing to leave the billet. The Captain had shaved the previous evening, but he seemed to be taking his time over dressing in the image of an American war correspondent. The curtains were drawn back and the first signs of dawn illuminated the senior officer in silhouette.
