The priest looked at Thirty. 'Did any one see you come here?' he asked, in a low voice.
`No—that is, I don't think so.'
`Then go through into the kitchen. It is the first turning on the right down the corridor.
Put on the apron you will find hanging behind the door and stir the soup which you will find simmering on the fire. Say nothing. Should any one speak to you, act as though you were dumb.' The priest spoke quietly, but swiftly.
Thirty nodded, and turning on his heel strode swiftly down the corridor. As he passed into the kitchen there came a loud knocking on the door.
Chapter 15
A Desperate Predicament
Acting almost mechanically, he unhooked the apron which he found hanging on the back of the door and slipped it on, also a white chef's hat which was with it. He had purposely left the door ajar, and with what tense interest he listened can be better imagined than described. A glance showed him the soup simmering on an old-fashioned stove, but he paid no further attention to it.
Standing just inside the kitchen with his ear to the slightly open door, he heard the front door opened; a word of greeting, spoken in German, followed.
Àh, good evening, Herr Leutnant ,' said the priest, easily. 'What indiscretion have you enjoyed that you seek absolution at this —'
Ì seek something more concrete than absolution,' broke in a voice, bluntly. 'A suspicious stranger was seen in the village not long ago. My corporal swears he made off in the direction of the churchyard, so I have looked in to warn you to keep your doors locked.'
`Surely this — er— stranger would not be so evil as to rob a poor priest like myself. My thanks for your solicitude, nevertheless.'
Òne never knows,' returned the voice.
Thirty breathed more easily. It seemed as if the visit portended nothing very serious, after all. But at the Leutnant's next words he stiffened with horror. 'We've sent for the dogs; they'll soon rout him out,' muttered the German, viciously.
The dogs! The words so upset Thirty that he could not think clearly. He knew well enough what the Leutnant meant, for he had heard often enough of the sagacious police-dogs that were used by the German army. What upset him most was the knowledge that once the dogs were put on his trail they would follow him to the house, which, apart from his own undoing, could hardly fail to throw suspicion on the priest.
Thirty forced himself to think calmly. At all costs he must save the man upon whom so much depended. But how? He could think of only one way. Whether he was there or not, the dogs would certainly lead the Germans into the house. That was inevitable. But if he adopted the role of a thief it would give the priest an opportunity of denying any knowledge of him, which he would be unable to do if he, Thirty, continued to pose as a chef. His mind was soon made up. A thief he would be. Then, once clear of the house, it would matter little to the priest if he were caught or not.
The German and the priest were still talking in the study, but their tones were muffled and he could not hear the actual words. Without expecting to see any one, he peeped along the corridor, but stepped back again swiftly with palpitating heart when his eyes fell on two German soldiers standing just inside the front door, which had been left open.
Fortunately, they were watching the churchyard, so their backs were towards him.
Thirty steadied himself and looked round. The difficulty was to find something to steal. The only thing one was likely to find in a kitchen was food; still, that would do, he reflected. It would look as if he, a fugitive, had broken in on account of hunger.
In the larder he found, amongst other things, bread, half a ham, cheese, and a small sack half full of potatoes. It was the work of a moment to turn the potatoes out on to the floor; and in their place he thrust all the foodstuffs he could lay hands on. Thus laden, he stepped back into the kitchen. Instantly there was a sharp tap on the window. With a start that he could not repress, he looked in the direction of the sound. A face surmounted by a spiked helmet was grinning at him through the glass.
Thirty turned cold, but he did not lose control of himself. As much from sheer desperation as any thought of playing a bold hand, he crossed to the window and opened it.
`What do you want?' he said, in tones which he strove to keep casual.
Àny soup in the pot?' asked the German.
Òf course,' replied Thirty. 'Have some?'
`You bet—and so will Hans.' A second German appeared at the window.
`Stay where you are,' Thirty told them. 'If you come in here I may get into trouble.' With hands that trembled in spite of himself, he unhooked two soup-basins from the dresser, filled them, and handed them to the waiting Germans. 'Don't be long over it,' he said, meaningly.
As he turned back into the room, wondering if it might not be better to stay after all, he heard a hound bay not far away. That decided him. What the Germans would think when he went out he did not know; perhaps they would be too occupied with the soup to think anything; he hoped so, fervently. As he picked up the bag of food he noticed in a corner a bucket full of kitchen garbage—potato-peelings, cabbage-stalks, and broken egg-shells. It gave him an idea, so, hitching the bag over his left shoulder and holding it in his left hand, with the other he picked up the pail. Thus laden he walked quickly to the back door.
`What have you got there?' asked one of the Germans.
`Rubbish,' answered Thirty promptly. 'Time I got rid of it.'
`Here, let me take it,' exclaimed the other, putting his soup-basin on the window-sill. '
There's no need for you to come out.'
Thirty inwardly cursed the German for his friendliness. 'I'd better take it,' he said. 'It has to go in a special pig-trough, and you'll never find it in the dark. You finish your soup by the time I come back.' With that he strode off down a footpath that led away to the left.
He had not the remotest idea of where the path ended; his one concern was to get clear of the house. Twice he collided with fruit-trees, and then found himself in what was undoubtedly a kitchen garden. A few more paces and his feet sank into soft earth, which told him he was off the path, and he was about to retrace his steps when a pandemonium of barks and howls broke out in the direction of the churchyard. It nearly sent him into a panic, for he realized instantly what it meant. The hounds had found his scent.
The knowledge sent him forward at a run, fully
prepared for a sentry's challenge. Nothing of the sort happened, however. Still clinging to his burden, he came to the end of the garden, and a hedge. There was no gate, and nothing to indicate what lay beyond the hedge. To get through it, burdened as he was, was obviously an impossibility, so he got rid of both the sack and the bucket by the simple expedient of dropping them in a cabbage patch, after which he attacked the hedge.
With his clothes torn and his face bleeding from more than one scratch, he arrived on the other side, where he discovered to his dismay that he had left a good part of his blue blouse amongst the thorns. Peering into the darkness, he tried to see what was in front of him. It appeared to be a wide black shadow, and he took a pace towards it, only to throw himself back as he learned the truth. It was a river. 'Of course it's a river,' he thought bitterly, remembering the name of the village. 'It must be the Somme.'
A fresh chorus of baying not far away settled any doubt in his mind as to which way to take. Consoling himself with the thought that the water would at least end his trail as far as the hounds were concerned, he lowered himself into the river and struck out for the opposite bank, which he could discern faintly some thirty yards away. But before he could reach it an entirely unlooked-for development occurred.
Out of the darkness on the far side of the river appeared a horse. He saw it without any particular surprise or alarm, and watched it as it walked slowly down the bank. Then something in its actions touched a chord in his memory. What on earth was the creature doing? Its movements suggested that it was pulling a heavy weight, but he could see nothing behind it. The horse passed
on, still pulling its invisible burden.
He was still pondering on this phenomenon, without quickening his stroke, when something fell on his head. It also fell on the water beside him, but he was unaware of that, for the next instant the object that had fallen seemed to spring up under his jaw with a force that nearly dislocated it. And forthwith something tightened round his throat and began to drag him through the water.
In vain he kicked and struggled, clutching wildly at the thing that was strangling him. A purely instinctive cry of horror and alarm broke from his lips. It was answered by another, although he barely heard it; then, as suddenly as it had seized him, the grip relaxed, and in a half-drowning condition he became aware of a huge black bulk looming over him. Hands seized him by the collar and lifted him bodily out of the water; a moment later he was gasping like a stranded fish on a wooden deck.
In a flash he understood everything—the horse, the rope that had nearly throttled him, and the barge it was towing. He sat up hurriedly as the rays of a small oil lamp were turned on him. Behind it loomed vaguely the bulk of a human form.
`Thanks,' he said, with not a little confusion.
To his surprise, it was a female voice that answered him. 'We catch queer fish in the river these days,' it said.
`Queer fish?' At first Thirty did not understand. Then, looking down, he saw to his horror and dismay that the remains of his blouse had disappeared, leaving his uniform exposed.
With a wild idea of jumping back
into the river, he began scrambling to his feet, but a firm hand forced him back.
`Ssh,' hissed the woman. 'Lie still; we are nearly at the bridge.'
Thirty flopped back as a heavy piece of material smelling of tar was flung over him, thanking his lucky star that the woman was either French or, possibly, Belgian .
He had little time for reflection, however. A few seconds later a curt challenge came out of the darkness. The barge drifted on sluggishly, while a conversation ensued with the sentry. Silence fell. The barge floated on. Thirty lay still.
Some minutes later his covering was removed.
The woman chuckled. 'I fooled those pig-dog Prussians,' she said vindictively. 'If you're the man they're looking for you're lucky I came along. Where are you going?'
`That doesn't matter, does it?' returned Thirty, evasively. 'Where are we now?'
Òn the canal.'
That told Thirty nothing. He stood up. A quarter of a mile away a few scattered lights gave him the position of Belville. The aftermath of the storm had passed; the sky was clearing, and a swift examination of the stars that were visible told him that the barge was moving northward. 'I must get ashore,' he said. 'I'm going in the wrong direction.'
Àny direction will be the wrong one, I should think, if you walk about in those clothes,'
observed the woman meaningly.
Àre you here alone?' asked Thirty suddenly, wondering why the woman's husband had not appeared.
`My husband is at the war,' replied the woman, simply. 'Do you need clothes? If so, I have some.'
À blouse, perhaps, or a big coat.'
`Wait.'
The woman was back in a few moments with an assortment of musty clothes.
Thirty selected an ancient oilskin coat, and put it on. 'Thank you, Madame,' he said quietly. 'You may have done more than you know for France.' He held out his hand. 'And now, if you will guide the barge a little nearer to the bank . . . ' Thirty indicated which one.
The woman put her weight against the rudder until the unwieldy vessel was within jumping distance of the bank. Thirty took a running jump and landed safely. Àdieu, Madame,' he called softly.
`Bon voyage, M'sieur ,' came the reply, and the barge with its patriotic captain glided away into the darkness.
Thirty struck off across country in the direction of the road he knew, and after an unpleasant journey lasting more than half an hour, during which time he fell into more than one ditch, he reached it. To his relief it was deserted, and with the satisfaction in his heart of a job well done he set off at a trot for the landing-ground, anxious to reassure Rip, who he knew would be worried on his account.
He met two cars, but their headlights gave him ample warning of their approach, and he crouched in the hedge until they had passed.
He judged that it was not far short of daylight by the time he reached the rendezvous, but the old adage of the darkest hour coming before dawn appeared to be true in this case, and visibility was restricted to a few yards. He scrambled over the hedge of the actual landing-field, and then broke into a run alongside it, making for the place where he expected to find Rip, a relaxation of caution he was speedily to regret. Rounding a sharp corner, he came face to face with a man who was standing there. His height alone told him that it was not Rip. Before Thirty could collect his wits, the man had sprung upon him and hurled him to the ground.
Thirty fought like a wild cat. In the soaking turf and the darkness there was no question of technique. It was catch-as-catch-can, exercised to the limit. He fought only to escape, but his opponent seemed equally determined that he should not. Over and over they rolled, using hands, arms, legs, and teeth, sometimes crashing into the hedge, and at other times rolling over and over on the rain-sodden grass.
The end came with a curious suddenness. There was a swift beat of running footsteps.
Ìs that you, Thirty?' came Rip's voice, crisp and hard.
Thirty managed to gasp a strangled 'Yes', for his adversary had an arm hooked round his throat. To his utter amazement the man answered, too.
`What's that?' he jerked out in a startled voice, in perfect English. He sprang to his feet.
`What the deuce . . . !' cried Thirty, jumping up. `What's going on?' asked Rip, in such puzzled tones that Thirty almost smiled.
`Yes—what's going on?' cried the stranger, in a voice which showed that his amazement was as genuine as Rip's.
`What are you doing here?' demanded Thirty. 'Who are you?'
`Well, since we seem to be wearing the same uniform, I may as well tell you,' was the quiet answer. 'Captain Forsyth, Ninth Buffs. That's me. And I reckon we're here for the same reason.'
At last Thirty understood. He saw that in the struggle his oilskin had been nearly torn off his back, so that his tunic could be seen. 'You've come here hoping to be picked up?' he said.
`You bet I have. So have you, haven't you?' Òf course.'
`Good! Now we all know where we are. Got a gasper?'
`No. I wouldn't permit smoking if I had.'
`What do you mean—you wouldn't permit?'
Ì happen to be part of the organization that is running this rescue show,' retorted Thirty.
'How did you know about it?'
`Fellow named Smithson told me—stout fella, Smithson.'
`You've seen him—lately?' Thirty's voice was tense with excitement, for Smithson was the name Forty had adopted for his enterprise.
Òf course—else how could he tell me?'
`Where?'
Ìn the Gefangenlager.'
Ìs he all right?'
`Right as rain.'
`Grand!'
The other hesitated a moment. 'Why are you so pleased about it?'
`Because he happens to be my brother.'
Àh! I see. But the chief point is, how long do you reckon we shall have to wait here?'
Ì don't know. Our plans have become slightly unstuck. I hope somebody will come over at dawn to pick us up, but whether or not there will be enough machines for all of us is more than I can say.'
`Well, if we can't all get in, you two had better go first, since you seem to have prior claims. I'll take my turn.'
`That's very decent of you,' declared Thirty. 'It is beginning to get light, I think, so we shall soon know.'
While they had been talking a rosy, flush had been stealing upward from the eastern horizon. Thirty nodded towards it. 'Red morning, airman's warning,' he misquoted, little dreaming how apt his words were to prov
e.
Chapter 16
`Captain Forsyth of the
Buffs'
The minutes passed, the sky growing brighter, but still there came no comforting drone of aero-engines from the west. A lark appeared, trilling its way upward into the blue above the slight ground-mist that steamed from the wet earth.
Thirty got up from the bank on which they had, by common consent, decided to sit. 'I'm getting peckish,' he announced. 'I hid a bag of grub in this hedge a day or two ago, along there near the corner of the wood. I'll go and retrieve it. There is no need for us to starve.
I'll come straight back if I hear a machine coming.'
With that he began to stroll quickly along the side of the hedge towards the wood, keeping a sharp lookout, although at such an early hour he did not expect to see any one.
So quiet was everything, and so little need did there seem for vigilance, that his thoughts were miles away when, rounding a tall growth of bracken near the fringe of the wood, he came face to face with a German soldier.
The German had leaned his rifle against a stump, and was eating bread and sausage from a paper bag with the aid of a clasp-knife. He looked up as Thirty appeared. Over a distance of perhaps five or six yards their eyes met.
The effect on Thirty was of a violent electric shock. So utterly unprepared was he for anything of the sort that his brain was struck into a condition of paralysis. The muscles of his face froze into rigid lines as he stared.
The German, after a passing glance, went on casually eating his sausage.
'I'm mad,' was Thirty's first thought. 'I'm seeing things.'
The German looked up again, groped in his bag and produced another sausage. 'Have some?' he invited him.
Thirty found enough strength to shake his head. 'Danko ,' he mumbled mechanically. His lips merely formed the word. Inwardly he was saying, 'No, he's mad, not me.' His eyes wandered on along the hedge. Twenty yards away another German began humming softly as he cleaned out his pipe with a stalk of grass. He nodded pleasantly when he saw Thirty looking at him.
17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight Page 12
