The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  The country he was traversing was partly ploughed stubble, and by avoiding the newly turned furrows he left no footprints to guide his pursuers. Reaching a road, he crossed it and slowed to a walk. If only he had the vaguest idea where he was.

  Estimating his bearings as well as he could, he steered in the direction in which he judged Poulière to have landed. Hope and despair alternately buoyed him up and weighed him down. Nothing but the knowledge that those black crosses were equivalent to his death warrant kept him from abandoning the seemingly impossible task.

  It was ridiculous to imagine that Poulière would have remained in the one place. Once on the ground he would have gone directly to his friends. That might be anywhere. At the same time there was always a possible chance of meeting him, Martin told himself desperately.

  He had been walking for nearly ten minutes and his hopes were fading fast when he spotted a patch of white flapping against the trunk of a tree. It was the abandoned parachute and since it must have been blown to its present position, it suggested that Poulière had come down to windward of it.

  As he stood debating what to do next, Martin sensed rather than saw a slight movement on his left. At once his pulses raced with the anticipation of capture; then he realized it was a single figure outstretched on the ground and he sighed with relief.

  A moment later he was kneeling beside the prostrate form of the man he sought. The spy was conscious although he was in a very bad way. Both his legs were fractured and his clothes were battered and torn where he had been drawn along the ground at the end of his parachute harness.

  With his heart torn with pity for the poor creature’s plight, Martin raised his head and endeavoured to make him more comfortable.

  Evidently Poulière recognized him for his features twisted into the semblance of a smile.

  “It opened too late,” he whispered. “I fell so hard—so hard. Then it dragged me right across the field. Oh——hh!”

  He blubbered distressfully at the recollection.

  “Poor old chap,” said Martin softly. “What damnably hard luck. But try not to worry about it. Now I’ve found you, I’ll see you’re all right. I hate to leave you like this, but it’s only to get help.”

  Poulière slowly shook his head.

  “It’s no good, Monsieur Anglais, I’m—I’m finished.”

  “Nonsense!” Martin tried to reassure him. “They’ll have you in bed in no time.”

  He rose abruptly to his feet and looked about him. There was only one thing to do in the circumstances, he told himself firmly. He must surrender immediately and appeal to the humanitarian instincts of his captors to attend to Poulière’s injuries.

  The only thing that made him hesitate was the disagreeable fact of Poulière’s calling. However much he tried to camouflage the accident, the Germans could not help but place the correct interpretation upon it.

  Whilst he had no doubt that they would give all the attention necessary to his shattered limbs, Martin had an uneasy feeling that Poulière would inevitably be brought to trial once he was restored to health.

  Was anyone ever in such a damnable predicament, wondered Martin. It seemed utterly futile to hand Poulière over to his future executioners for medical treatment, but he must in common decency do something. But what could he do? If only the girl would turn up she would know where to find a Belgian doctor.

  The man at his feet shuddered convulsively and Martin bent over him once more. Poulière was trying to say something; his mouth was working, but no sound would come. His hand plucked feebly at his coat.

  Endeavouring to elucidate the message the injured man was attempting to convey, Martin felt in the ragged garment and drew out a packet of papers. Poulière’s expression told him he was on the right track.

  “You wish me to destroy these?” he asked, and received a nod of affirmation.

  “Very well, but——”

  Martin got no further. Poulière’s head had fallen limply to one side. Death had solved his problem for him, reflected Martin and, despite the pitiful tragedy of the spy’s ending, could not help a feeling of relief.

  A moment later the relief vanished from his mind to be replaced by an overwhelming dismay. As long as Poulière was alive he had been too preoccupied to consider his own position; now he realized that his last hope of succour had gone.

  He had been counting so much on Poulière’s helping him; without Poulière he might as well have stayed by the smashed Bristol. Some of the Belgians might be willing enough to shelter him, but how was he to discover their whereabouts? In a British uniform with every German in the district on the lookout for him he had as much chance of eluding capture as a mouse in a roomful of cats.

  Almost at once he perceived a way out of his dilemma; why should he not change places with the dead man? He could speak French sufficiently well to pass as a Belgian and if he wore Poulière’s clothes and adopted his identity there was a strong possibility that no German would succeed in penetrating his disguise.

  The idea was utterly reckless, no doubt, and would be overwhelmingly difficult to carry through, but surely any hazard was worth attempting when death was the sole alternative.

  No sooner had the thought formed in his mind than he set to work. Carrying the corpse deeper into the wood he began the grisly task of stripping it. It was a slow and arduous job in the darkness and it took over an hour before it was completed.

  With Poulière’s remains now attired in the uniform of a Royal Flying Corps pilot he reattached the harness of the parachute and arranged the body artistically to make it appear that death had resulted from a hard landing. Then, thrusting the Belgian’s papers into the pocket of his own tattered garments, he prepared to run the enemy gauntlet.

  His intention was to make for the house he had glimpsed from the air immediately before the Bristol crashed. It lay on the farther side of the wreck and he would have to be very careful how he approached it. The German search-party would treat any civilian caught out at that time of night with scant courtesy.

  Retracing his steps from the wood, he was within a few hundred yards of the road when he became aware that a solitary figure was approaching diagonally across his path. At once he stepped out of sight behind a group of haystacks; he did not yet feel sufficient confidence in his disguise to risk a premature encounter.

  The figure passed within a few feet of where he was standing and peering through the darkness he recognized the girl who had declared herself to be Poulière’s fiancée.

  “Hist!” he called softly. “Venez ici, Mademoiselle. C’est moi.”

  Clotilde halted abruptly at his cry and for a moment he thought she was going to bolt.

  “Are you the Englishman?” she asked incredulously.

  Martin emerged from his ambush.

  “Yes, I——”

  He broke off as she screamed in sudden panic; he had overlooked his changed appearance.

  “Shush!” he warned. “Please don’t be frightened. I——”

  “Where is Jacques?” she broke in. “I’ve been searching for hours. There was a party of Germans and I was forced to hide.”

  Martin bit his lip; telling her was not going to be very easy.

  “I’m afraid he’s met with an accident,” he said slowly.

  She caught her breath and clutched at her shawl.

  “Is he—dead?” she whispered.

  “Yes, Mademoiselle.”

  He explained as briefly as he could, but when he revealed that he had stripped the dead man of his clothes Clotilde protested violently.

  “How could you do such a thing; it was sacrilege. How can he be buried in his own name when they think he is an English officer?”

  It had not occurred to Martin that Poulière’s relatives might consider his strategy offensive.

  “I’m most terribly sorry, but it was the o
nly thing I could do. I——”

  “Sorry,” she cried contemptuously. “What do I care for your sorrow. What about my sorrow and the sorrow of Jacques’s father and mother?”

  For the life of him Martin could not think of a suitable reply. He had believed that the local Belgian inhabitants would be ready and willing to assist him, but if they regarded his action as desecration of the dead it looked very much as though he would be forced to fend for himself.

  “I was only thinking of escaping my enemies,” he confessed lamely. “I was hoping you would be willing to help me.”

  Clotilde shook her head furiously.

  “I wouldn’t help you if—— What was that?”

  She clutched fearfully at his arm.

  Listening intently, Martin could hear the faint clink of military accoutrements. The sound seemed to come from all around.

  “Germans!” he said tersely.

  “Then we must run. Quick, quick, this way.”

  She dragged him round the corner of the rick and would have dashed into the open had not Martin restrained her. There were more of the enemy on this side. He could see them advancing relentlessly in extended order.

  His mouth went suddenly dry as he realized they were surrounded. Someone must have heard the girl scream, with the result that the haystacks had been encircled by a cordon.

  This was the end. His little subterfuge could not avail him now. They might accept his story for the moment, but when they found Poulière’s body so close to the site of his capture the inference would be obvious. Besides, there were those papers in his pocket.

  He lugged them out and gave them to the girl.

  “These must not be found whatever happens,” he declared earnestly. “They were Poulière’s and will prove he was a spy.”

  “But what can I do with them?”

  “Destroy them when you get a chance.”

  He lifted her to the top of a partly built rick.

  “Lie low until they’ve gone,” he whispered.

  Squaring his shoulders, he raised his hands above his head and walked boldly into the open.

  “Kamerad!” he roared. “Kamerad!”

  There was a sharp word of command and the nearest section broke into a double. Rough hands seized Martin and hustled him before the commander of the detachment.

  The officer, an infantry Captain, regarded his prisoner sternly in the light of a torch. He was decidedly peevish from having been ordered out of a comfortable mess to conduct the search, and he had no room for sympathy in his heart.

  “Who are you and where do you come from?” he demanded in raw French.

  “Jacques Poulière of Veldeghem,” answered Martin meekly, “if it please you, Monsieur.”

  “It doesn’t please me at all. If you ask me, you’re a spy.”

  He gave an abrupt order in German.

  “Detail four men, sergeant-major, and take him directly to the Kommandant. That’ll keep the old sheep’s head quiet for a bit. The rest break up and carry on as before. There’s no-one else amongst those stacks, I suppose.”

  Martin held his breath for the answer; despite her unreasonable anger against him he felt a strong liking for her.

  “Nein, Herr Kapitan, all clear here.”

  “Very well then, march!”

  The detachment moved off toward the wood whilst Martin and his escort proceeded stolidly along the road to Veldeghem.

  There was ample time to think on the way which Martin utilized in an endeavour to estimate his chances. Try as he would he could not bring himself to believe that the old sheep’s head would be taken in by his impersonation; those black crosses on the Bristol were too clear an indication of the real facts of the case.

  By the time they reached the Kommandant’s headquarters he had made up his mind to tell the truth. If he had to die, and there seemed very little doubt about his fate, he would much rather face his end as a British officer than as a Belgian spy. Besides, his confession would give the girl the satisfaction of burying her lover in his right name.

  But he was not to be allowed to unburden himself that night. The Kommandant was in bed, and since no-one dare disturb him, Martin was thrown into a cold and draughty cell to await the great man’s pleasure.

  It was seven o’clock on the following morning when he was paraded for the Kommandant’s inspection. Escorted by a section of infantry he was marched through the streets of Veldeghem to a large château which stood about a kilometre outside the town.

  Martin felt utterly miserable and friendless as he stumbled along in the midst of his guards. In a way he was glad of the exercise after the bitter cold of the night, but he had had nothing to eat or drink since he left the British lines and his physical endurance was sapped almost to breaking point.

  On all sides he was conscious of an unusual stir of activity. Companies of stolid troops in field-grey were mustering in their various units; horses were being harnessed, guns and wagons limbered, and it was clearly evident that the huge camp was preparing for a move.

  As the detachment approached nearer to the château the long lines of tents gave way to a field aerodrome. In front of a row of canvas hangars mechanics were busily engaged in preparing a number of Fokker two-seater biplanes for flight. Some already had their engines running; others were in process of being started.

  Martin estimated that the force represented two complete squadrons and the familiar sight of the air-screws slowly revolving, to bring the water in the radiators to the required temperature for flight, made him feel desperately homesick.

  If only he could break away from his guards and gain a sufficient lead to enable him to swarm into the cockpit of one of those fighters. He would jam the throttle lever fully open and yank her bodily into the air.

  The enemy could do what they liked after that. Let them fire every Archie between here and Ypres, send every aircraft they possessed to try to shoot him down. He would jolly well put up such a fight that he was bound to win whatever the odds.

  Even if he failed and they scuppered him it would not be so bad a death as the one he was now facing. At least he would have the satisfaction of dying in action instead of being shot down like a mad dog without a chance of retaliating.

  He groaned unhappily as he realized how hopeless the idea was. Could he succeed in breaking through the ranks on either side of him, he must inevitably be picked off before he could cover half the distance to the nearest machine.

  The rebound from his wild dream of escape made him more wretched than before, and when the party turned into the gates of the château he was on the point of bursting into tears. The only thing that restrained him was the knowledge that any display of weakness on his part would be against the national tradition; at all costs he must show these Huns how well a British officer could face his end.

  He was forcibly reminded that he was no longer a British officer, however, but a Belgian civilian, when the detachment halted in front of the house. The Kommandant was standing on the steps, enjoying a breath of early morning air whilst his breakfast was being prepared.

  At sight of the woebegone and miserable-looking figure before him he scowled disdainfully and fixed his eyeglass in his eye.

  “Um Gottes Willen, Leutnant, what do you mean by bringing that scarecrow here?”

  The lieutenant in command of the party clicked his heels and delivered a stiff salute. His Excellency General von Makenhofen was a ruthless disciplinarian.

  “Orders, Herr General. He is the suspected spy brought in last night.”

  Von Makenhofen scowled angrily. He had already heard about the wrecked British aircraft with the black crosses on the wings and the dead pilot fastened to his parachute. It infuriated him to think that anyone should have dared to attempt to land a spy in the area under his command.

  “Take him away and shoot him,” he said c
allously and entered the house in search of his breakfast.

  Martin did not understand German and the significance of the order was lost upon him. All he knew was that the detachment faced about and retired from the château grounds to the main road. Instead of returning to Veldeghem, however, as he had anticipated, the officer in charge led his men along the edge of the flying-field to a spot where the blank wall of a stone-built barn provided a convenient butt for the bullets of the firing-party.

  It was not until a halt had been called and two men proceeded to tie his hands securely behind his back that it dawned on Martin that he had reached the site of his execution.

  For a moment or two the shock of realization bereft him of speech. He had never dreamed he would not be given a chance to defend himself. At the very least he had expected the Kommandant to demand some proof of his identity.

  This was terrible. It was neither right nor fair. Someone must listen to him. There was no hope that they would relent, but surely he could claim the privilege of being shot as an Englishman.

  Twisting his neck, he appealed to the young lieutenant who was directing operations.

  “I’ve something important to tell you!” he cried desperately in French. “I——”

  “Silence!” roared a burly non-commissioned officer. “Get done there, you men!”

  “I’m a British officer!” shouted Martin in English. “I demand the right——”

  The non-commissioned officer struck him brutally on the mouth with his fist and when the lieutenant made no attempt to reprove him Martin knew that it was useless to continue with his appeal.

  His thoughts were chaotic as they stood him with his back to the wall. Abject nerve-shattering fear, resolution not to show the white feather, bitter humiliation that he had by his own act renounced his British nationality, warred in his mind for mastery.

  “I must be brave,” he muttered again and again. “I must be brave.”

  It was like a hideous dream to watch the mechanical actions of the half dozen men who had been told off to shoot him down. Under their cowled helmets he could see their different expressions, some grim, some indifferent, some anguished. The rattle of the rifle bolts sounded harshly in his ears.