Читать книгу The Fritz Strafers - Percy F. Westerman - Страница 6

A LONG and crowded train stood in Poldene Station prior to setting out upon the last stages of its journey from London to the Trecurnow Naval Base.

It was late in the autumn of 1917, and well into the fourth year of the titanic struggle that will go down to posterity as The Great War.

Save for a few aged male porters, half a dozen women of a type evolved by war-time conditions ("porteresses," a commander called them when hailing for some one to shift his gear from a taxi to the luggage-van), and a few keenly interested Devonshire children, the platform was devoid of the civilian element; but from one end to the other of the cambered expanse of asphalt pavement the down platform was teeming with officers and bluejackets, all only too glad to have the opportunity of stretching their stiff limbs after long and tedious hours of confinement in the train. Men whose moustaches were enough to proclaim them as members of the R.N.R. mingled with the clean-shaven or beardless stalwarts of the pukka navy, while others in salt-stained blue jerseys and sea-boots, hardy fishermen in pre-war days, were now about to fish for deadly catches—drifting mines.

Outside the open door of a carriage, almost at the end of the train, stood two officers. One was a medium-size, dark-featured man whose rank, as denoted by the strip of purple between the gold rings on his cuffs, was that of engineer-lieutenant. The other, a tall, powerfully-built youth—for he was not yet out of his teens—sported the uniform of a sub-lieutenant of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve.

"It's a great wheeze—absolutely," declared the engineer-lieutenant, who was explaining a technical matter in detail to his deeply interested companion. "The double-cam action to the interrupted thread is some scheme, what? You follow me?"

"It certainly ought to put the wind up Fritz," admitted the sub. "But there's one point that I haven't yet got the hang of. The sighting arrangements may be all very well, but how about refraction?"

"We make due allowance, my festive," replied the engineer-lieutenant. "You see—hullo, you're not smoking!"

"Quite correct," agreed the junior officer. "Quite correct, Tommy. Matter of fact, like a blamed idiot I left my pouch in the smoking-room and never found it out until I arrived at the station. Too late to buy any off the stalls, you know."

"Cigarette?" The engineer-lieutenant's silver cigarette-case was proffered with the utmost alacrity. "You don't smoke 'em as a rule, I know, but in the harrowing circumstances——"

"Thanks," exclaimed his companion. Then deftly tearing the paper he roiled the liberated weed between the palms of his hands and filled his pipe.

"Rather unorthodox, what?" queried the engineer-lieutenant, smiling at the sight of a fellow ramming choice Egyptian cigarette tobacco into a briar.

"Possibly," admitted the other. "The main thing is that I've filled my pipe."

He struck a match, effectually shielding the light by his hands after the manner of men accustomed to do so in the teeth of a gale. "Now to return to earth once more."

"Slogger, by all that's wonderful!" exclaimed a crisp, full-toned voice. "What is dear old Slogger doing down in this part of the country?"

"Cadging tobacco," replied the R.N.V.R. man. "Also looking after the welfare and morals of a party of bluejackets. Bless my soul, Holcombe, this is great. Let me see—three years, isn't it, since we knocked up against each other?"

"Three years and two months," admitted Sub-Lieutenant Holcombe. "I saw your appointment announced and meant to write to you. Somehow I didn't. Why? Ask me another. I can't tell you. What's your ship?"

"The 'Tantalus,'" replied Farrar. "We're just off on convoy duties to the West Indies. Oh, by the way, let me introduce you to Tommy."

"Too late, old bird," exclaimed Holcombe, shaking hands with the engineer-lieutenant. "Tommy was in his last term at Osborne when I joined. D'ye remember that topping rag we had at Cowes, Tommy? Of course you do. An' I hear you dropped in for a chunk of kudos in the Jutland scrap?"

"Oh, dry up, do!" protested the modest hero. "What's your packet?"

"The 'Antipas,'" replied Holcombe. "Just commissioning."

"New destroyer, isn't she?" inquired Farrar.

"Yes; the old boat of that name piled herself on the rocks on the East Coast. We've got a topping skipper—Tressidar's his name. We're off Fritz-hunting in the Irish Sea, I hear. Not quite so exciting as the North Sea, perhaps, but I've had enough of the Auldhaig Flotilla Patrol for the present, thank you. Hullo, who's the Brass Hat?"

He indicated a tall, florid-featured Staff Officer in the uniform of a major who was striding between the press of bluejackets in the direction of the rear portion of the train. By his side walked a huge St. Bernard dog, muzzled and held by a massive steel chain.

"Hanged if I know," replied Farrar. "I didn't see him at Paddington, but that's not saying much. Suppose he's giving an eye to those Tommies in the fore-part of this packet. Fine dog, anyhow."

Orders were shouted along the platform. Rapidly the navy folk boarded the train until the major stood almost alone in the resplendent glory of his immaculate uniform.

"Guard!" he exclaimed peremptorily. "I want to accompany this brute in your compartment. He doesn't like a crowd, but he's quite safe when I'm with him."

"Very good, sir," replied the guard, touching his cap. "We're just off, sir."

"Wonder who the Brass Hat is?" reiterated Holcombe. "Did you notice that he didn't seem at all keen on salute-hunting? Kept well this end of the platform, and didn't have a pal to speak to. Well, if he is a hermit, he'll have solitude and repose in the luggage van. Dashed fine dog," he added in endorsement of his chum's declaration. "Advantage of having a Service chap for a master: no jolly worry about feeding the brute."

For some minutes silence reigned. The officers in the compartment were studiously watching the unsurpassable Devon scenery as the train swept through the coombes of the shire of the Sea Kings.

"Wonder when we'll see this sight again?" remarked Farrar. "Dash it all, I love the sea as a brother, but I'm jolly glad to get a sniff of the land after days and weeks of steady steaming. That's where you destroyer fellows score: a week or ten days is your limit."

Holcombe smiled.

"Think yourself jolly lucky, my festive volunteer," he rejoined. "You've generally dry decks, plenty of room to move about, and enough variety of companionship to save you from quarrelling with your messmates through sheer boredom. Try a destroyer for a change, and then see if you are of the same opinion. By the by," he added, "heard anything of the Moke?"

"Sylvester? Rather!" replied Farrar. "He's a prisoner in Hunland. Collared at Mayence when war broke out. Last I heard of him was that he was at Ruhleben."

"Poor bounder!" muttered Holcombe. "Was his governor collared too?"

"No; the Moke appears to have done rather a smart thing," answered Farrar. "He had a pal with him, it appeared, and the pal was taken queer and had to go to hospital. Sylvester had good reasons for supposing there was trouble ahead on the political horizon, so he bundled his parent down to Basle and made him promise to stop there until he heard from him. Meanwhile the Moke goes back to Mayence and stands by his chum, knowing that there was a thousand chances to one that he would be detained—and he was."

"Sort of Pythias and Damon, eh?" remarked the engineer-lieutenant.

"Sporty of him," added Holcombe. "Hullo, this looks a bit rotten. We're running into a fog."

The train was nearing a lofty double-spanned bridge across a wide river. The hitherto double track had merged into a single one, as the railway swept through a deep cutting on to the embankment that formed the approach to the main structure. Patches of mist were drifting slowly down the river, and although it was possible to see from shore to shore, the low-lying valley was blotted out by the rolling billows of vapour.

A great-coated sentry pacing resolutely up and down was a silent testimony to the importance of the bridge, and to the vigilance of the authorities, while a little way from the embankment could be seen a "blockhouse" outside of which other members of the guard were "standing easy."

Half way across the bridge the train pulled up. Immediately windows were opened and the long line of carriage windows were blocked with the faces of the curious bluejackets, the men taking advantage of the stop to engage in a cross-fire of chaff with the occupants of the adjoining carriages.

Ten minutes passed, but the train gave no sign of moving. Once or twice the driver blew an impatient blast, but the distant signal stood resolutely at danger.

"Nice old biff if the train did happen to jump the rails just here," remarked the engineer-lieutenant.

"Shut up, Tommy!" exclaimed Farrar. "You're making Holcombe jumpy."

"Stow it, Slogger!" protested the sub of the 'Antipas.' "I'm only going to have a look out. Here, I say; cast your eye this way."

"Periscope on the port bow, eh?" inquired Tommy facetiously, as the two men made their way to the window. "Gangway there, Holcombe. You ask us to admire something, and at the same time you block the view with your hulking carcase. I say, something fishy—what?"

Lying on the permanent way, almost abreast the front part of the guard's van, was a small leather suit-case, to the handle of which was attached a thin cord. Evidently some one had an object in wanting to dispose of the case, for an endeavour had apparently been made to swing it under the carriage; but, the cord breaking, the attempt had been frustrated.

"Jolly queer," agreed Farrar. "If any one wanted to get rid of the thing why didn't he heave it over the bridge? Here's the guard. We'll call his attention to it.... Suppose it's all right?"

The guard came hurrying along the permanent way. He had been conferring with the engine-driver as to the probable reason for the delay and had come to the decision to allow the train to proceed at a slow pace as far as the next station—a distance of about a quarter of a mile beyond the bridge—since it was impossible for a train coming in the opposite direction to enter the "block sector" at which the signal was at danger.

"Don't know how it came there, sir," declared the guard, when the derelict bag was brought to his notice. "It certainly wasn't there when I went by five minutes ago. Sure it's not your property, gentlemen?"

He spoke after the manner of a long-suffering official who ofttimes has been the victim of a practical joke on the part of facetious passengers.

"Not ours," replied Farrar. "Perhaps the driver's dropped his war-bonus?"

"Most-like the Army gent with the dog has got rid of some surplus rations, sir," countered the guard.

"Quite possible," agreed the engineer "luff" with a grin. "You ask him."

The guard clambered on the footboard and swung himself through the open doorway of the van. In five seconds he was back again.

"He's not there, sir," he reported, "and the dog neither. You didn't by any chance see him go along the permanent way?"

The three officers descended. Owing to the fact that the train was standing in a curve only two carriages were visible from where they stood. From the nearmost one an engineer-commander and a gunnery lieutenant were watching the proceedings with bored interest.

"Going to give the train a friendly leg-up, Tommy?" inquired the engineer-commander.

"We've found some one's kit, sir," replied the young officer, picking up the case and fumbling with the lock.

"Hold on!" exclaimed Holcombe warningly. "This isn't quite all jonnick to my fancy."

"What are you fellows doing?" asked the "gunnery-jack." "Shove the stuff in the scran-bag and don't keep the train waiting all day."

Holcombe took the bag from the engineer sub's hands and made his way to the carriage occupied by the last speaker.

"What do you make of this, sir?" he inquired. "We fancy it belonged to a Staff Officer—the one with a St. Bernard, you may remember—and he's left the train since we've been here."

The lieutenant examined the exterior of the derelict with rapidly increasing interest.

"Hang it all!" he exclaimed; "I'll take all responsibility. Here goes."

And with a powerful heave he hurled the bag over the edge of the bridge.

Seven seconds later a terrific crash rent the air. The pungent fumes of acrid-smelling smoke eddied between the lattice-work girders.

"Thought as much," remarked the lieutenant with a cheerful grin on his bronzed features. "Yankee troop train due about now, eh? Only waiting until we were clear of the bridge? Lucky for us we are over the centre of the span, or that stuff might have given the piers a nasty jar. Staff Officer, you said?"

"Yes, sir," replied Holcombe.

"Beat up a dozen hands," continued the lieutenant briskly. "I'll bear the brunt if they are left behind. We'll see if we can run this mysterious Brass Hat to earth. I say, Curtis," he added, turning to the engineer-commander, "he's had at least five minutes' start. Bet you a box of De Reszke's we catch the chap within an hour."

"Done," replied the other.