Читать книгу The Trail of Death: War Adventures of the Flying Beetle - George E. Rochester - Страница 5

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Consciousness returned slowly to the Flying Beetle and as it did so his eyes flickered open and he looked about him in dawning wonderment.

He was swathed in bandages and was lying in bed in a small and sparsely-furnished room. Seated by the side of the bed watching him intently was a thin and elderly man in shabby civilian attire.

Apparently the man, whoever he was, had been waiting for the lad to regain consciousness, for seeing him awake, he rose and shuffled from the room. The door closed behind him and there came to the ears of the Flying Beetle the faint click of a key being turned in the lock.

Minutes passed—long minutes during which jumbled recollection of the dog-fight with the Fokkers came back to the lad. His head was aching agonisingly and he felt strangely limp and weak.

Murmured voices on the other side of the door drew his attention. Then suddenly the key clicked back, the door opened, and a young man stepped into the room.

He, also, was in civilian attire, but his pale features were drawn and haggard as though through long suffering and his right arm hung withered and misshapen in its sleeve.

With a pitiful, halting limp he crossed slowly to the bed and stood looking down at the Flying Beetle.

“You are awake, then, m’sieur?” he said, speaking in French, and the smile which accompanied the words wiped something of the pain from his haggard features and lent a momentary but wondrous sweetness to his face.

“Yes,” replied the Flying Beetle weakly, staring up at him in puzzled wonderment. “But I do not understand. You are French, are you not?”

The other bowed his head in assent.

“Yes, m’sieur, I am French,” he said. “My name is André Fontnoy!”

“But,” persisted the lad, his wonder deepening, “I crashed in Germany!”

“Pardon, m’sieur,” corrected Fontnoy quietly, “you crashed in Alsace!”

“Which is German territory,” pointed out the lad.

“Yes, German territory,” agreed the other and there was a quiver in his voice. “A little while longer they may hold it, these cursed Prussian Junkers, but already their field-grey hosts fall back and the shadow of defeat hangs heavy over Germany. I know what I know, m’sieur, and soon now the armies of Britain and France will push forward to the Rhine and Alsace will pass again into the hands of France!”

The Flying Beetle was silent. He knew what this André Fontnoy meant, for it was common knowledge that there were many in Alsace who, being of French blood, eagerly looked forward to the day when their beloved France would once more take possession of Alsace, that lovely fertile province which had been wrested from her by the mailed fist of Prussia at the close of the Franco-Prussian War.

“Will you please tell me how I came to be here?” asked the Flying Beetle quietly, breaking the sudden silence.

“You crashed within a kilometre of this house of mine, m’sieur, which stands isolated and alone, some twenty kilometres south-east of Metz,” answered Fontnoy. “You have the good God to thank that you were not killed. Your aeroplane hit the ground in what I think you call a side-slip. You were thrown clear of the wreckage which took fire. At least you were not thrown quite clear, but Jacques—he is my manservant, m’sieur—with whom I was out walking, ran and pulled you away from the flames. I,” with a pitiful, twisted smile, “I could not have helped much. You see, m’sieur, I am paralysed in my right arm and side and have been so since birth!”

“What can I say to thank you for what you have done?” began the lad.

“Nothing, m’sieur!” interposed Fontnoy quickly. “We require no thanks. For two days we have kept you here and nursed you, and——”

“How long?” interjected the Flying Beetle in astonishment.

“It is two days since you crashed, m’sieur,” explained Fontnoy. “And during those two days death has hovered very close to you. But you will get better now, and Jacques and I will keep you hidden here until you are strong and well enough to attempt an escape from this country. M’sieur, you must not be taken prisoner. You do not know the horror of some of these prison camps of Germany!”

The Flying Beetle stared up at the man in blank amazement.

“Do you mean to say,” he demanded, attempting to raise himself on his elbow, “that the Boches don’t know I’m here?”

“No, m’sieur, they do not!” replied Fontnoy. “They came, of course, later in the morning to inspect the wreckage of your machine, but none had seen Jacques and I carry you here and they think you crawled away to die somewhere. They were very sure you had been badly wounded!”

“It’s a wonder they didn’t search this house,” remarked the Flying Beetle, slowly.

“But they did search it, m’sieur,” said Fontnoy. “Jacques and I were prepared for that, however, and we had hidden you beneath some old planks and sacking in one of the cellars here. The Boches did not search much beyond my wine cellar and you, unconscious, never stirred!”

“But, good Heavens, man, don’t you realize that you’ll be taken out and shot for harbouring me if the Germans ever find me here?” cried the lad aghast.

“I realize that, of course,” answered Fontnoy quietly, “and it is a risk which I most willingly take. M’sieur,” he went on, his haggard, pain-drawn face working strangely, “you do not know how I have thanked the good God from the very bottom of my heart for this opportunity which He has given me to aid our cause—the cause of France and Britain. I have not been interned because the Germans do not know that my sympathies are heart and soul with France. Nor does the German expect hurt from a poor cripple such as I. On the eve of war I tried to reach France, but I was too late. The frontiers were closed in a night and I was forced to remain here!”

“But, Fontnoy,” began the Flying Beetle in distress, “I cannot allow you to risk your life——”

“Is life then so sweet for such a one as me?” cut in the other bitterly. “Is it so sweet that I should fear to face a German firing squad? And what better death could I die than in the service of my country?”

He bent his head, his left hand clenching until the knuckles showed white through the skin.

“One thing only do I ask of life before I die,” he said in a low, choking voice, “and that is to see justice done to the man who murdered my brother!”

He looked at the Flying Beetle, his eyes burning.

“You are an airman, m’sieur,” he said, “and maybe you have heard of him, that thrice-damned Prussian Junker, for he is a famous war ace!”

“His name, Fontnoy?”

“Is the Hauptmann Gerhard von Platz,” grated Fontnoy, “and daily, hourly, I have prayed that he might be sent earthwards in flames which, for him, would be the flames of hell!”

Days drifted on and, hidden in the attic of Fontnoy’s house, the Flying Beetle progressed slowly through convalescence to health. Fontnoy spent long hours with him and a strangely deep affection for the poor cripple grew in the lad’s heart.

Often when he was alone the Flying Beetle would find himself thinking of Fontnoy’s ill-fated brother, Louis, and of how the latter had met his death at the hands of the Hauptmann Gerhard von Platz.

“It is the cursed arrogant blood of the Potsdam Prussians which flows in the veins of von Platz,” Fontnoy had said. “He spent many of his boyhood days on an estate near here, owned by his father. Louis and I were boys, also, at the time and we saw much of von Platz and came to know him well. Often we quarrelled, von Platz and I, for he, happy in his splendid health and body, would make a mock of me, a helpless cripple. He took care, however, not to let Louis hear him, nor did I complain to Louis, for I knew too well my brother’s hot blood and hasty temper!”

“There came a day, however, when Louis did hear him and the thrashing he gave von Platz will live for ever in my memory. But the years rolled on, m’sieur, we grew up—and there came the eve of war. Von Platz was here on his father’s estate. Never had he forgiven Louis for that thrashing and I knew he hated Louis. Out there in our garden, m’sieur, on one of those hushed summer evenings which immediately preceded the outbreak of war, von Platz taunted my brother about the Alsatian blood which flows in Fontnoy veins. They quarrelled—and Louis struck him!”

“But not this time was it settled with boyish fists, m’sieur. There were others there who saw that blow and von Platz demanded satisfaction. It was a duel, m’sieur, for not yet had duelling been forbidden in Germany. Von Platz is deadly with the rapier—and Louis had never handled one. Yet this affair of honour demanded clean steel—and Louis died. M’sieur, it was cold-blooded and deliberate murder on the part of von Platz, for it was to this end that he had goaded Louis into striking him. Even as a boy he had sworn he would one day repay the thrashing Louis had given him, and now he had repaid in full!”

“And have you ever seen Gerhard von Platz since this happened?” the Flying Beetle had asked.

“Yes, indeed!” Fontnoy had replied. “I have seen him often, for since he commenced operating from the aerodrome situated on the outskirts of Metz he makes it a practice to come here to dine with friends of his whom he brings with him. Yes, m’sieur, you may stare, but it is so. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than for me to refuse him admittance, or to quarrel with him myself. I repeat, m’sieur, he hates the Fontnoys and his presence here is a calculated and deadly insult. Yet if I offend him he will denounce me to the High Command either as a traitor or as a dangerous pro-Ally, and if I am not shot, then I will be sent to an internment camp. That is what he would like to see happen, but I will not afford him the satisfaction of seeing me being put away. I wait, m’sieur, for I know in my heart that some day if I am patient I will see Louis avenged. I know I puzzle von Platz by my silence about Louis, but he will not trap me as he trapped my brother!”

The more the Flying Beetle pondered the matter, the more he was convinced that under the circumstances Fontnoy’s attitude was the wisest one. After all, the facts as the world knew them were that Louis Fontnoy had struck the first blow and had been killed in clean fight for his presumption. Hostility on the part of André Fontnoy could only result in misery, and maybe death, for the poor cripple. No, André Fontnoy was wise to bide his time.

There came a day when he brought a German air service uniform to the Flying Beetle.

“I have procured this from Munich, m’sieur,” he said. “It was not difficult, for one does not require a permit to purchase an officer’s uniform. You are almost well now and in this uniform you will have a better chance of reaching either the line or the frontier. I suggest you make for Switzerland, but beware of the bloodhounds of Mülhausen and beware of the Swiss frontier guards, many of whom are in German pay. I want you to leave here to-night!”

The Flying Beetle took the grey, high-necked uniform and looked steadily at the cripple.

“Why is it that you suggest I leave here to-night, André?” he asked.

“Because, m’sieur, I do not think you will be safe here much longer,” replied the other.

“Why?” demanded the lad.

Fontnoy was silent a moment and when he spoke his voice was low and troubled.

“Because, m’sieur,” he said, “to-night von Platz comes here again and brings with him his friends. It will not be safe for you to be in the house!”

The Flying Beetle stared at him, his eyes glinting.

“Safe?” he repeated with a grim laugh and took Fontnoy’s arm in his firm, strong hand. “It’ll be safe enough, André, old friend. Ever since you told me your story I’ve been hoping against hope that I might meet this Gerhard von Platz beneath your roof. I was intended for the Diplomatic Service and I can speak German like a native. Listen, André, I have a plan and if all goes well, by to-morrow night you will be back in your beloved France and Louis will have been amply avenged. Now listen carefully!”

.....

That evening, his young face pale but composed, the Flying Beetle, in the uniform of the Imperial Air Service of Germany, sat at dinner with André Fontnoy, the Hauptmann Gerhard von Platz and four other officers whom the latter had brought with him from Metz.

Acting on the lad’s instructions, Fontnoy had introduced him as the Hauptmann Alberich von Federkiel, on leave from the School of Aerial Fighting at Düsseldorf, and as such the Flying Beetle had been accepted by von Platz and his companions without question.

Dinner was served by old Jacques, the manservant, and as the meal progressed, the Flying Beetle covertly studied the German ace whose methods in the air were as merciless and unscrupulous as they had been in his dealings with the late Louis Fontnoy.

No wounded Allied pilot, spinning earthwards in the death plunge or pulling out of a fight with controls shot to ribbons, ever received any mercy from von Platz.

He would follow the unfortunate down, riddling him again and again, driven by the sheer lust to kill. Stragglers, limping home after an encounter with German anti-aircraft guns, or with machines on offensive patrol, were his favourite game. Lurking high in the blue or in the cover of the white fleecy clouds, he would spot his man, then down he would come in a screaming dive, his synchronized gun roaring its message of death.

But whatever one might think of his methods, they were at least successful, and steadily his bag was mounting.

He was a tall, thin, fair-haired man with the high cheekbones and arrogant carriage of the Prussian. His pale-blue eyes were hard as chilled steel and his mouth was thin-lipped and cruel.

Time and again the Flying Beetle felt his blood boil as von Platz shot some thinly-veiled taunt at the poor, malformed cripple to whom von Platz’s very presence in the house was torture.

Yet any refusal by André Fontnoy to entertain the great ace would sooner or later inevitably recoil upon himself, and because of his supreme faith that the slowly grinding mills of God would one day crush this slayer of his brother, the cripple had steeled himself to wait.

So he sat in brooding silence throughout dinner, his eyes on his plate, and it was when the coffee and liqueurs were circulating that, leaning back in his chair, von Platz said with a smile:

“You are strangely quiet to-night, my André. Come, man, be more cheerful. Listen, I will give you a toast. To-day I claimed my sixty-ninth victim. A Frenchman flying a Spad. That’s thirty-two Frenchmen I’ve accounted for, André. Thirty-two cursed Frenchmen. Well,” he raised his glass, “here’s to my seventieth victim and may he, too, be a Frenchman!”

“I sincerely hope for your sake that he may be,” said the Flying Beetle pleasantly.

Von Platz stared at him.

“You mean?” he said icily.

“I mean,” replied the Flying Beetle, “that I don’t doubt for one moment that you would prefer meeting a Frenchman to an Englishman!”

There was a moment of tense silence. Slowly von Platz put down his glass. His chair scraped back and he rose. His face was pale with suppressed passion and his thin-lipped mouth was drawn into a cruel and livid line.

“I demand an explanation of that remark!” he rasped.

“Oh, certainly!” replied the Flying Beetle. “What I meant to convey was that whilst being a good fighter in the air, the average Frenchman is admittedly not so good as the average Englander. That, Herr Hauptmann, is why I said I do not doubt you would prefer to meet a Frenchman!”

There was no mistaking now the deadly insult in the words. With blazing eyes, von Platz glared at the seated boy.

“If you are being deliberately offensive,” he began in a dangerous voice.

“Yes, I am being deliberately offensive!” cut in the Flying Beetle rising swiftly to his feet. “And for why? Because, Herr Hauptmann, you are nothing more than a loud-mouthed swaggering braggart and I welcome this opportunity of being permitted to tell you so. Anyone could get victims as you get them. Anyone could shoot down wounded and blinded enemy pilots, as you do. It is men like you, Herr Hauptmann, who make of war a fouler and more bestial thing than it already is. You are, let me tell you, a disgrace to the uniform you wear!”

Von Platz’s face was white with passion, but somehow he held himself in check.

“You understand,” he choked, “that there can be only one answer to what you have said!”

“Yes!” replied the Flying Beetle with a shrug of his shoulders. “One answer, as you say. A court martial for gross insolence to the Hauptmann von Platz who will doubtless prefer to protect his honour thus!”

There was no one in the room who did not understand the purport of those words. They were tantamount to a challenge, yet the challenge must come from von Platz.

It did!

“My honour is in my own safe-keeping,” he said harshly. “I shall prove that to you one hour after dawn!”

The Flying Beetle nodded.

“Let us dispense with seconds for the moment,” he said. “The choice of weapons lies with me?”

“That is so!”

“Then I choose the aeroplane and the synchronized gun,” said the Flying Beetle grimly. “You and your friends flew here in your machines and I can take one of them. I shall meet you in the air, Herr Hauptmann, one hour after dawn!”

He turned to the silent, staring others.

“As for you, gentlemen,” he said, “I suggest that whatever the result of this duel may be, you give your word that your story will be that the loser died in an accidental crash!”

“That is agreed!” interposed von Platz harshly, answering for his friends.

.....

High in the morning sky, one hour after dawn, wheeled the two Fokker scouts engaged in a battle to the death.

They had made contact at ten thousand feet and for eight minutes they twisted, rolled, looped and dived, each pilot striving desperately for the mastery.

The Flying Beetle was fighting with a threefold purpose. The shooting down of von Platz would mean the avenging of Louis Fontnoy whose brother, at the risk of his own life, had sheltered and tended the injured boy; it would mean, also, that no longer would von Platz ride the skies, taking grim toll of Allied machines, and it would mean life and liberty for the lad.

But von Platz was fighting with a cold and terrible rage and there came a moment in that fight when he had the Flying Beetle completely on the defensive.

With vicious gun aflame he tore in at the Flying Beetle who, yanking back his control stick, went hurtling up and up in a wild, soaring zoom.

But von Platz followed, grimly intent on finishing off this insolent cub from Düsseldorf. The Flying Beetle’s dashboard shattered into riven wood and splintered glass, and bullets tore through wings and fuselage.

But keeping the control stick back, the Flying Beetle completed a whirlwind loop, and swerving on the downward dive, tore straight in at von Platz, blood-red flame stabbing from the muzzle of his blazing gun.

The cartridge belt was whirling madly through the chamber and the acrid fumes of burning powder swept back past cockpit windshield in the swirling slip-stream of the thundering propeller.

Von Platz flung his Fokker into a spin from which he emerged with a sudden roar of high-powered engine to tear earthwards in a thundering dive.

Above the roar of his engine sounded the shriek of wind through flying wires and struts, then back came the stick and the Fokker went up and up into the grey of early morning in a wild and almost perpendicular zoom.

Grimly the Flying Beetle followed, but already von Platz had rolled and was driving in at the boy with gun aflame.

The Flying Beetle flung his Fokker about in a sharp wing turn, but his lower starboard plane was holed again and two bracing wires were streaming loosely back in the slip-stream of the whirling propeller.

Behind his goggles, the lad’s eyes were hard and grim. Except for one fleeting instance the fight, so far, had been all von Platz’s. By superb piloting the lad pulled clear of the stream of bullets from the Fokker’s snarling gun, then whipping forward his control stick he went screaming earthwards, swerving madly on the dive.

Crouched over his controls, his thin lips drawn back in a wolfish grin, von Platz followed. In his heart was wild exultation, for he had got the measure of this upstart from Düsseldorf and he knew it. So long as he kept harrying him mercilessly, so long as he held the offensive, the end was inevitable.

The Flying Beetle glanced over his shoulder at the Fokker which was hurtling down on his tail, sticking to him like a leech. Only the wild swerving of his machine on that frenzied downward dive was saving him from the bullets of von Platz’s gun and he knew it.

Then suddenly his foot jerked hard on the rudder bar and he whipped the control stick across. The Fokker whirled out of the dive with a jar which sent the lad sagging wildly against the side of the cockpit. Bracing wires tautened and struts bent ominously to the terrific strain.

But grimly the Flying Beetle kept his foot pressed on the rudder bar and, with stick across, completed a whirlwind bank.

Von Platz, taken completely unawares by the amazing swiftness of the manœuvre, yanked back his stick in a frantic effort to pull out of his dive in a soaring zoom.

But already the Flying Beetle was tearing in at him from the flank, bullets from his blazing gun raking the Fokker of von Platz from engine cowling to cockpit.

With a choking scream von Platz leapt to his feet, a hole torn through the breast of his flying jacket. Then as he collapsed lifelessly over the controls, the Fokker dropped its nose and went screaming earthwards with engine thundering at full revolutions. A tongue of flame licked back from its riven petrol tank, spreading with terrifying rapidity.

Passing his hand wearily across his brow, the Flying Beetle swung his Fokker westwards towards the line. He flew low, for he had no wish to be attacked by British machines out on dawn patrol.

The moment the line was crossed he put the Fokker into a spin, and thinking he was crashing, the British gunners and infantry held their fire.

Straightening out at less than fifty feet, the Flying Beetle dumped the Fokker down behind the reserve trenches in a pancake landing which burst the undercarriage.

He was promptly taken prisoner, but by noon his identity had been established and he was on his way to Wing Headquarters at Le Courban.

And under cover of darkness that night, a Bristol Fighter landed as near as possible to the lonely house of André Fontnoy, and taking him and old Jacques on board, winged its way westwards into France.