Читать книгу Grey Shadow - George E. Rochester - Страница 7

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It was very pleasant reclining there by the side of the road, puffing at pipe and cigarette whilst the sun set slowly in a blaze of golden glory behind the distant Vosges. Were it not for the dull, incessant rumble of guns echoing over from the westward, one could easily forget the War in such peaceful surroundings.

“Always those guns!” grumbled Sergeant Schwarg. “Donner! What must the cost of ammunition be?”

Corporal Lieb, asprawl on the turf beside him, slowly emitted a cloud of blue smoke from between his bearded lips.

“The cost of ammunition, eh?” he rumbled. “You do not speak of the cost of lives, sergeant!”

“Lives do not count!” retorted Sergeant Schwarg. “We can spare more lives than shells.” With the stem of his pipe he indicated the two long-barrelled, tarpaulin-covered guns and the searchlight mounted on the lorry which was drawn up on the road in front of them.

“I have been in charge of this anti-aircraft battery now for five weeks,” he went on. “In that time, as you very well know, we have shot down three Englanders and one Frenchman. But is that enough? No! I have been reprimanded for wasting shells!”

“Ja, it is a terrible war,” sighed the corporal, half-humorously, bringing a laugh from the other four grey-clad soldiers who comprised the crew of the battery.

“Well!” The sergeant pocketed his pipe and rose. “We had better be continuing our patrol towards Saarbrucken——” He broke off, turning abruptly towards the west. To his ears had come the noise of an aero engine. Shading his eyes with his hand he stood rigid and motionless. Then suddenly he relaxed.

“A Fokker!” he exclaimed. “Flying low with engine trouble!” From out of the sunset, with engine spluttering, and at a height of less than a hundred feet, came lurching a black Fokker scout.

“He has been in a fight, that one,” said Corporal Lieb, eyeing the swaying wings. “He is going to land!”

The nose of the Fokker had dropped. Under closing throttle the intermittent roar of its engine died away, and there came the shrill whine of wind through flying wires and struts as the machine circled unsteadily for a landing.

At thirty feet it passed over the heads of the sergeant and his men. Then, obviously out of control, the port planes dipped steeply and the machine side-slipped to the ground, to crash with a splintering of wooden framework and a tearing of riven fabric.

Sergeant Schwarg led the rush to assist the pilot. But before he could reach the machine, the lithe figure of a man in black flying-kit crawled from out of the wreckage and rose shakily to his feet.

“Are you hurt, Herr Offizier?” panted Sergeant Schwarg, running up.

The other shook his head. He was young and his sharply-cut features were very pale. He was wearing no goggles, and there was that in his cold, blue eyes and about his thin, firm-lipped mouth which stamped him as one older than his years.

“No, I am not hurt,” he answered curtly. “Where is the nearest telephone?”

“There is one at the village of Angou, Herr Offizier, three kilometres along the road,” answered the corporal. “You have been in a fight, yes?”

The other ignored him, addressing himself to the sergeant:

“You will proceed to the village,” he rasped, “and telephone Buhl aerodrome. You will inform them that the Hauptmann von Orzt has crashed here and awaits a car for himself and a salvage lorry for his machine.”

“Yes, Herr Hauptmann!” gulped the sergeant, rigid at the salute, but gaping in amaze. This Von Orzt? This young, pale-faced and black-clad pilot the famous Von Orzt who already was reputed to have sixty-eight enemy machines to his credit?

But there could be no doubt about it. Von Orzt wore black flying-kit and flew a black Fokker scout. That fact was well known on both sides of the line—from Ostend to the Swiss frontier.

What a bit of good fortune it was that he, Sergeant Schwarg, should have been on hand to render assistance to this hero—to this great air ace of the Fatherland!

“What are you staring at?” Von Orzt’s voice was harsh and impatient. “Get on to Angou with my message!”

“Yes, Herr Hauptmann!” Smartly the sergeant turned about. In sharp, strident tones, modelled remarkably well at such short notice on those of Von Orzt, he ordered his men to the gun lorry, had it started up, and swung himself up alongside the soldier who was driving.

“Quickly now!” he snapped. “Lose no time!”

The grey-clad driver released the heavy brake and let in the clutch. And as the lorry vanished towards Angou in a cloud of dust, the black-clad Von Orzt produced a cigarette-case from the pocket of his flying-coat and proceeded to await the arrival of the car from Buhl.