Читать книгу Grey Shadow - George E. Rochester - Страница 10

It was an hour after dawn when Commandant Putz was roused from slumber by the thunderous reverberations of exploding bombs. Scarce had he thrown back the bed-clothes, in panic and alarm, than a white-faced officer of his staff burst unceremoniously in to the room.

“We are being bombed by four British squadrons, sir!” panted the officer. “The petrol dump is in flames and the Gotha hangars are in ruins——” A sudden, long-drawn, deafening roar which shook the hut cut in on his words.

“And—and that,” he said, through chattering teeth, “sounds like the ammunition dump going up!” His supposition was correct. And when Putz had hurriedly dressed and rushed out on to the aerodrome it was a terrible spectacle of devastation which met that individual’s furious eyes.

The British squadrons had gone. But they had left behind them a trail of ruin which would take many a long week to repair!

Where the ammunition dump had been was now a great smoking crater. Hangars were lying in charred and smouldering ruins, and blood-red flames from the burning petrol dump were leaping high into the air of early morning.

The long mound which had been the roof of the Gotha hangars was now a ploughed and smoking area of warped and twisted steel.

“Those squadrons were acting on information, sir,” a grim-faced flight-officer spoke by Putz’s side. “They concentrated on the petrol and ammunition dumps and on the Gotha hangars.”

“But where,” demanded Putz wildly—“where did they get the information from?”

It was later in the morning that he learnt where they had got the information from!

He learned it when he discovered that Augswort was missing, and when he found time to read the letter which his late adjutant had left for him:

“My dear Putz” (ran the missive), “what a conceited jackanapes Von Orzt is!

“It was because of that, that I could not resist, last night, the inserting of a paragraph in the News Report stating, quite erroneously, that he had been killed.

“And oh, my Putz, how you swallowed it! Yes, swallowed it whole, and played up as I wished—but scarcely dared hope—you would.

“I have no doubt that a night in clink with a dirty blanket and a three-plank bed will have taken some of the conceit out of our clever young friend.

“I am taking your autograph album away with me, my Putz. Did it never occur to you how useful those signatures of High Personages would be to us? But have no fear. We will not say that we have the album—and you dare not!

“In conclusion, you may be wondering how I came to be your adjutant. It is very simple. The real Augswort boarded the train at Munich, but he never reached Buhl. You will understand how impossible it is for me here to go into details of his—shall we say—misadventures. It is sufficient to say that it was I who arrived at Buhl in his stead.

“The rest you can guess.

“Yours sincerely,

“Grey Shadow.”

“P.S.—There is one page from your autograph album which I intend to return to you. I should like to think that you will treasure it in memory of me.”

And three weeks later that particular page arrived in an envelope bearing the postmark of Cologne. Withdrawing it from the envelope, Putz recognised it as the one which had borne the impudent caricature of himself. But side by side with the caricature was now another drawing. And as Putz examined it, apoplectic rage boiled up in him anew.

To project a plan of Buhl aerodrome from a caricature of the face of the commandant! Putz almost foamed at the mouth at such impudence.

There it was, the whole thing as plain as a pikestaff. His left ear marking the quarters of the personnel. His right ear marking the location of the petrol dump. The badge on his helmet giving the location of the ammunition dump. His moustache giving the sweep of the hangars. And his medals—his medals!—making the location of the hidden Gotha hangars!