I remained wary, however, thinking perhaps his apparent frankness might be a ruse to draw me.
“But we Germans,” he finished with a sigh, “know how to put up with a lot, so it does not greatly matter….We are bound to win.”
“You may win great victories,” I mildly observed, unable to let this confident prophecy pass, “but I do not believe you will emerge from this war the victors.”
“Fräulein,” he returned with perfect good humour, “as yet Germany is not even tried…but a victory, sudden, overwhelming victory is coming…and coming very soon!”
Some officers came into the lounge and were ringing the bell impatiently, so I told the Leutnant I must go. Altogether we had been speaking for more than half an hour. I was a little uncertain of the cherubic Otto, but those frank eyes of his somehow gave you the impression that he genuinely liked you. Would this be a well at which one could pump? I decided to make the better acquaintance of Leutnant Otto. In my hospital ward there were two wounded British prisoners. They were put there because I spoke English. The time was rapidly approaching when they would be moved to a prisoners-of-war camp. I had racked my brains and made anxious tentative inquiries with a view to getting the lovable pair over the frontier. I knew there were intrepid and brave men amongst my compatriots who were only too willing to act as guides, but I had frankly admitted to myself it were best in all the circumstances to hide as far as possible the nature of my undertakings, and not to become mixed up with daredevil “runners” who undoubtedly carried on their hair-raising work at the risk of a firing-squad.
But I had become very good friends with the two prisoners, and my heart bled when I thought of the sufferings in store for them when they were imprisoned in one of those degrading camps. Harrowing stories had already reached us, and I was determined that two Britishers at least would have their chance of freedom. One of the men was a tall Highlander who wore a kilt, the other was a diminutive, talkative soldier, and both belonged to Canadian units. Jimmie was a common little man, originally emanating from a London slum. He possessed all the ever-ready wit and good humour of his class, and was always cheerful. He made a joke when we put him on the operating-table, and followed it with another one before he was violently sick when he woke up after we had done with him.
I eventually found I was able to understand the Highlander’s Scotch patois. He had been a miner in civil life, and was self-educated, with a serious but argumentative outlook on life. He had taught himself quite a fair knowledge of French, and I used to lend him books in that language.
“It has always bin ma weish, leddie,” he confided to me one night, “if A could but acquire the learrnin’, to become a meenister.”
His meaning rather puzzled me at first, for ministers are associated in our minds with high politics, but when I did understand I could not help smiling at the thought of this gaunt giant who decorated every tenth word with “Jesus Christ” ministering to his flock in a black suit.
His name was Arthur.
One morning I entered the ward to hear Jimmie and Arthur in fierce dispute—a not uncommon occurrence.
“Have ye no bin to schule, mon…do ye ken nothing?” expostulated Arthur mournfully to his grinning mate, who had just remarked something about a “b—— liar.”
“Arthur.” At my intense whisper he turned his head. As I slipped close to his bed an eager look lighted his face. At intervals we had talked together in the hospital grounds on their daily airing, and I had vaguely hinted at assisting them to escape.
On the pretext of tucking in his sheets, I whispered rapidly: “Here are a few hundred francs for you and Jimmie. When you are out walking in the grounds this evening, look out for a small Belgian with a squint. He will be standing near the civilian workers’ annexe. Slip through the door. You will be found civilian clothes…and trust your guide…he will get you over the frontier.”
Then I was gone, leaving Arthur gasping. Both were in the convalescent stage, and their wounds might, with care, stand the thirty-mile trip to the Dutch frontier. In any event the attempt must be now, as any day the order for their removal might arrive.
The money was all I could raise at the moment, but Pierre—the Belgian civilian—would also help if it were necessary. The rest of the day I was on tenterhooks. Had a clue been left by which, if the lads were caught, I could be traced? I knew they would never betray me, no matter what happened. But of Pierre I was not so certain.
Before the war he had been known as one of the worst characters in Roulers, had been a drunkard, and had rarely worked. Prison had known him numberless times for petty theft. But he was a cheery old ruffian with a squint eye and a detestation for the invader which no amount of punishment seemed to suppress. It was he who had broached the idea of the escape when I had spoken to him a fortnight before while he was pruning rose-bushes in the hospital garden. I was chary of using such a notorious character, but short of pushing inquiries through other channels I had no other way for the terribly short time at my disposal. So Pierre, I had decided, must be the medium.
Soon after giving these whispered instructions to the two Canadians a wire came through that two ambulance convoys were to be expected, and in the rush of work the matter slipped my mind. At six o’clock I went off duty, ate a hasty meal, and then tried to read. The printed words ran meaninglessly in front of me as I pictured the two poor wounded fugitives making the desperate attempt for freedom.
It must have been eight o’clock when there was a sudden ringing of the alarm-bell from the hospital. I hurried over to my ward. Orderlies were rushing about and waving their arms, and when I glanced over to the corner I saw Jimmie’s bed was empty, as was Arthur’s.
“What do you know of this, Nurse?” an irate Feldwebel roared at me. “Two prisoner patients from your ward walk off right under your nose. When did you see them last? Have they got civilian clothes, or money?”
I professed complete ignorance of the whole affair. I had been off duty and had seen nothing.
“In any case,” I volunteered, “I am certain they cannot get far, because their wounds are bound to burst with any extra exertion.”
This remark seemed to appease the Feldwebel and the listening orderlies, and presently I managed to slip into the civilians’ annexe, where some workmen lived and assisted in ambulance work. In the doorway I met a man I had never seen before, a big bearded fellow with flaxen hair, dressed in rough clothes, but who spoke with a cultured accent.
“Good evening, Sister. A good friend of mine asked me to give you a message. His friends are leaving and will be in Holland by midnight.”
That was all, and the man slunk away. I breathed freely again. The squint-eyed Pierre had done the trick.
When I returned I passed directly into the kitchen and my mother informed me that two soldiers were in the sitting-room and had asked twice to see me. She told me she knew the pair by sight; they were evidently soldiers billeted in the town. Such men I avoided as much as possible, because as a rule, they knew less than the civilians, so there was no point in cultivating friendliness.
It was, therefore, with no little trepidation I walked into the sitting-room to interview the insistent callers.
“Alphonse—Stephan!” I ejaculated in surprise, as I caught sight of the grim-looking soldiers.
Alphonse was an Alsatian, driver of a Red Cross ambulance, and one who by unfailing courtesies had given me the impression of being not only friendly but sympathetic towards my country.
Stephan, his friend, was a Pole, employed as a clerk in the Brigade orderly-room, who sported a thin, dark moustache, and appeared rather a delicate young man. Both had been most friendly to me. They were eyeing me queerly now….Could they be German agents…decoys? flashed through my mind. I was a fool not to have connected them with counterespionage work—they were just the type the Germans would employ—and no doubt they had got wind of this escape
of the two British prisoners. The palms of my hands grew clammy at the thought….Was my masquerade finished?
“Alphonse has cut his finger, repairing the engine of his car….Nothing serious, Sister, but as we were passing…” explained Stephan quietly.
“Of course,” I said, my heart beating wildly. “Of course I will dress it for him….Sit down, won’t you, whilst I fetch my bandages.” I ran upstairs to my room in an agony of apprehension, at once destroyed several notes I had there and a roll of Japanese writing-paper. How long had they been in the house? Why had they called? The thin excuse of the cut finger was too stupid for words. If indeed the wound required dressing, Stephan could have dressed it himself. Had they really discovered my dual role? All these questions, then, and a hundred wild suppositions hammered at my brain as I picked up my little work-basket and bandages and descended to the room again.
Stephan was sitting on the table when I entered and Alphonse was pretending to examine the pictures on the walls. I tried to persuade myself that everything was all right, that their visit after all was perfectly natural. Yet it was only with a great effort I managed to steady myself and appear quite unperturbed.
“Now, Alphonse,” I said, “where is this cut?” And then, as I was bending over a small gash in his finger, which he might easily have bandaged himself, he asked in a grave, still voice: “How do you like your double job, Sister?”
I felt myself go as pale as death, but kept my head down so that he could not observe my agitation, and, clenching my teeth, willed my hands not to tremble.
“Perhaps you would like a pin to fasten the bandage?” he suggested as he saw me finishing. “A safety-pin perhaps.”
My heart bounded with joy, and the relief was almost too great as slowly I gazed up at him.
“Have you a small one handy?” I inquired huskily.
He lifted the lapel of his great-coat, showing two diagonal safety-pins. With a great gasp of relief I smiled and looked with swimming eyes at Stephan. He too disclosed the emblem by which we were to know friends and fellow-workers for freedom in our sector.
“So you see, Sister, we all serve together, eh?” queried Alphonse, using this remark so as to give me time to cover up my emotion.
“How did you get to know?” I demanded after a while.
“The sergeant-major of the canteen told us to visit you, Sister.”
“What!” I gasped, horrified. “That German!”
“He is not a German, Sister,” smiled Alphonse. “Not many years ago that ranting sergeant-major was a cadet at the military college of Sandhurst, England….He was sent to Germany before the war!”
“And he sent you to me?” I asked, still mystified.
“Yes. He was worked very closely with Canteen Ma, and until yesterday was our channel of communication, but unfortunately he has been transferred to Lille. Stephan, here, works at Brigade Headquarters, so you can understand he sometimes learns things that are most interesting…and as I myself frequently go up the line, and also manage to pick up a thing or two, we had a compact little system…but this transfer for the moment seemed to end matters as far as we were concerned….We were told, however, that our messages must be handed to ‘Laura,’ and when we knew who ‘Laura’ was, you could have knocked us down with less than a feather.”
“You have information for me?” I asked quickly, vowing at the same time never to let a guilty conscience master me again.
“First of all, Sister, let us speak of another matter that is certainly of immediate importance to you….” It was the pale Stephan who was speaking as he nervously fingered one end of his moustache. “There is billeted in this café a young officer named Otto von Promft?”
“That is so,” I replied.
“You like him?” was the surprising question.
“What has that to do with it?” I demanded. “He appears an agreeable boy, and better than most Germans.”
“Ah…that is the line they take,” drawled Stephan, shaking his head grimly. “The charming Otto has been sent to this area as a decoy.”
“Then, as he has been placed here, I am suspected?” I asked breathlessly. “How do you know this?” I gasped.
“They do not necessarily suspect you, Sister….The Germans suspect all Belgians unless they are imbeciles, or on their deathbeds, but there is a chance that you are to be kept under surveillance, and it might be very necessary for you to be watchful in return. I will tell you how I discovered about this bright Otto.
“It is one of my duties at Brigade H.Q. to assist the Censor Officer. I open the letters of the troops, place them before him, and close them for posting when he has finished censoring. Sometimes the Censor arrives late—he always takes a long time over his meals—it is not therefore difficult for me to find opportunities to examine many letters…and often before the Censor has attacked them with his blue pencil….The mail of officers usually arrives at H.Q. in separate packages, and these I naturally consider most likely to yield matter of value.
“It was last week in one of these packages I came upon the letter of a certain Leutnant Otto von Promft. He was telling his mother that the special work which he had been detailed for in Roulers was both agreeable and interesting, and allowed him much freedom and leisure, and that if he were successful in his mission—which he had every hope in the end he would be—he would no doubt be installed in a cushy job in Berlin. This letter was both interesting and unusual, and after careful inquiries I found the charming Otto was billeted at this café, was friendly to everyone, and was employed neither regimentally nor by the police, nor indeed in any normal branch of the staff….He is employed by the Army Group Secret Service on a special mission.”
“I am more than grateful to you,” I assured Stephan, mentally stabbing the deceitful Otto. I was not so much frightened at the moment as furiously indignant with him for singling me out for notice, and for the fact that I had placed him on the same plane as Corporal-dresser Evandan—as a German one could abide.
“Now, have you information for me to pass on?” I asked.
“Perhaps we could have a little wine over which to discuss it, Sister, for it is a puzzler, I can assure you,” said Alphonse, tickling the back of his close-cropped head.
I went to fetch the wine, and at the foot of the stairs I came face to face with the deceitful Otto.
“I hope you will find time to join me later, Fräulein….I——”
“Not this evening, Herr Leutnant,” I excused myself. “I am tired….Perhaps to-morrow.”
It is strange that when you know the true character of a person the face often seems to change from that which you have previously known. This happened with Leutnant Otto. The boyish lineaments appeared to have given place to a cunning, foxy expression. It was imperative, however, to keep up my friendly footing, hoping that he did not, and would not, suspect.
When I returned to my two new conspirators, Stephan began to talk rapidly. In the last ammunition-train to arrive, he explained, besides the usual freight were several trucks containing long metal cylinders. He had not been able by any means to discover for what they were intended, and he was doubtful even if the German Brigade Headquarters knew themselves.
“Whatever they are intended for,” he said, “I think perhaps a bomb would do them a bit of good, so the sooner you inform our relations over the border, the better….The British might think them intriguing enough to send over a couple of bombing-’planes.”
“I shall send the information over to-night,” I promised. “Meanwhile, do your utmost to find out from Brigade what these cylinders contain.”
“I too have some unusual information for you, Sister,” interposed Alphonse. “Yesterday afternoon, when normally I should have been off duty, I and another ambulance-driver were sent on several trips to and from the station, bringing bales of cotton-wool swabs to the hospital store. They were not dressing-p
ads for wounds, as they have pieces of elastic and a catch attached to them….I have never seen anything like them before.”
“Was there no sort of descriptive label on the bales?” I asked.
“There was no label describing what they were for, but this is the strangest part of all: the consignment was not addressed to the Medical Officer of the hospital, or even to any officer of the Medical Corps….The label simply stated that the consignment was to be held at the disposal of a certain Hauptmann Reichmann.”
“Hauptmann Reichmann!” I ejaculated with astonishment. “He is billeted here.”
“Yes, we know that, Sister, Stephan discovered it from the Brigade register; but he appears to belong to no unit, and nothing there is known about him….”
“But he has visited Brigade three times, and each time had long private conferences with the Brigadier himself,” interrupted Stephan.
“Sister, I think you should take every opportunity of watching this officer, for obviously there is something of importance developing,” suggested Alphonse.
Presently the two of them bade me good night. We had agreed that in future dealings only two of us must ever be seen together at the same time, and that we must not seem to be anything but casual acquaintances to outsiders.
It was late, and most of our clients had left, some a trifle noisily, for their sleeping-quarters. As there might be nothing in the matter, there was no point in informing the British about our cadaverous guest, Reichmann, but to myself I determined to keep my eyes wide open. In my room then that night I described the arrival of the cylinders and the mysterious swabs. When written, the warning looked enigmatic, even comical, but it was not my business to ponder the solution; that was the job of the jig-saw readers in London. The key to the riddle might fall into their hands from an altogether different source.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 7
