The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge, April 1918

  CHAPTER XII

  St. George's Eve

  The "downed" airman was undoubtedly feeling the after effects of hiscrash. His forehead was swathed in a bloodstained linen-substitutebandage made of paper. He had been deprived of his leatherflying-coat, triplex glasses, and fur-lined boots. Even his tunic hadbeen taken from him. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, disclosing apair of badly-scorched arms, while in his fiery descent his eyebrowshad been singed, notwithstanding the protection afforded by hisgoggles.

  He eyed Alec curiously. Although the latter greeted him with a smileand an outstretched hand, the pilot evinced no enthusiasm. There wasa distinctly stand-offish manner about him that put a damper on theSub's advances.

  "By Jove! That was a fine stunt of yours," remarked Seton, as apreliminary to a friendly conversation.

  "Think so?" queried the other with a slight drawl.

  "Rather!"

  "'Umph!"

  The attempt fizzled out. Both men stood silent, contemplating eachother like a couple of boxers about to engage in a bout.

  "Can I do anything for you?" asked Seton.

  "No, thanks."

  Another interval of silence. Alec was wondering how to pass the timewith such a mouldy messmate. He had rejoiced at the prospect ofcompanionship, but his realizations in that respect were falling farshort of his anticipations.

  The day wore on. The new arrival spent most of his time in possessionof the open window, while Alec resumed his vigil at the seawardaperture of the cell until the midday meal was brought in.

  Suddenly the Sub felt a hand laid upon his shoulder, and the pilot'svoice speaking peremptorily:

  "Who and what are you?"

  Seton told him his name and rank.

  "You'll take your oath on it. Proper jonnick?"

  "Proper jonnick," declared the somewhat mystified naval officer.

  "Good enough!" continued the R.A.F. pilot with a laugh. "Had to be onmy guard, don't you know? Thought you were a Boche agent."

  "Thanks," said Alec. "And what gave you that impression, may I ask?"

  "Natural caution, that's all," answered the pilot. "Fritz has a nastyhabit of putting a Boche in with a fellow as a sort of room-mate,merely to try and pick his brains, don't you know? Don't say it isn'tdone, 'cause it is. Your opening remark about my little stunt ratherstrengthened my suspicion."

  "And what made you alter your opinion?"

  "A fairly long period of observation," replied the pilot. "Whatsettled it was the way you were taking your soup or skilly. Beastlyrotten stuff, but a Hun couldn't take it silently--you did."

  "You're sure you're not mistaken?" asked Alec facetiously.

  "Certain sure," rejoined the other. "My name? Oh, just Smith! When afellow wants to be specially polite he addresses me asAllerton-Smith. But, by Jove, what a rotten crib to be shoved into!How long have you been here?"

  Seton told him.

  "Doesn't say much for my skill in egg-dropping," continued the pilot."Our fellows have got hold of the idea that the Huns have a largepetrol-store close to the head of the Mole. Consequently I've triedmy level best to bomb the place, and apparently you into thebargain."

  "Then I can assure you that you weren't far wide of the mark," saidAlec. "Several times you rather put the wind up me, to say nothing ofrudely disturbing my beauty sleep."

  "Is that so--then I apologize," declared Smith. "All the same it is abit gratifying to know that I do get near the mark sometimes."

  "You did early this morning, at any rate." said Seton. "Those U-boatswent up beautifully."

  "And so did I," added the pilot. "Haven't quite got over the rottensensation yet. Wonder my 'bus wasn't pulverized with solid stuffflying up. The air seemed stiff with bits of submarines. Funny thinghappened--but perhaps I'm boring you?"

  "Not at all," Alec hastened to assure him. "What happened?"

  "Well, the old 'bus was whirling like a piece of straw. I was hangingover the side of the fuselage, when I saw a huge piece of metalrising, up to meet me--awfully weird sensation. Thought my number wasup for a dead cert, when the chunk of stuff seemed to stop still, andthen drop and disappear."

  "How was that?" asked the Sub.

  "Simply that my old 'bus was just a few feet above the highest pointreached by the up-flung metal before gravity won the tug-of-war,don't you know. Then I came tumbling down, doing a sort of_splitasse_ all over the place. Thought I was going to crash right ontop of a house when the 'bus sort of pulled herself together,flattened out and then made a fairly decent sort of landing in themiddle of the canal, which wasn't bad for a machine without a tail.Next thing I remember was being hauled on board a boat and taken offto the head of the Mole. Why the Boches wanted to do that puzzles me.It wasn't out of consideration for you, old bird."

  "Evidently not," remarked Seton. "It's my belief, strengthened by ahint from von Brockdorff-Giespert, that we are here as a species ofcock-shies for our own fellows. By the by, have you met vonBrockdorff-Giespert?"

  "The U-boat staff-bloke? Rather!" replied the pilot. "He tried topump me, and, finding that was no go, tried to put the screw on.There was nothin' doin'."

  The pilot paced up and down the limits of his prison-cell like acaged animal. Then suddenly wheeling, he asked:

  "Ever thought of doing a bunk?"

  "Many a time," replied the Sub. "That's as far as it went. Evensupposing I got clear of this show, what's to be done? Not a chanceof finding a boat, and putting to sea."

  "Putting to sea!" repeated the airman. "That's all you sailors thinkabout. The Huns know it too, and directly you were missed they'd sendout torpedo-craft as far as they dared go to look for you. No, it'sinland--that's the wheeze. It would put the Boches off the scent, anda fellow would stand a fighting chance of getting across intoHolland."

  "We're still behind iron bars--and massive ones at that," Setonreminded him.

  "Quite so," admitted Smith. "There are other means; this was agun-emplacement."

  "So I believe."

  "I know for a fact," declared the pilot. "The Huns constructed half adozen for big guns to be directed seaward. The old R.N.A.S. knockedthem about so badly that Fritz abandoned the idea. Now, does thatsuggest anything?"

  "I'm afraid I don't follow you."

  "The guns must have been served when they were in position."

  "Admitted."

  "And Fritz may make plenty of blunders, but he's no fool. Havingplaced the guns in position in well-concealed emplacements, hewouldn't send the ammunition along in the open. He'd connect theemplacements by passages to run the stuff up on tram-lines. You cantake it from me, my festive, that if we dug down we'd break into atunnel already provided for our edification."

  "Sounds feasible," admitted Seton.

  "Then when shall we start?" asked the pilot.

  "Now," decided the Sub promptly.

  Both men were warming to their work. Even if the desired result werenot forthcoming, it was something to occupy their minds, and to wardoff the deadly monotony.

  "We'll have to go slow," cautioned Seton. "The floor looks prettysolid, and we've no tools."

  "Haven't we, by Jove!" exclaimed Smith, producing a steelmarline-spike of about nine inches in length. "I saw this beauty inthe boat that brought me across the harbour, and, thinking it mightcome in useful, I annexed it. We'll start with this stone; it looksslightly wonky."

  While one listened at the door for the sentry, the other tackled thecement. Working in turns, they succeeded at the end of three hours'work in prising the slab from its bed. Underneath was a quantity ofrubble, bordered on one side by a stone slab.

  "We're breaking into the old trap-hatch," declared the pilot. "Wemust clear this rubble and get rid of it. I vote we carry on tillsupper-time, and then stand by till midnight. It will be a slowbusiness at first."

  Handful by handful the rubble was removed, and thrown cautiouslythrough the window on the seaward-side of the Mole. Before supperwas brought in, the stone slab that formed the only barrier bet
weenthe cell and the arch of the communication gallery was exposed.

  In good time the upper slab was replaced and dust rubbed into theexposed joints, so that the gaoler would not notice anything wasamiss.

  "To-night's the night," remarked Smith, as the two prisoners partookof their frugal, unappetizing meal. "We'll have a jaunt ashore, ifnothing else."

  "What day is it?" asked Alec. "I've lost all count of time."

  "Twenty-second of April," replied the pilot.

  "Good enough!" exclaimed Seton joyfully. "St. George's Eve--a goodomen."

  As night fell the two officers prepared to renew their task. IfSmith's surmise were correct, the actual business of breaking out oftheir cell seemed a fairly simple matter. Seton wondered why he hadnot thought of a similar plan before. Then he reflected that, had hedone so, and had the work of getting clear of the Mole beensuccessful, he would most certainly have attempted to make for theopen sea. The idea of bluffing the Hun by going inland and thenceacross the Dutch frontier had never occurred to him.

  Nevertheless the whole business was fraught with peril. The men wereliable to be shot at sight by the sentries; if recaptured they mightalso be executed as spies, since they were not in uniform. Withoutdoubt Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert would not be backward intaking any steps to make it decidedly unpleasant for them should theyhave the ill-luck to be recaptured.

  Directly the rounds had made their usual inspection and had takentheir departure, Alec and his R.A.F. comrade set to work. With only amarline-spike and two pairs of hands, the task of removing thecemented-in stone was a tedious and formidable one. They had toproceed cautiously and silently, lest the alert sentries detected thegrating of cold steel against hard cement.

  At intervals they desisted to listen. It was quite possible that thecommunication-tunnel might still be in use, in which case it wasfalling out of the frying-pan into the fire with a vengeance, and atthe expense of a terrific amount of hard and purposeless toil.

  "Wonder how goes the time," gasped Smith, pausing to straighten hisaching back and to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. "Gettingon for midnight, I should say."

  "No fear; it's not much past eight o'clock," replied Alec. "I'll justsee."

  He went to the seaward aperture and gazed skywards. The night wasdark and calm. The stars shone brilliantly, although obscured hereand there by patches of mist. In the northern sky the Great Bearflamed in stellar splendour. By its position with relation to thePole Star, Alec was able to confirm his surmise with a fair degree ofaccuracy.

  "It's certainly not nine yet," he reported. "We've eight hours ofdarkness; ought to do something in that time. By Jove, this cement'shard! Wonder if it came from England?"

  He took the marline-spike from his companion. It was wet and sticky.The pilot's hands, hitherto well kept and unused to hard manuallabour, were almost raw. Alec's were not much better, while everymuscle in his body and limbs was aching with the unwonted exertion.

  Yet doggedly they continued their work, each man relieving the otherat, roughly, a quarter of an hour's interval. The stone was beginningto show signs of working loose.

  "Wonder if any of our fellows will be over to-night," remarked theairman. "We don't give Fritz much rest."

  "It's been quieter to-day than ever since I've been here," said Alec."You were the last fellow to come over."

  "And stay here," added the other grimly. "Hope Fritz doesn't thinkthat one man being brought down will put the others off. If so, he'svastly mistaken."

  "I wish there would be a big raid or bombardment," declared the Sub."We'd have to run the risk of being strafed; but, on the other hand,Fritz would be much too busy to worry about us. What's the weight ofthis stone: three-quarters of a hundredweight?"

  "Quite," replied Smith promptly. He had been mentally calculating thecubic capacity and weight of that wedge-shaped piece of stone forhours past. "It's not the weight that matters so much. It's theawkward shape of the brute."

  For the next ten minutes the two toilers were silent. Every jab withthe now-blunted marline-spike was telling. The stone was almost readyfor removal.

  "Hist!" whispered Seton, holding up a warning hand. Although it wasnight, the stars enabled the men, accustomed to the sombreconditions, to see with comparative ease.

  "What is it?" whispered Smith.

  In reply Seton inserted the point of the spike into a crevice andpressed his ear lightly against the blunt end. His suspicions werenot ill-founded. The metal, acting as a transmitter of sound, enabledhim to detect footsteps in the corridor beneath.

  "Rough luck," remarked the pilot in a low tone.

  "We'll stand fast for a bit," decided Seton. "It may be that it'sonly a patrol or a party drawing stores. It's not far from midnightnow."

  As he spoke a gun barked a few yards off, quickly followed by anotherand another, until the masonry quivered and swayed with the terrificdetonations.

  Both men made their way to the window, which, unaccountably, theirgaolers had not closed by means of the metal shutter.

  Seaward avast bank of fog--whether natural or artificial the watchershad no means of telling--was punctured by rapid and vivid flashes oflight. Star-shells and search-lights illumined the sky. Shells werescreeching and bursting everywhere, until the sea and sky seemedblotted out with smoke and far-flung columns of spray.

  Suddenly Seton gripped his companion's arm, causing him to wince withpain, and pointed to an indistinct grey mass looming through the fog.It was a vessel, blazing away with quick-firers and heading straightfor the Mole.

  "Thank God for that sight!" ejaculated Alec fervently. "This is thebeginning of St. George's Day with a vengeance."