CHAPTER XX
THE RIGOR OF THE GAME
Elmsdale at war is very like Elmsdale in peace. At least, that wasMartin's first impression when he and General Grant motored to thevillage from York on a day in September, 1915. Father and son had passedunscathed through the hellfire of Loos, General Grant in command of abrigade, and Martin a captain in a Kitchener battalion. They were inEngland on leave now, the middle-aged general for five days, and theyouthful captain for ten, and the purpose of this joint home-coming wasMartin's marriage.
When it became evident that the world struggle would last years ratherthan months, General Grant and the vicar put their heads together,metaphorically speaking, since the connecting link was the fieldpost-office, and arranged a war wedding. Why should the young peoplewait? they argued. Every consideration pointed the other way. WithMartin wedded to Elsie, legal formalities as to Bolland's and thegeneral's estate could be completed, and if Heaven blessed the unionwith children the continuity of two old families would be assured.
So, to Martin's intense surprise, he was called to the telephone oneSaturday morning in the trenches and told that he had better hand overhis company to the senior subaltern as speedily as might be, since histen days' leave began on the Monday, such being the amiable device bywhich commanding officers permit juniors to reach Blighty before anall-too-brief respite from the business of killing Germans beginsofficially.
He met his father at Boulogne, and there learnt that which he had onlysuspected hitherto: he and Elsie were booked for an immediate honeymoonon a Scottish moor--at Cairn-corrie, to be exact. By chance the twotravelers ran into Frank Beckett-Smythe, a gunner lieutenant in London,and he undertook to rush north that night to act as "best man." Fatherand son caught a train early on Sunday and hired a car at York, Elmsdalehaving no railway facilities on the day of rest.
They arrived in time to attend the evening service at the parish church,to which, _mirabile dictu_, John and Martha Bolland accompanied them.The war has broken down many barriers, but few things have crumbled toruin more speedily than the walls of prejudice and sectarian futilitieswhich separated the many phases of religious thought in Britain.
The church, with its small graveyard, stood in the center of thevillage, and the Grants had to wring scores of friendly hands beforethey and the others walked to the vicarage for supper. Martin and Elsiecontrived to extricate themselves from the crowd slightly in advance ofthe older people. They felt absurdly shy. They were wandering indreamland.
Early next morning Martin strolled into the village. He wanted to stirthe sluggish current of enlistment, for England was then making a finaleffort to maintain her army on a voluntary basis. Elmsdale was sounchanged outwardly that he marveled. He hardly realized that it couldnot well be otherwise. He had seen so many French hamlets torn by warthat the snug content of this sheltered nook in rural Yorkshire wasalmost uncanny by contrast. The very familiarity of the scene formed itsstrangest element. Its sights, its sounds, its homely voices, were novelto the senses of one whose normal surroundings were the abominations ofwar. Here were trim houses and well-filled stockyards, smiling orchardsand cattle grazing in green pastures. Everywhere was peace. He was theonly man in uniform, until Sergeant Benson appeared in the doorway of acottage and saluted. The village had its own liveries--the corduroys ofthe carpenter, redolent of oil and turpentine, the tied-up trouser legsof the laborer, the blacksmith's leather apron, ragged and burnt, a trueVulcan's robe, the shoemaker's, shiny with the stropping of knives andseamed with cobbler's wax. The panoply of Mars looked singularly out ofplace in this Sleepy Hollow.
But, by degrees, he began to miss things. There were no young men in thefields. All the horses had gone, save the yearlings and those too oldfor the hard work of artillery and transport. He questioned Benson andfound that little Elmsdale had not escaped the levy laid on the rest ofEurope. Jim Bates was in the Yorkshire Regiment. Tommy Beadlam's whitehead was resting forever in a destroyed trench at Ypres. Tom Chandlerhad fallen at Gallipoli. Evelyn Atkinson was a nurse, and her twosisters were "in munitions" at Leeds. Yes, there were some shirkers, butnot many. For the most part, they were hidden in the moorland farms. "T'captain" would remember Georgie Jackson? Well, he was one of thestand-backs--wouldn't go till he was fetched. The village girls madehis life a misery, so he "hired" at the Broad Ings, miles away in thedepths of the moor. One night about a month ago one of those "d--dZeppelines" dropped a bomb on the heather, which caught fire. A second,following a murder trail to Newcastle, saw the resultant blaze anddropped twelve bombs. A third, believing that real damage was beingdone, flung out its whole cargo of twenty-nine bombs.
"So, now, sir," grinned Benson, "there's a fine lot o' pot-holes i' t'moor. Georgie was badly scairt. He saw the three Zepps, an' t' bombsfell all over t' farm. Next mornin' he f'und three sheep banged te bits.An' what d'ye think? He went straight te Whitby an' 'listed. He hez abunch o' singed wool in his pocket, an' sweers he'll mak' some Jarmaneat it."
So Martin only recruited a wife that day, and evidently secured asensible one, for Elsie, taking thought, on hearing certain vividdescriptions of trench life on the Sunday evening, vetoed the weddingtrip to Scotland, and persuaded her husband to "go the limit" in London,where plenty of society and a round of theaters acted as a wholesometonic after the monotony of high-explosive existence in a dugout.
* * * * *
In February, 1917, Martin was "in billets" at Armentieres. He had beenpromoted to the staff, and had fairly earned this coveted recognition bya series of daring excursions into "No Man's Land" every night for aweek, which enabled him to plan an attack on the German lines atChapelle d'Armentieres. Never thinking of any personal gain, he drew upa memorandum, which he submitted to his colonel. The latter sent thedocument to Divisional Headquarters; the scheme was approved. Fritz waspushed forcibly half a mile nearer Lille, and "Captain Reginald IngramGrant" was informed, in the dry language of the _Gazette_, that infuture he would wear a red band around his field service cap and littlered tabs on the shoulders of his tunic.
That was a great day for him, but his elation was as nothingcompared with the joy of Elmsdale when the _Messenger_ reprinted theannouncement. Elsie, of course, imagined that her husband was nowcomparatively safe for the rest of the war, and he has never undeceivedher. As a matter of fact, his first real "job" was to carry out a freshseries of observations at a point south of Armentieres along the road toArras. This might involve another six days of lurking in dugouts at thefront and six nights of crawling through and under German barbed wire.
His companion was a sapper sergeant named Mason. They suspected that theGerman position was heavily mined in anticipation of an attack at thatvery point, and it was part of their business at the outset to ascertainwhether or not this was the case.
The enemy's lines were about one hundred and fifty yards away, and allobservers agree that the chief difficulty experienced in the pitch-blackdarkness of a cloudy, moonless night is to estimate the distancecovered. Crawling over shell-torn ground, slow work at the best, isrendered slower by the frequent waits necessary while rockets flareoverhead and Verrey lights describe brilliant parabolas in unexpecteddirections. Martin, up to every trick and dodge of the "listeningpost," surveyed the field of operations through a periscope, and noticedthat one of the ditches which mark boundaries in northern France ranalmost in a straight line from the British trenches to the German, andhad at one time been reinforced by posts and rails. The fence wasdestroyed, but many of the posts remained, some intact, others merejagged stumps. He estimated that the nineteenth was not more than acouple of yards from the enemy's wire, and knew of old that it was injust such an irregular hollow he might expect to find a weak place inthe entanglement.
Mason agreed with him.
"We can save a lot of time by following that trail, sir," he said."There's only one drawback----"
"That Fritz may have hit on the same scheme," laughed Martin. "Possible;but we must chance it."
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Mason and he were old associates. They had perfected a code of signals,by touch, that enabled them to work in absolute silence. Thus, a slighthold meant "Halt"; a slight push, "Advance"; a slight pull, "Retire."Each carried a trench knife and a revolver, the latter for use as a lastresource only. They were not going out for fighting but for observation.If enemy patrols were encountered, they must be avoided. Germans are notphlegmatic, but, on the contrary, highly nervous. Continuous raids byBritish bombing parties had put sentries "on the jump," and the leastnoise which was not explained by a whispered password attracted a heavyspray of machine-gun fire. Especially was this the case during the hourbefore dawn. By hurrying out immediately after darkness set in, the twocounted on nearing the German front-line trench at a time when reliefswere being posted and fatigue parties were plodding to the "dump" forthe next day's rations.
"What time will you be back?" inquired the subaltern in charge of theplatoon holding that part of the British trench. It was his duty to warnsentries to be on the lookout for the return of scouting parties.
Martin glanced at the luminous watch on his wrist. It was then seveno'clock, and the night promised to be dark and quiet. The evening"strafe" had just ended, and the German guns would reopen fire on thetrenches about five in the morning. During the intervening hours theartillery would indulge in groups of long shots, hoping to catch thecommissariat or a regiment marching on the _pave_ in column of fours.
"About twelve," said Martin.
"Well, so long, sir! I'll have some coffee ready."
"So long!" And Martin led the way up a trench ladder.
No man wishes another "Good luck!" in these enterprises. By a curiousinversion of meaning, "Good luck!" implies a ninety per cent chance ofgetting killed!
The two advanced rapidly for the first hundred yards. Then theyseparated, each crawling out into the open for about twenty yards toright and left. Snuggling into a convenient shell hole, they wouldlisten intently, with an ear to the ground, their object being to detectthe rhythmic beat of a pick, if a mining party was busy. Each remainedexactly ten minutes. Then they met and compared notes, always by signal.If necessary, they would visit a suspected locality together andendeavor to locate the line of the tunnel.
It was essential that the British side of "No Man's Land" should not betoo quiet. Every few minutes a rocket or a Verrey light would soar overthat torn Golgotha. But there was method in the seeming madness. Thefirst and second glare would illuminate an area well removed fromMartin's territory. The third might be right over him or Mason, but theywere then so well hidden that the sharpest eye could not discern theirpresence.
By nine o'clock they had covered more than a hundred yards of theenemy's front, skirting his trip-wire throughout the whole distance.They had heard no fewer than six mining parties. Each had advanced somethirty yards. In effect, if the German trench was to be taken at all,the attack must be made next day, and the artillery preparation shouldcommence at dawn. Instead of returning to the subaltern's dugout atmidnight, Martin wanted to reach the telephone not later than ten, andhurry back to headquarters. The staff would have another sleeplessnight, but a British battalion would not be blown up while itssuccessive "waves" were crossing "No Man's Land."
Mason and he crept like lizards to the sunk fence. All they needed nowwas a close scrutiny of the German parapet in that section. It was alikely site for a machine-gun emplacement and, in that case, wouldreceive special attention from a battery of 4.7's.
They reached the ditch shortly before a rocket was due overhead. Makingassurance doubly sure, they flattened against the outer slope of a shellhole, took off their caps, and each sought a tuft of grass throughwhich to peer.
Simultaneously, by two short taps, both conveyed a warning. They hadheard a slight rustling directly in front. A Verrey light, and not arocket, flamed through the darkness. Its brilliancy was intense. But theVerrey light has a peculiar property: far more effective than the rocketwhen it reveals troops in motion, it is rendered practically useless ifmen remain still. Working parties and scouts counteract its vivid beamsby absolute rigidity. The uplifted pick or hammer, the advanced foot,the raised arm, must be kept in statuesque repose, and the reward iscomplete safety. A rocket, on the other hand, though not half so deadlyin exposing an attack, demands that every man within its periphery shallendeavor forthwith to blend with the earth, or he will surely be seenand shot at.
The two Britons, looking through stalks of withered herbage, foundthemselves gazing into the eyes of a couple of Germans crouching onthe level barely six feet away. It seemed literally impossible thatthe enemy observers should not see them. But strange things happenin war. The Germans were scanning all the visible ground; the Englishmenhappened to be on the alert for a recognized danger in that identicalspot. So the one party, watching space, saw nothing; the other, preparedfor a specific discovery, made it. What was more, when the light failed,the Germans were assured of comparative safety, while their opponentshad measured the extent of an instant peril and got ready to face it.
They knew, too, that the Germans must be killed or captured. Onewas a major, the other a noncommissioned officer, and men of suchrank were seldom deputed by the enemy to roam at large through thestrip of debated land which British endeavor, drawn by its sportinguncertainties, had rendered most unhealthy for human "game" of theHun species.
A dark night in that part of French Flanders becomes palpably blackduring a few seconds after a flare. The Englishmen squatted back ontheir heels. Neither drew his revolver, but each right hand clutcheda trench knife, a peculiarly murderous-looking implement with an ovalhandle, and shaped like a corkscrew, except that the screw is replacedby a short, flat, dagger-pointed blade. No signal was needed. Each knewexactly what to do. The accident of position allotted the major toMartin.
The Germans came on stealthily. They had noted the shell-hole, and saton its crumbling edge, meaning to slide down and creep out on the otherside. Martin's left hand gripped a stout boot by the ankle. In the fifthof a second he had a heavy body twisted violently and flung face downin the loose earth at the bottom of the hole. A knee was planted in thesmall of the prisoner's back, the point of the knife was under his rightear, and Martin was saying, in quite understandable German:
"If you move or speak, I'll cut your throat!"
The words have a brutal sound, but it does not pay to be squeamish onsuch occasions, and the German language adapts itself naturally tophrases of the kind.
Sergeant Mason had to solve his own problem by a different method. Thequarry chanced to be leaning forward at the moment a vicious tugaccelerated his progress. As a result, he fell on top of the hunter, andthere was nothing for it but the knife. A ghastly squeal was barelystifled by the Englishman's hand over the victim's mouth. At thirtyyards, or thereabouts, and coming from a deep hole, the noise might havebeen a grunt. Nevertheless, it reached the German trench.
"Wer da?" hissed a voice, and Martin heard the click of a machine-gun asit swung on its tripod.
He did not fear the gun, which only meant a period of waiting while itsbullets cracked overhead. What he did dread was a search party, asGerman majors are valuable birds, and must be safeguarded. The situationcalled for the desperate measure he took. The point of the knife enteredhis captive's neck, and he whispered:
"Tell your men they must keep quiet, or you die now!"
He allowed the almost choking man to raise his head. The German knewthat his life was forfeit if he did not obey the order. A certaingurgling, ever growing weaker, showed that his companion would soon be acorpse.
"Shut up, sheep's head!" he growled.
It sufficed. That is the way German majors talk to their inferiors.
The engineer sergeant wriggled nearer.
"Couldn't help it, sir," he breathed. "I had to give him one!"
"Go through him for papers and bring me his belt."
Within a minute the officer's hands were fastened behind his back. Thenhe was permitted to rise and, after
being duly warned, told toaccompany Mason. Martin followed, and the three began the returnjourney. A German rocket bothered them once, but the German was quick asthey to fall flat. Evidently he was not minded to offer a target formarksmen on either side.
Soon Mason was sent forward to warn the sentries. Quarter of an hourafter the episode in the shell hole Martin, having come from thetelephone, was examining his prisoner by the light of an electric torchin a dugout.
"What is your name?" he inquired.
"Freiherr Georg von Struben, major of artillery," was the somewhatgrandiloquent answer.
"Do you speak English?"
"Nod mooch."
Some long dormant chord of memory vibrated in Martin's brain. He heldthe torch closer. Von Struben was a tall, well-built Prussian. Hesmiled, meaning probably to make the best of a bad business. His facewas soiled with clay and perspiration. A streak of blood had run from aslight cut over an eyebrow. But the white scar of an old saber wound,the outcome of a duelling bout in some university _burschenschaft_,creased down its center when he smiled. Then Martin knew.
"Fritz Bauer!" he cried.
The German started, though he recovered his self-control promptly.
"You haf nod unterstant," he said. "I dell you my nem----"
"That's all right, Fritz," laughed Martin. "You spoke good English whenyou were in Elmsdale. You could fool me then into giving you valuableinformation for your precious scheme of invading England. Now it's myturn! Have you forgotten Martin Bolland?"
Blank incredulity yielded to evident fear in the other man's eyes. Withobvious effort, he stiffened.
"I was acting under orders, Captain Bolland," he said.
"Not Bolland, but Grant," laughed Martin. "I, too, have changed my name,but for a more honorable reason."
The words seemed to irritate von Struben.
"I did noding dishonorable," he protested. "I was dere by command. If itwasn't for your d--d fleet, I would have lodged once more in de Elmseighdeen monds ago."
"I know," said Martin. "We found your map, the map which Angele stolebecause you wouldn't take her in the car the day we went on the moor."
In all likelihood the prisoner's nerves were on edge. He had gonethrough a good deal since being hauled into the shell hole, and was byno means prepared for this display of intimate knowledge of his pastcareer by the youthful looking Briton who had manhandled him soeffectually. Be that as it may, he was so disconcerted by the mereallusion to Angele that a fantastic notion gripped Martin. He pursued itat once.
"We English are not quite such idiots as you like to imagine us, major,"he went on, and so ready was his speech that the pause was hardlyperceptible. "Mrs. Saumarez--or, describing her by her other name, theBaroness von Edelstein--was a far more dangerous person than you. Ittook time to run her to earth--you know what that means? when a fox ischased to a burrow by hounds--but our Intelligence Department sized herup correctly at last."
Now this was nothing more than the wildest guessing, a product of many along talk with Elsie, the vicar, and General Grant during the early daysof the war. But von Struben was manifestly so ill at ease that he had tocover his discomfiture under a frown.
"I have not seen de lady for ten years," he said.
This disclaimer was needless. He had been wiser to have cursed Angelefor purloining his map.
"Perhaps not. She avoided Berlin. But you have heard of her."
Again was the former spy guilty of stupidity. He set his lips like asteel trap. Doubtful what to say, he said nothing.
Martin nodded to Sergeant Mason.
"Just go through the major's pockets," he said. "You know what we want."
Mason's knowledge was precise. He left the prisoner his money, watch,pipe, and handkerchief. The remainder of his belongings were made upinto a bundle. Highly valuable treasure-trove was contained therein, themajor having in his possession a detailed list of all arms in theFifty-seventh Brandenburg Division and a sketch of the trench systemwhich it occupied. A glance showed Martin that the Fifty-seventhDivision lay directly in front.
He turned to the subaltern whose dugout he was using and who hadwitnessed the foregoing scene in silence.
"Can you send a corporal's guard to D.H.Q. in charge of the prisoner?"he asked.
"Certainly," said the other. "By the way, come outside and have acigarette."
Cigarettes are not lighted in front-line communication trenches afternightfall--not by officers, at any rate--nor do second lieutenantsaddress staff captains so flippantly. Martin read something more intothe invitation than appeared on the surface. He was right.
"About this Mrs. Saumarez you spoke of just now," said the subalternwhen they were beyond the closed door of the dugout. "Is she the widowof one of our fellows, a Hussar colonel?"
"Yes."
"Do you know she is living in Paris?"
"Well, I heard some few years since that she was residing there."
"She's there now. She runs a sort of hostel for youngsters on shortleave. She's supposed to charge a small fee, but doesn't. And there'sdrinks galore for all comers. She's extraordinarily popular, of course,but I--er--well, one hates saying it. Still, you made me sit up and takenotice when you mentioned the Intelligence Department. Mrs. Saumarez hasa wonderful acquaintance with the British front. She tells youthings--don't you know--and one is led on to talk--sort of reciprocity,eh?"
Martin drew a deep breath. He almost dreaded putting the inevitablequestion.
"Is her daughter with her--a girl of twenty-one, named Angele?"
"No. Never heard Mrs. Saumarez so much as mention her."
"Thanks. We've done a good night's work, I fancy. And--this foryourself only--there may be a scrap to-morrow afternoon."
"Fine! I want to stretch my legs. Been in this bally hole nine days.Well, here's your corporal. Good-night, sir."
"Good-night!"
And Martin trudged through the mud with Sergeant Mason behind vonStruben and the escort.