The Scarlet Impostor

by Dennis Wheatley

  It seemed to Gregory that they walked for a long time, and once they had to fling themselves flat at the warning wail of an approaching shell which passed close over their heads to explode some fifty yards behind them. Now and then they heard the muttering of voices in the darkness and glimpsed shadowy figures belonging to infantry detachments that had been relieved or stretcher-bearers coming down the line.

  At last, after they had been challenged for the fourth time, Laurent said: ‘Here we leave the road. In daylight this point is visible from the German lines.’ He led the way between low walls of sandbags down a flight of wooden steps and into a broad, duck-boarded trench.

  The trench zig-zagged from side to side and they blundered along it in an inky blackness which was now and again dispersed by the glare of a Very light sent up from the advance trenches. After a time they were challenged yet once more and a crack of light appeared in the side of the trench from a dugout that was being used as a Battalion Headquarters.

  From that point on the communication-trench grew narrower as they plodded steadily onwards and cut across several others, but owing to the darkness they sensed rather than saw these intersections except when an occasional Very light went up or Captain Laurent flashed his shaded torch for a second to make sure that they had not taken a wrong turning in the maze. Another challenge, this time in a low voice, halted them again. They had reached the headquarters of one of the Companies actually holding the front line.

  Having given the password for the night Laurent stopped and fumbled at the side of the trench until his fingers closed upon a heavy anti-gas blanket. Lifting it a little, he flashed his torch and the others followed him inside, down a few steps and past a second gas curtain into the dugout, a low, boarded, underground room about twelve feet square, lit only by a couple of candles stuck in the necks of bottles.

  As Gregory glanced round he felt as though the past twenty-one years had been merely a dream. This was no Maginot Line with lifts, bathrooms, dining-halls and electrical equipment. They were now in territory twenty miles beyond the outermost of those great underground barracks but as there had been no advance on this sector since the third week of the war the French had had time to dig themselves in and to create the same sort of rough-and-ready, underground living accommodation that Gregory had known in the great trench systems of the last war.

  The dugout was blue with cigarette smoke and held a fuggy warmth for which they were grateful after the bitter cold outside. Nearly a third of it was occupied by two beds made of wire netting, on one of which there lay snoring a young officer, unwashed, grimy and fully dressed except for his boots and overcoat. Revolvers, steel helmets, binoculars, water bottles, gas-masks and map-cases were strewn about where they had been thrown down, or dangled from nails hammered into stout posts. The board walls were adorned with a few artistic, coloured prints of nude girls, torn from the pages of Esquire and La Vie Parisienne. Another third of the floor space was taken up by a good-sized table at one end of which were piled dirty plates and mugs while at the other the Company Commander was scribbling away with an indelible pencil, making up returns.

  He glanced up as they entered and nodded to Laurent. Then, noticing de Brissac’s rank badges, he stood up and saluted. Laurent made the introductions, during which Gregory learned that the Company Commander’s name was Moreau, but Gregory himself was introduced as ‘notre ami about whom you have received instructions.’

  ‘We’re all ready for you, Monsieur,’ Moreau informed him. ‘A raiding party is to be sent out to stir up a little activity so that in the ensuing confusion you may have a chance of getting into the enemy front line unobserved.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Gregory. ‘I’m sorry that you should have to expose your men on my account, but unless we give their sentries something to occupy them I may be spotted coming in from no-man’s-land. If that occurred when none of them had been out they’d probably think I was one of their men who’d been trying to desert, and it’s very important that I should avoid being questioned until I get well behind their lines.’

  Moreau nodded his agreement. ‘If only the enemy artillery doesn’t become too active we’ll be all right,’ he said, ‘but they’ve been much more restive on this front lately, and last week they made quite a big push further north. Will you have a drink before we start?’

  ‘I’d love one,’ Gregory smiled, and picking up a bottle of brandy Moreau poured stiff tots into four enamel mugs.

  ‘Bonne chance, mon ami!’ De Brissac raised his mug to Gregory, and the others followed suit. The brandy was fiery stuff but it warmed Gregory up for the dangerous business that he knew lay head of him.

  ‘Shall we go?’ asked Moreau, stubbing out his cigarette, and as Gregory nodded Laurent said: ‘Well, I leave you here. Good going, and a safe return!’

  Gregory shook hands with him and then extended his hand to de Brissac, but the dark, good-looking Major shook his head. ‘Don’t be a fool, Gregory. Naturally, I am going with you as far as I can.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Gregory growled. ‘We can’t afford to risk the absolutely unnecessary loss of brilliant young Staff Wallahs.’

  De Brissac’s smile broadened into a grin. ‘You forget, my friend, that you are under my orders and I have instructions to see you safely on your way. No arguments, now. Every moment of darkness is precious to you now that the enemy has settled down for the night. We must not waste time in talking.’

  Gregory knew his friend too well to protest any further, so he followed Moreau out through the anti-gas lock and up into the darkness.

  They traversed several more trenches before they came to a deeper one which Gregory guessed to be the front line. Sentries were standing at intervals along the fire-step above them and in one of the bays Moreau held a whispered conversation with another officer, after which he turned, fumbled for Gregory’s hand and shook it, saying:

  ‘This is Lieutenant Gautier, who is to lead the raid. Stick close to him and he will take you through our advance posts and wire. Good luck to you.’

  ‘This way!’ said another voice, and taking Gregory by the arm Lieutenant Gautier guided him along the trench to a place where a small sap made it easy to climb from the fire-step on to the parapet. As Gregory went up the N.C.O.s were already passing the whispered word along the line and other men were scrambling up on to the parapet on either side of him. Gautier came round in front and de Brissac took up his position by Gregory’s side.

  ‘The enemy trenches are about half a kilometre away,’ whispered Gautier. ‘A rise in the ground partially covers us from here so we can walk the first hundred metres, but if they send up a Very light fling yourselves flat.’

  Slipping and stumbling they went forward over the uneven ground. Suddenly Gautier pitched forward with a muffled curse and it was only just in time that Gregory stopped himself from following the Lieutenant head-foremost into a freshly-made shell-hole that had been concealed by the darkness.

  Gautier crawled out on the far side and again they advanced. No sound broke the stillness save the squelching of their boots in the mud and the dull mutter of the guns. The distant sky was faintly lit by a constant flickering, like summer lightning, as the forts in the Siegfried Line shelled the French rear, but immediately ahead there was unrelieved darkness.

  All at once a flash of bright light appeared only a quarter of a mile distant. Soaring upwards until it was about eighty feet above the ground it turned in a graceful curve and sank slowly earthwards, lighting up the whole scene as vividly as daylight.

  The instant that the Very light burst Gregory and his party flung themselves flat in the mud, but by its light he saw figures just ahead of them.

  ‘One of our advance machine-gun posts,’ muttered Gautier. ‘We don’t run to concrete pill-boxes here.’

  The men ahead were crouching on the foremost lip of a big crater, protected only by a few sandbags over which their gun was sighted.

  As the Very light went out the raiding party advanced again
. Passing the machine-gun nest they plodded up a broken slope on the crest of which they came to barbed-wire. Gautier told them to remain where they were for a moment and meanwhile he crawled about on his hands and knees until he found the passage through the belt. At his whispered order they followed him, now squirming on their bellies in the muck and slime.

  Gregory knew that at any moment after they had passed the wire they might come upon an enemy patrol or raiding party, so he took from his pocket the automatic he had brought with him and went forward with it at the ready, now crouching as low as he could.

  A shell whined loudly over their heads, to burst with a roar in the trenches behind them as they flung themselves face down on the wet earth, and for seconds after the explosion they could hear the sods which it had thrown up falling around them.

  They had now covered half the distance and were going forward with the utmost caution, advancing for a few steps at a shuffling run, then pausing for a moment to listen. At last they reached the enemy wire and the worst part of the business began. While Gregory and de Brissac lay still on the waterlogged ground Gautier produced a pair of wire cutters and started to cut his way through the wire ahead of them.

  As each strand snapped it emitted a faint ‘ping’, quite loud enough to alarm anyone who might be within thirty yards or so. They expected a Boche machine-gun to open fire upon them at any second. The cold was intense, and to remain inactive was a horrible nerve-racking business.

  It took Gautier a quarter of an hour to cut his way through, and even when he had succeeded the barbs on the loose strands of wire clawed at their clothes and their naked hands as the three of them struggled through the narrow passage he had made. On their bellies the whole time now they squirmed forward through squelching, clinging mud that smothered their clothes and weighed them down.

  Suddenly a shot rang out a little way to their right.

  ‘Come on!’ growled Gautier hoarsely, and jumping to his feet he began to run towards the enemy trench system.

  The shot was followed by another; then a machine-gun came into action and made the night hideous with its staccato clatter. Over the German trenches, now only a hundred yards away, a Very light burst then another and another, throwing the uneven ground into sharp relief Gregory caught a glimpse of the French soldiers who had cut their way through the wire on either side of his own party at the same time as Gautier. They were all in the act of scrambling for cover, and the next second he himself had sprung down into a waterlogged shell-hole and was standing knee-deep in icy water beside Gautier and de Brissac. Several machine-guns came into action before the Very lights sank and faded.

  With the return of darkness the three scrambled from the shell-hole and dashed forward again. A blinding flash cleft the blackness ahead of them, and with a sharp cry Gautier stumbled and fell. De Brissac’s automatic barked twice as Gregory threw himself down beside the fallen Lieutenant. They dragged him back into the shell-hole and when they were under cover de Brissac switched on his shaded torch.

  Blood was streaming from Gautier’s mouth. A big fragment of a hand grenade had shattered his chest and lung just above the heart; he was already dead.

  Shouts, curses, and shots now sounded from every side. Gregory and de Brissac left the dead Lieutenant, crawled out of the crater and staggered on, clearly visible now in the flashes of the rifles and machine-guns and of the grenades which were exploding all about them.

  Suddenly a series of louder explosions added to the din. The enemy had called for artillery support and shells were bursting among the French troops as they strove to cover the last hundred yards to the German trenches.

  Gregory was running on when de Brissac grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down. ‘It’s no good,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll never make their trenches while this is going on. We must wait until it’s died down.’

  The French artillery had now come into action. Lurid bursts of flame splashed the blackness of the German trenches, and acrid clouds of smoke half-obscured the hideous scene. For ten minutes the artillery duel and machine-gun fire continued unabated while Gregory and de Brissac cowered, shivering where they lay, their faces pressed against the cold, wet earth and their fingers clawing the mud, knowing that at any instant they might be blown sky-high or feel their flesh rent by a shell splinter. Both were brave men but both were sweating, not with the fear of death but with the fear of being transformed in a flash from conscious human beings to screaming imbeciles by some insupportable agony of pain.

  Gradually the hellish din grew fainter as the shelling ceased. The Germans knew that the French attack had been broken and that there was no need to expend further ammunition. The French fire ceased shortly afterwards. The machine-gunners of both sides kept it up for a while, then they too fell silent. The German Very lights flared less frequently and once more darkness closed down over no-man’s-land, hiding the dead and the dying. Apart from the never-ceasing rumble of the distant guns the only sound was the shrieking of some poor wounded wretch further along the line who had probably got caught up in the German wire while trying to drag himself back to the French trenches.

  ‘They’re on the alert now,’ whispered de Brissac, ‘so you’ll have to be mighty careful, but you haven’t far to go and with luck you’ll be able to slip into one of their saps unobserved.’

  ‘Right. Then I’ll leave you,’ Gregory whispered back. ‘No sense in your coming any further. Thanks, old friend, for having seen me so far.’

  De Brissac fumbled for Gregory’s hand in the darkness and wrung it. ‘Good luck, mon vieux, good luck! We’ll drink a bottle of Chambertin together yet when this filthy war is over.’

  Gregory left his friend and crawled forward. He was now a little uncertain of his direction as he had lost his bearings in the excitement of the attack, but after he had covered about thirty yards a Very light from the German trenches showed him that he was heading too far to the right. As it burst he wriggled forward and slid down into a shell-hole. The light was a dud and fizzled out almost as soon as it had exploded.

  Crouching there in the darkness he became suddenly aware that someone else was beside him in the shell-hole. He could hear the man’s faint breathing.

  Was it a Frenchman or a German?

  Next second he knew. Another Very light burst high above him, revealing a soldier in khaki.

  Gregory was ready with his pistol, but so was the Frenchman with his rifle. Gregory saw mingled fear and intent to kill dawn in the man’s eyes.

  Momentarily Gregory had forgotten that he was in German uniform. With sudden horror he realised that he was in a most ghastly fix. He could not kill the Frenchman who was glaring at him and in the split second that it would have taken to pistol the fellow had he been a German he saw the man’s finger crook itself round the trigger of his rifle.

  Gregory’s mouth fell open. His eyes started from his head. He was staring straight down the rifle barrel and the point of the bayonet attached to it was only two inches from his gaping mouth.

  26

  A Quiet Night at the Front

  In a violent effort to save himself Gregory threw up his arm, knocking the rifle aside just as it went off, and his steel helmet rang like a gong as the bullet struck it. Fortunately he had knocked the man’s rifle up so far that the bullet merely grazed the top of the helmet and glanced off without penetrating, yet the blow almost stunned him, knocking him backwards against the side of the shell-hole.

  The bullet ricocheted away with a loud whine. As he staggered backwards his feet slipped from under him. He fell, dropping his pistol as he clutched at the wet earth to save himself. As he lay spread-eagled and half dazed in the icy water at the bottom of the shell-hole, he heard the splashing of his attacker’s feet he came charging forward. Just as the Very light sank from view Gregory glimpsed the Frenchman towering above him, his rifle now raised and pointed downwards. The man was about to bayonet him in the stomach.

  ‘Kamerad!’ he gasped. ‘Kamerad!’

 
; ‘Think I’m going to risk my life taking you back?’ cried the Poilu with a blasphemous oath. ‘Your number’s up, Boche. Take this!’

  As Gregory strove to hurl himself aside from under the downward-plunging bayonet, a voice from above him rapped out ‘Attention! No prisoners are to be killed. We require them for questioning.’

  Between Gregory’s desperate wriggle and the darkness the man’s stab had missed Gregory’s body, but the bayonet had pierced the loose part of his tunic and pinned him to the ground.

  The newcomer scrambled down into the crater and flashed his torch on Gregory’s face.

  ‘I’ll take charge of this man,’ he said swiftly to the Poilu. ‘Get back now as quickly as you can and rejoin your company.’

  With a feeling of incredible relief Gregory recognised de Brissac’s voice.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked the man doubtfully.

  ‘I am Major de Brissac. I was with your Lieutenant Gautier, who has just been killed. Sharp now! Do as I have said!’

  ‘Oui, mon Major,’ muttered the man. ‘It’s a pity, though, that you turned up just then. Another minute and the swine would have been dead.’ Then, placing his heavy boot firmly on Gregory’s stomach, he gave a sharp heave and pulled his bayonet out of the ground.

  When the man was out of earshot de Brissac gave a low laugh. ‘That was a near one! What a good thing it was that I’d made up my mind before you started to follow you and see you safely right up to the Boche trenches!’

  ‘Thank God you did!’ murmured Gregory fervently, as he struggled into a sitting position and readjusted the box, which had been wrenched sideways across his back in the fall. ‘I doubt if I’ve ever been nearer to cashing in my chips. But why the hell didn’t you do something sooner, if you were just behind me?’