Читать книгу Grey Shadow - George E. Rochester - Страница 9

Von Orzt, seated on the right of General Putz, was the guest of honour at dinner that evening. Of necessity, as night-flying machines operated from Buhl, there was a great deal of informality about the meal. Every now and again a chair would scrape back and some pilot or navigation officer would clump from the room en route to his hut for flying-kit and maps.

It was only the day-flying pilots and one or two of the ground officers who could afford to linger over dinner, for their work was over until the following morning. And as they sat there, some quietly talking to their immediate neighbours, others laughing with genuine enjoyment at some passing jest, one would not think that these men—mere boys, a lot of them—rode daily with death high above the battle smoke of the Western Front.

But here and there at the table, grim testimony to the ceaseless toll of war, stood a vacant chair telling mute tale of one who, in the service of the Fatherland, had flown westwards never to return. And it was of this that Von Orzt presently spoke.

“Your casualties here must be very heavy, Herr Commandant,” he observed.

“Yes, they are,” agreed Putz sombrely. “But there”—with a shrug of the shoulders—“that is only to be expected when one considers the number of machines operating from this aerodrome.”

“There are many, then?” said Von Orzt, with polite inquiry.

“Yes,” explained Putz. “There are two fighting squadrons and two daylight bombing squadrons. They alone total forty-eight machines. Then there is the night-bombing squadron of ten machines, to say nothing of my big, twin-engined Gothas.”

“Gothas?” exclaimed Von Orzt, in surprise.

“Yes, Gothas,” repeated Putz. “You did not know that there were Gothas operating from here, eh, Herr Hauptmann?”

“I certainly did not,” replied Von Orzt.

“Neither do those fools of Englanders,” chuckled Commandant Putz, “for our Gotha hangars are well hidden.” He nudged Von Orzt with a fat elbow, and his voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “They are underground, those hangars—and are not on the aerodrome, either!”

Von Orzt stared with interest, and Putz went on:

“We have five Gothas here. They raid westwards into France and as far north as Lille. But those are only practice flights.” Again his voice sank. “Practice flights, do you understand?”

“No, I do not,” replied Von Orzt.

Putz hitched his chair closer to him.

“We are preparing for a raid on Paris,” he explained confidentially. “In conjunction with No. 1, No. 5, and No. 7 Squadrons, we are going to bomb the ammunition factories and aircraft factories which lie between the Gare du Nord and the Seine. It is all arranged. We are standing by, all ready to start, the moment word comes through from G.H.Q.”

“I do not envy your Gotha pilots,” said Von Orzt thoughtfully. “The aerial defences of Paris are very good.”

“They are!” agreed Putz. “But the raid is to take place on a moonless night, and my five machines will approach Paris from the south-west. The Frenchmen will not look for an attack from that quarter.”

He drained his coffee. Setting down the cup, he scraped back his chair.

“Perhaps, Herr Hauptmann,” he invited, “you would like to witness our night operations?”

“I would,” responded Von Orzt, with alacrity; and, pushing back his chair, he rose.

Out on the darkened aerodrome, vague and shadowy in the light from the dimly illumined hangars, stood the black-winged bombers which were to take the air that night.

Propellers were ticking over, and now and again there came a deafening roar as, under opening throttle, a machine swept away into the darkness, to rise up into the night sky and swing westwards towards the line, with its burden of high explosive bombs. For a few moments Putz and Von Orzt stood watching, then Putz touched his companion on the arm.

“Come,” he said, “and I will show you the Gotha hangars!”

Leading the way through a gate in the low hedge which bordered the southern side of the aerodrome, Putz piloted his guest along a well-worn path.

Twice they were challenged by sentries and allowed to pass on at a word from Putz. Then suddenly the commandant halted.

“Well, here we are!” he chuckled.

Von Orzt stared about him in the darkness. Nothing was to be seen save a long and uneven sloping mound.

“If this is a joke, Herr Commandant,” he began stiffly, “I fail entirely——”

“It is no joke, I assure you!” laughed Putz. “You cannot see the hangars, and because of that you think they are not here, eh? But they are here. Follow me, but step carefully!”

Moving forwards towards the mound, he led the way into the inky blackness of a low tunnel, which suddenly terminated in a flight of narrow and dimly illumined steps, up which drifted the mingled smell of petrol, fabric dope, and warm oil.

Descending the steps in the wake of Putz, Von Orzt found himself standing in a huge underground hangar, illumined by two electric bulbs suspended from the ceiling.

Taking up almost the whole of the floor space was a monster Gotha, its black wings folded back. Its engine cowlings and gun cases were off, and dungaree-clad mechanics and armourers were busily at work. In amazement, Von Orzt stared about him. It was common knowledge that the Gotha hangars near the line were invariably built underground. But he had never expected anything quite like this.

“But how do you get the machine out of here, Herr Commandant?” he demanded.

“It is towed out by tractor,” explained Putz. “You will notice that the hangar floor slopes steeply upwards away from the nose of the machine. The hangar doors are of steel and are controlled by an electric motor. They are built in at an angle of thirty degrees to the ground level. On the outside they are rough and jagged and painted green.

“There are five hangars here altogether. Their green, sloping doors form the bank of the mound which you saw outside there in the darkness. It is one of the greatest triumphs of camouflage ever carried out by our engineers!”

“And one well calculated to deceive the Englanders,” said Von Orzt softly.

“Yes; but the Englanders do not even suspect the presence of these hangars,” said Putz. “Their machines come over here photographing, and their squadrons come over bombing. But what they are after, apart from the canvas hangars out on the aerodrome, are my petrol and ammunition dumps.” Again he chuckled.

“And they have found neither. Nor will they ever! Herr Hauptmann, I was not appointed to the command of the Buhl for nothing. I am a clever man. My ammunition dump and my petrol dump are as well hidden and as well camouflaged as are these hangars. The Englanders will never locate them. But, come, I will show you round.”

He conducted Von Orzt on a short tour of the five underground hangars, which opened into each other, then led the way back to the mess. The officers’ ante-room was fairly crowded when they entered. One or two card games were in progress, whilst other officers off duty were sitting chatting, smoking, and reading.

“I have got some fine old liqueur brandy which you must try,” said Putz hospitably, having got Von Orzt ensconced in an armchair. “I will take a glass with you. And then I am afraid it will be necessary for me to leave you for a time, as I have business to which to attend——”

He broke off as Augswort appeared at his elbow.

“Well,” demanded Putz, “and what do you want?”

“A word with you in private, sir,” replied the adjutant.

Putz regarded him sourly.

“I will be with you in a few moments,” he grunted.

“I am sorry, sir,” returned Augswort firmly, “but I must speak to you now.”

“I tell you——”

“It is a matter of the most urgent importance, sir!”

Putz hesitated no longer. With a brief word of apology to Von Orzt he accompanied the adjutant from the room.

But outside in the corridor he halted abruptly, taking astonished stock of four grey-clad soldiers who were standing there with fixed bayonets.

“What are these men doing here?” he burst out. “Who placed them here?”

“I did,” replied Augswort. “There are others guarding all exits as well.”

“But what is the meaning of it?” exploded Putz furiously. “Are you insane?”

“No, I am merely taking certain elementary precautions,” replied Augswort. “If you will accompany me to your office, sir, everything will be explained.”

“If it isn’t,” spluttered Putz, “I’ll have you put under close arrest. D’you understand?” Simmering, Putz accompanied him to the commandant’s office.

“The daily news report has just come through from G.H.Q.,” said Augswort, having closed the door. “There is an item in it which will be of interest to you.” From the table he picked up a long, narrow, typewritten sheet of grey paper. “This is the item, sir,” he said, handing the paper to Putz and indicating a certain paragraph.

Impatiently Putz commenced to read. Then suddenly he tensed, eyes bulging in sheer amazement. For the typewritten paragraph, terse, cold, and official, was as follows:

“At 6.10 this evening the Hauptmann von Orzt was encountered by two British scouts over Arras and was shot down in flames.”

“But—but what does it mean?” Putz gasped.

Augswort shrugged his shoulders.

“It appears to mean,” he said dryly, “that Von Orzt was killed this evening.”

Putz made a throaty noise.

“But—but he’s sitting yonder in the mess!” he wheezed. “Have you corroborated this?”

“Yes, sir—by telephone.”

Sudden enlightenment came to Putz. And with it an awful, devastating rage.

“I see it now!” he roared, crumpling the paper savagely in his hand, purpling in the face. “He is an impostor! An impostor, I tell you!” He crashed a clenched fist to the table, eyes blazing.

“He has come here under false pretences. Adopted the name of Von Orzt to get in here! There’ll be a reckoning for this!”

“I hope,” interposed Augswort mildly, “that you have been discreet in what you have said to him?”

“Discreet?” bellowed Putz. “No, I have not been discreet. I have told him everything! Shown him everything! He’ll face a firing-party, that’s what he’ll face——”

He broke off abruptly, staring strangely at Augswort. Then——

“If it should be he—if it should be he——”

“If it should be whom?” questioned Augswort sharply.

“The English spy, Grey Shadow!” whispered Putz hoarsely. “This imposture—this walking in here and claiming to be Von Orzt—is typical of the methods of that cursed Englander! And I have been warned that he is back again in Germany——” He swung towards the door, and rapped: “Come with me!”

Back to the mess he went, and strode into the ante-room, the four armed guards from the corridor following at his heels.

“Arrest that man!” he thundered, pointing at Von Orzt, who was still seated in the armchair where Putz had left him.

Von Orzt leapt to his feet, and as he did so the guards closed in about him.

“Herr Commandant,” he grated, “what is the meaning of this?”

“It means, my fine English spy,” Putz sneered, “that I have been too clever for you!” And he struck his prisoner across the mouth with the back of his hand.

So violent was the blow that Von Orzt reeled backwards. Face deathly white and blood seeping through his broken lips, he recovered himself.

“General Putz,” he said, his voice harsh and strident in the hushed stillness of the room, “that blow will cost you your command!”

Putz gestured to the guards.

“Take him away to the cells!” he mouthed. “You, Kluft”—he wheeled on the duty officer—“see that a proper guard is mounted over him!”

Ten minutes later Putz was in telephonic communication with the headquarters of the German Intelligence Bureau in Berlin.

“I have captured a spy,” he informed them. “And”—he added—“I have my suspicions that he is the Englishman, Grey Shadow.”

Laying down the receiver, he turned to Augswort.

“We are to hold him here pending further instructions,” he said. “Those instructions may come through at any hour, so you will remain here on duty, Augswort.”

“Very good, sir!” replied the adjutant. Until midnight Augswort remained on duty in the office. Then, glancing at his watch, he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. Crossing the room he took his long field-grey coat and red-braided peaked cap from the peg on which they were hanging.

Donning them, he took one last look round the office, then stepped outside, quietly closing the door behind him. Without haste, he made his way to the hangars.

“I telephoned instructions half an hour ago to have the commandant’s machine made ready to take the air,” he said to the sergeant-mechanic on duty.

“Yes, sir,” replied the sergeant. “The machine is quite ready!” He led the way to where a double-seater Fokker was standing with engine ticking over.

“Commandant Putz has already retired for the night,” said Augswort, taking a sealed grey envelope from his pocket. “You will see that he gets this on rising in the morning.”

Swinging himself up to the forward cockpit, Augswort stowed his peaked cap away in the cockpit locker. A moment or two he spent in running the engine up on brief but searching test. Then, waving away the chocks from in front of the undercarriage wheels, he opened up the throttle and swept forward across the darkened aerodrome to soar up into the night sky.