Читать книгу Grey Shadow - George E. Rochester - Страница 8

General Putz, commandant of the great day-and-night flying aerodrome of Buhl, had got his flabby bulk wedged into a chair. And with his feet on a paper-littered and blanket-covered table he was mopping with a silk handkerchief at his perspiring face.

He was not a pleasant sight as he lolled there, wheezing and grunting, his high-necked tunic unbuttoned three-quarters of its length. But there, what did it matter what he looked like? Who was there to see him, save his adjutant?

None dare walk into this, the commandant’s office, without first being interviewed outside by the adjutant. And by the time they were admitted—if they were admitted—then he, General Putz, would be seated very erect at his table, tunic buttoned, and pen in hand.

There were many who wondered how such a one as General Putz had come to be appointed to the command of Buhl aerodrome. He had a pull in influential circles, some said—friends on the general staff.

But they were wrong, those who said that Putz had been appointed to the command merely through influence. Flabby though the man might be, he was a Prussian soldier of the old school. In other words, he knew to the full what the phrase “blood and iron” meant. And he knew how to get the last ounce out of his men, be they merely a miserable fatigue party or pilots of the crack fighting squadron stationed on the aerodrome.

“It has been a good day, Augswort.” Commandant Putz paused in the mopping of his brow to address his adjutant, who was busily writing.

“Yes, sir?” Augswort looked up inquiringly, pen poised.

“Yes, a good day!” added Putz ponderously. “We have dropped forty bombs on the rest-camps behind the Line between Ouchy and Rambervilliers. Also, my machines have shot down five Englanders.”

“Yes, but eleven of our machines have failed to return,” interposed Augswort mildly. “Eight of them are posted here on the flying-list as having been shot down either in flames or out of control. The other three are missing.”

“Those three will return before darkness,” Putz grunted, and scowled. “They have had forced landings, maybe.”

The telephone bell trilled shrilly. Stretching out his hand, Augswort lifted the receiver.

“A call from Angou, sir,” he said, turning to Putz. “The Hauptmann von Orzt has crashed three kilometres from the village, and requires a motor-car for himself and a salvage lorry for his machine.”

Hastily the commandant swung his feet to the floor, and ejaculated:

“The Hauptmann von Orzt? Then say that a car will be dispatched immediately. Also a salvage lorry. Is he coming on here?”

“Apparently so,” replied Augswort, turning again to the telephone.

“But this is good news!” wheezed Putz, when the adjutant had replaced the receiver after ordering the car and salvage lorry to proceed immediately to the scene of the crash. “Von Orzt, eh? Often have I wished to meet him. He will stay the night most likely.”

“Yes, most likely,” agreed the adjutant.

“Then I must away and smarten my appearance!” exclaimed Putz, rising. “Ring through to the officer of the mess and tell him who is coming, and say that I shall expect everything at dinner to be of the best possible.”

Putz waddled towards the door. Reaching it, he halted.

“Von Orzt,” he informed his adjutant impressively, “received his Iron Cross from the gracious hands of his Imperial Majesty himself. It was a great honour for one so young to receive an audience at the palace of Potsdam. A very great honour!”

With that he departed. But within the hour he was back, sleek, well-groomed, and resplendent in the uniform which he used only when high officers of the German general staff visited the aerodrome on their periodical tours of inspection.

And thus Von Orzt found him, seated at his blanket-covered and paper-strewn table looking very efficient and very businesslike.

“I have to thank you, Herr Commandant, for the speedy dispatch of a car to my assistance,” said Von Orzt stiffly, after he had been ushered into Putz’s presence by the duty officer. “It arrived almost before I expected it.”

Putz, already on his feet, bowed.

“Do not mention it, Herr Hauptmann,” he returned. “It is a pleasure to be permitted to give some little aid to one who is rendering such invaluable service to the Fatherland in this its hour of need.”

Augswort, bent over his papers, grinned. It was only three days ago that he had taken up his duties as adjutant of Buhl aerodrome. But it had taken him less than half that time to weigh Putz up as an arrant snob.

“I was distressed beyond measure to hear that you had crashed, Herr Hauptmann,” Putz went on. “Was it engine failure, if one might be permitted to ask?”

“Yes, engine failure,” Von Orzt replied, “and the fact that my rudder and aileron controls were shot almost to shreds.”

“You don’t say so!” gasped Putz, wide-eyed in horrified dismay. “You had been in a fight then?”

“Yes, with four English Sopwith scouts,” replied Von Orzt. “But”—with a shrug of his leather-clad shoulders—“I did not get the worst of it. I sent three of them down in flames, and I would have got the fourth had he not bolted for home.”

“There!” gasped Putz. “Did you hear that, Augswort?”

“Yes, I heard it!” admitted Augswort dryly.

Von Orzt glanced at him sharply, then turned again to Putz.

“Ground officers,” he said, with a thinly veiled sneer, “are notoriously unenthusiastic. Your adjutant, I am afraid, is no exception to the rule.”

“Then I trust,” said Augswort, “that you will pardon what you acknowledge to be a common failing amongst us. Perhaps it is a failing accounted for by the fact that we of the infantry have seen too much of the blood-stained bayonet to be impressed by a riddled machine.”

“Augswort!” exclaimed Putz angrily.

“I have said my say, Herr Commandant,” grunted the adjutant, and busied himself again with his papers.

With podgy hands Putz gestured apologetically to Von Orzt. They were so uncouth—so very uncouth—these infantrymen, who, through wounds or other unfitness, got themselves transferred to ground jobs with the Air Force!

Augswort was typical of them—gruff, blunt, or sarcastic, as the occasion might demand. They could see little or no romance in the air, these fellows from the trenches. Nothing at all of high adventure. No, their thoughts and their sympathies were always with their comrades in the Line.

Well, he, Putz, would show Augswort that there were as many perils to be faced in the air as ever there were in the trenches. He would draw Von Orzt out and make him talk of this fight with the English Sopwiths.

“So one of the Englanders bolted, you say, Herr Hauptmann?” he recommenced. “How like the cowards!”

“Yes, he bolted,” Von Orzt said. “But I do not think I would go so far as to call him a coward, Herr Commandant. Bear in mind that he had seen his three companions go down in flames, and that he knew whom he was fighting.”

“Ah, yes!” said Putz eagerly. “Your black machine. He would know it was you, Von Orzt. How they must hate you, those Englanders! They will be putting a price on your head next!”

“I am afraid so,” murmured Von Orzt modestly.

“And those three machines you have shot down this evening?” pressed Putz. “They bring your total up to what?”

“Seventy-one!”

“Seventy-one!” repeated Putz admiringly, staring at Augswort as though to make sure that that individual heard. “Seventy-one! My word, that is a colossal figure!”

From the drawer in his table he produced a book bound in well-worn leather covers. At sight of it, Augswort, who had raised his head, grinned contemptuously. He knew that book. It contained the autographs of all the famous personages whom Putz had met during his career, first as a cadet and then as a soldier.

“I wonder if you would be so good, Herr Hauptmann,” said Putz, a trifle awkwardly, “to humour a small whim of mine and do me the honour of adding your signature to my collection? I may add”—he swelled with visible pride—“that it will rest in excellent company.

“I have here the signatures of his Imperial Majesty, of the Crown Prince, of General Hindenburg, of Ludendorf, of Admiral von Tirpitz, and countless others. The Baron Richtofen’s is also here. Now, if you will be so good as to sign here——”

He opened the book, then grew suddenly rigid, his florid face purpling. For confronting him, on what should have been a virgin page, was a pencilled caricature which he had no difficulty in recognising as being a gross libel on himself.

“Who has done this?” he exploded furiously.

“Me!” said Augswort calmly.

“You?” Putz gasped. “Then what d’you mean by it, sir?”

“I meant it as a modest contribution to your collection,” replied Augswort. “A little surprise for you. I thought you would like it!”

“Like it!” quivered Putz. “Like it? I shall speak to you later, you—you——”

Words failed him entirely. At least, such words as were permissible in the presence of the Hauptmann von Orzt. Recovering himself by an effort, he turned again to the latter individual.

“We will leave your signature until later, Herr Hauptmann,” he said thickly. “Come, I will walk with you to your quarters.”

Returning the book to the drawer, he escorted his distinguished guest from the room.

“If I were you,” said Von Orzt, when they were outside, “I should get rid of that fellow.”

“To-morrow,” promised Putz venomously, “I shall communicate with the High Command and demand that they detail him for immediate service in the trenches!”