{Illustration: cover & spine} THE FRITZ STRAFERS {Illustration: "DEFIANTLY DISPLAYED THE EMBLEM OF FREEDOM." [_p. 284_} THE FRITZ STRAFERS A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR BY PERCY F. WESTERMAN AUTHOR OF "BILLY BARCROFT, R.N.A.S.," "A WATCHDOG OF THE NORTH SEA" "A SUB OF THE R.N.R." ETC. ETC. LONDON S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO. LTD. OLD BAILEY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. "COMING EVENTS...". . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 II. THE DANGER SIGNAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 III. THE OBER-LEUTNANT'S JAUNT . . . . . . . . . 34 IV. FOILED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 V. THE PURSUIT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 VI. VON LORINGHOVEN LEARNS NEWS . . . . . . . . 62 VII. BRUNO'S ESCAPADE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 VIII. TORPEDOED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 IX. THE SKIPPER OF THE "GUIDING STAR" . . . . . 95 X. THE BLIMP TO THE RESCUE . . . . . . . . . . 106 XI. THE STRAFING OF U 254 . . . . . . . . . . . 118 XII. PRISONERS OF WAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 XIII. THE END OF THE "TANTALUS" . . . . . . . . . 135 XIV. A CHANCE SHOT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 XV. LAID BY THE HEELS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 XVI. THE STRUGGLE IN THE LONELY COTTAGE . . . . 168 XVII. THE BURNING MUNITION SHIP . . . . . . . . . 176 XVIII. THE FUGITIVE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 XIX. BILLY'S FLYING-BOAT . . . . . . . . . . . 201 XX. RAMMED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210 XXI. THE LAST VOYAGE OF S.S. "ANDROMEDA" . . . . 221 XXII. FARRAR'S FIRST BAG . . . . . . . . . . . . 233 XVIII. THE STORM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246 XXIV. THE SINKING TRANSPORT . . . . . . . . . . . 254 XXV. HOLCOMBE'S SURPRISE . . . . . . . . . . . . 262 XXVI. A FIGHT TO A FINISH . . . . . . . . . . . . 276 XXVII. IN THE HANDS OF THE HUNS . . . . . . . . . 291 XXVIII. "A SECOND KOPENICK HOAX" . . . . . . . . . 304 XXIX. A SURPRISE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313 XXX. COMRADES IN A STRANGE LAND . . . . . . . . 326 XXXI. A DASH FOR FREEDOM . . . . . . . . . . . . 337 XXXII. TOUCH AND GO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352 XXXIII. THE GREAT STRAFE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 366 XXXIV. AND LAST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 376 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "DEFIANTLY DISPLAYED THE EMBLEM OF FREEDOM" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE "A COUPLE OF BLUEJACKETS BURST THROUGH THE UNDERGROWTH" . . . . . . . . . . . 52 "SEIZING FARRAR, BEGAN TO HAUL HIM OUT OF THE COTTAGE, DESPITE A STRENUOUS RESISTANCE" . . . 172 "'GOOD HEAVENS! IT'S OLD SLOGGER!'" . . . . . . . 324 THE FRITZ STRAFERS CHAPTER I "COMING EVENTS..." "QUITE right for once, Moke. Young brothers are unmitigated nuisances," declared Hugh Holcombe. "If I hadn't been such a silly owl to let my young brother try his luck with my motor-bike, I wouldn't be sitting here in this muggy carriage. Any sign of Slogger yet?" The youth addressed as Moke thrust his bulky head and shoulders out of the open window and made a deliberate survey of the road that ran steadily down the hillside until it merged into the station yard of the little town of Lynbury. It was a case of somewhat regrettable inadvertence when fifteen years previously Sylvester's parents had had him christened in the name of Anthony Alexander; for when, in due course, the lad entered Claverdon College the fellows, the moment they saw his initials painted boldly upon his trunk and tuck-box, dubbed him "Moke," and the name stuck like tar. He did not resent it, which showed tact. In fact, he rather rejoiced in the nickname. It harmonised with his slow, plodding, deliberate ways. _Imprimis_, he was a swot; modern languages were his forte, although he was no mean classical scholar for his age. Anything of a mechanical nature failed to interest him. He knew a motor-bike when he saw one, but that was all. Ask him "how it worked"--a question to which his companion would reply by a fusillade of highly technical explanations--and he was "bowled middle stump." Hugh Holcombe was cast in a different mould. Except in point of age there was little in common between the two lads. Holcombe was tall for his age, and possessed the appearance of a budding athlete. Although in mufti--he was spending the last week of the Christmas vacation with an uncle at Southsea before rejoining Osborne College--there was a certain self-assurance that the natural outcome of a training that inspires manliness, self-reliance, and courage from the first moment that an embryo Nelson sets foot in the cradle of the Royal Navy. And the still absent Slogger----? Slogger must wait until he enters this narrative. Sufficient to say that the three lads--as yet mere strands in the vast fabric of Empire--were to make their mark in the titanic struggle that was to convulse the whole world, each working in a different manner to one and the same just purpose. It was in those halcyon, far-off days preceding the fateful 4th day of August 1914. To be more precise, it was January of the preceding year. Little did hundreds, nay thousands, of doting parents then imagine that on land and sea, in the air and in the waters under the earth, would their sons risk, and often give their young lives, for King, Country, and Freedom's Cause. "Not the suspicion of a sign," replied Sylvester to his companion's inquiry. "He'll miss the train if he doesn't buck up. Here's the guard toddling along the platform." "Hope that silly cuckoo of a Slogger won't miss it!" exclaimed Holcombe, resting his hands on the Moke's back and peering through the narrow space betwixt the latter's broad shoulders and the top of the carriage window. "He promised he'd bring an accumulator along with him, and I want to have some fun with the beastly thing during the next few days." It was nearly eight o'clock in the morning. The sun was on the point of rising, while over the town the retreating shadow of night still contended with the grey dawn of another day. Passengers in twos and threes, most of them carrying luggage, were hurrying towards the station in the knowledge that the 8 a.m., although it was usually later in starting, sometimes did steam out at five minutes to the hour. Still no signs of Slogger. "Dash it all, the train's starting!" exclaimed the Moke, as a cloud of white vapour drifted from under the carriages. "Not much," corrected Holcombe. "It's only the steam from the heating apparatus. The guard isn't ready yet." He indicated the venerable official on whom under Providence depended the safety and welfare of such of His Majesty's lieges who adventured themselves upon the Lynbury and Marshton Branch Line. Usually the guard would walk along the platform, exchanging scraps of conversation with his patrons, most of whom he knew by name, but on this occasion he was seated on a large wicker hamper and was studiously and laboriously writing in a note-book. Curiosity was one of the Moke's failings, in that he was unable to restrain an outward display of a desire for knowledge. The mere fact that the guard was seated within four yards of the carriage-window and yet failed to exchange the usual pleasantries with the hefty youth wearing the Claverdon College cap rather puzzled him. "Hullo, guard!" At this greeting the official raised his eyes, looked at Sylvester for a brief instant and resumed his absorbing task. It was too much for the Moke's curiosity. "Hullo, guard!" he repeated. "You look busy." It was just what the guard was waiting for. Slowly and deliberately he rose and walked up to the carriage window. "I am, young gentleman," he replied. "I'm looking up the names of those passengers who remembered me last Christmas." Holcombe chuckled audibly. His companion, striving to hide his confusion, fumbled in his pocket. "Sorry, guard----" he began. "Quite all right, sir," interposed the guard, waving aside the proffered sixpence. "I take the will for the deed. When you come to Lynbury as a member of the Diplomatic Corpse (the guard knew Moke's ambitions, although his rendering of the title of that branch of the Civil Service was a trifle gruesome and wide of the mark), an' you, young gentleman (indicating Holcombe), as a full-blown captain, then perhaps, if I'm still here to see you, I'll drink your health in a bottle of Kentish-brewed ale--best in the world, bar none." He pulled out and consulted a large silver watch. "Time we're off, young gents," he announced, as the clanging of the station bell resounded along the now almost deserted platform. "Slogger's missed it," declared Holcombe as the whistle blew. With a jerk the little train started on its five-mile journey. Already the last carriage was half way down the platform when a loud shout of "Stand-back, sir!" attracted the two lads' attention. The next instant the door was thrown open, and with an easy movement the missing Slogger swung himself into the compartment and waved a friendly salute to the baffled porter who had vainly attempted to detain him. "By Jove, Slogger!" exclaimed Hoke, "you've cut it fine. Incurring penalties, too, under the company's bye-laws." "P'r'aps," rejoined the unruffled arrival. "What's more to the point, I've caught the train--see? Oh, by the by, Holcombe, here's that blessed accumulator I promised you. 'Fraid I've spilt some of the acid, but that can't be helped. Had to shove it in my pocket when I sprinted." Holcombe took the proffered gift and, reluctantly sacrificing an advertisement paper from a recently purchased motor-journal, carefully wiped off the residue of the spilt acid, while Slogger, perfunctorily turning the lining of his pocket inside out and shaking it against the sill of the window, dismissed from his mind the possibilities of the corrosive action on his clothes. Nigel Farrar, otherwise Slogger, was a tall, broad-shouldered youth of sixteen. His _nom-de-guerre_ was singularly appropriate, as indeed most nicknames bestowed by one's chums in a public school usually are. He won it on the cricket field; upheld it in every sport and game in which he took part. His remark to the Moke was characteristic of his thoroughly practical manner. To attain a desired end he would, even at his present age, "force his way through a hedge of hide-bound regulations." It was on this account, and to a certain extent because he did not shine at studious work, that he did not wear a prefect's badge on his cap, although by far and away the most athletic youth at Claverdon. Farrar and Holcombe were similar in more than one respect. Both were physically and morally strong; both were deeply interested in things mechanical and practical. They were typical examples of the modern boy. Even at an early age fairy tales would have "bored them stiff." Show them an exact model of an intricate piece of machinery they would probably pronounce it to be ripping, and almost in the same breath put forth sound theories as to how the mechanism actuated. But Farrar was rather inclined to be what is popularly described as "slap-dash." With him everything had to be done in a violent hurry, while Holcombe was slow and precise in his movements, although far in advance of the painstaking Moke, who stood an excellent chance of passing the "Civil Service Higher" provided he could speed up sufficiently to get his examination questions answered within the specified time limit. As the train rattled and jolted on its journey the three travellers fell to discussing the still remote summer holidays. "I'm off to Germany," announced the Moke. "The governor takes me every year, you know." "You'll be nabbed one of these fine days, my festive, and clapped into a German prison," declared the naval cadet with the air of a man who enjoys the confidence of High Officialdom and is actually in the know. "What for?" inquired Sylvester. "I don't run up against regulations every time I get the chance, either here or abroad," he added. "I'm not like Slogger, you know." "Thanks for small mercies," rejoined Farrar. "As a matter of fact, Holcombe, my governor talks of taking the yacht to the Baltic. How about it? Like to come along too. Spiffing rag we can have." "Thanks, no," replied Holcombe ungraciously. "When war with Germany breaks out I want to have a look in. It's on the cards that the Dartmouth cadets will be embarked for duty with the fleet if there's a scrap, and by that time I hope I'll have passed through Osborne." "There'll be no war with Germany," declared the Moke with a firm conviction based upon his father's views upon the subject. "Germany is our very best friend at the present day." "A good many fools think that," said Holcombe bluntly. "Those are the fellows who would barter our naval supremacy for the sake of a paltry six or eight millions a year." "You talk as if you were a millionaire yourself," remarked Sylvester, with thinly veiled sarcasm. "Of course the navy's your firm that is to be. You're only a cadet yet, Holcombe, an' don't you forget it. What's the use of an expensive navy when disputes can be settled by arbitration?" "Arbitration!" snorted Slogger. "What's the use of arbitration? It's all right for little nations when the big ones are on the spot to keep order. I guess Holcombe's right. There'll be a most unholy scrap some day between England and Germany, and we'll all have to chip in--every man-jack of us." "Think so?" inquired Holcombe with professional jealousy. "The navy'll manage the business properly, and you civilian chaps can stop at home and thank your lucky stars there is a navy." "Of course we'll return grateful thanks," agreed Farrar; "but all the same, the navy won't be able to see the business through without the assistance of the Naval Reserve and all that jolly crowd, you know. So it's just possible, my dear Holcombe, that you and I may be in the same scrap. Before that comes off I want to work in that trip to the Baltic this summer, so don't induce the Government to declare war just at present, will you, old sport?" Half seriously, half in jest, the trio continued the discussion, unconscious of the fact that the subject was the shadow cast by coming events. CHAPTER II THE DANGER SIGNAL 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. CHAPTER III THE OBER-LEUTNANT'S JAUNT MIDNIGHT, somewhere off the North Cornish coast. To be more accurate, the position was, according to observations made by Ober-leutnant Otto von Loringhoven commanding H.I.M. unterseeboot 254, was Hatstone Point south-south-east 1/4 east, and Polgereen Point south by west 1/4 west. The rugged coast was all but hidden in the low-lying mist, only the loftier headlands being visible against the starlit sky. There was little or no wind, but shorewards a continual rumble betokened the presence of ground-swell--the "fag-end" of enormous waves generated hundreds of miles away in the vast Atlantic. U 254 was proceeding dead slow towards the shore. The steady beat of her muffled exhausts was only just audible above the lap of the water against her blunt bows and the ripple in the wake of her triple propellers. The ober-leutnant was standing on a raised platform that surrounded the elongated conning-tower. He was a tall, heavily built man--massive-looking in his long double-breasted coat and sea-boots. On his head he wore a black sou'-wester that, with the turned-up collar of his greatcoat and the dark muffler round his neck, left only a small portion of his face exposed: pale pasty features, shaggy beetling brows, small beady eyes, a large nose, flattened at the tip, and a loose mouth partly hidden by a closely trimmed moustache. Close behind him stood the unter-leutnant, Hans Kuhlberg, a typical, loose-limbed, weak-chinned Prussian. No further description of this young swashbuckler is necessary. A British schoolboy was once asked by an examiner to describe the manners and customs of a certain savage tribe of Central Africa. His reply, "Manners none; customs beastly," would be equally applicable to Hans Kuhlberg. A quartermaster at the steering-wheel on deck and a couple of hands using the lead-line were the only members of the piratical Hun crew visible; the others, eighty worthy upholders of the debased cult of German sea-power, were stowed away within the three hundred feet of steel hull. "Report when you find fifty metres," ordered von Loringhoven for the twentieth time, addressing the leadsmen in harsh yet restrained tones, for acting under instructions they refrained from announcing the "cast" lest the sound of their voices would carry to the ears of an alert British patrol-boat's crew. "Are you really going ashore, Herr Kapitan?" asked the unter-leutnant, who was vigorously engaged in chewing an apple--part of the spoils from a captured topsail schooner that had been sunk off Lundy a couple of days previously. "I said so, Hans," replied von Loringhoven, "and I mean to go. Himmel! A little less noise with your throat. One would think you were drinking soup." "Sorry, Herr Kapitan," exclaimed Hans Kuhlberg humbly. "It is a juicy--and I forgot." U 254 was having a "day off." It was not her fault but her misfortune. Eighteen hours earlier she had approached a possible victim--a large cargo boat lying at anchor off Cardiff. Von Loringhoven was quite under the impression that the outlines of a destroyer showing up against her side was mere camouflage; but when the shadow became substance in the form of a very aggressive unit of the British Navy, U 254 was only too glad to dive. Even then it was a very narrow shave, for a four-inch shell whistled within a few inches of the periscopes. For the time being von Loringhoven prudently decided to keep away from the recognised trade routes and find a less unhealthy spot in order to charge batteries. Closing with the Cornish coast the ober-leutnant took it into his head to have a jaunt ashore on English soil. "Fifty metres, Herr Kapitan, and a sandy bottom," reported the leadsman. "Good!" ejaculated von Loringhoven. "See that the collapsible boat is launched, Kuhlberg. I am leaving you in charge. Keep awash, unless you sight anything of a suspicious nature, until dawn. Then rest on the bottom. At one o'clock--twenty-five hours from now--send a boat for me. Is there anything you want me to bring back?" "Tobacco and cigarettes, Herr Kapitan," replied the unter-leutnant. "These English are swine, but they manage to get excellent tobacco. I was in hopes that when we sent that Dutch vessel to the bottom we might find good tobacco, but, ach! the stuff we found was intolerable." His superior officer laughed. "There is a box of cigars in my cabin," he remarked. "Mind they don't turn your head. I go and change in order to meet Englishmen as one of themselves." Von Loringhoven disappeared below, to return in a quarter of an hour's time dressed in civilian clothes. "Is it wise, Herr Kapitan?" asked Kuhlberg. "Your get-up is superb; yet, if you should be detected, you will be shot as a spy." "I doubt it," rejoined the ober-leutnant. "These English are not thorough like us. They would hesitate before condemning to death a German naval officer; rather they would make much of him. An account of his adventures would appear in the British newspapers.... Nevertheless, don't think, Kuhlberg, that I want to desert you indefinitely. It is only for a few hours. Boat ready?" he inquired, dropping his bantering tone. With muffled oars the boat approached the shore, von Loringhoven handling the yoke-lines with the air of a man who is well acquainted with his surroundings. Less than four years previously he had spent a month in North Cornwall, ostensibly to indulge in "surf-bathing." There was hardly a cove betwixt Hartland Point and St. Ives that he had not explored, aiding his trained memory by means of photographic and business-like sketches. "Lay on your oars!" ordered the ober-leutnant, as the boat glided under the overhanging cliffs of a bold headland. Von Loringhoven produced a powerful pair of Zeiss binoculars from his coat pocket, and focussed them upon a ledge of rocks that formed a breakwater, partly natural, partly artificial, to a tidal harbour. "H'm," he muttered. "I thought so. They have patrols out. No matter, I must take the Fisherman's Stairs. Give way gently, men." Protected by an outlying ledge the cove for which the boat was making was uninfluenced by the sullen ground swell. Noiselessly and unseen von Loringhoven stepped ashore, gave a few whispered instructions to the coxswain, and sent the boat back to the lurking submarine. The ober-leutnant waited until the faint plash of the oars failed to reach his ears, then treading softly he made his way over the rough slippery causeway along the base of the cliffs. At intervals he stopped to listen intently, but only the low rumble of the surf and the occasional call of a belated sea-bird broke the silence. It required a considerable amount of nerve to ascend or descend Fishermen's Stairs, even in broad daylight. The darkness, doubtless, modified much of the forbidding appearance of the precipitous way, but on the other hand it seemed to hide many of the otherwise visible dangers. Von Loringhoven counted the steps as he climbed. He knew the exact number, unless, since his last visit, a landslide had altered the natural features of the place. Once he muttered a curse as his feet slipped, yet, hardly deigning to make use of the rusty iron chain that served as a rough handrail, he gained the summit of the cliffs. Perfectly aware of the regulations that no unauthorised person must use the cliff-path between sunset and sunrise, the ober-leutnant proceeded cautiously until he gained a narrow lane leading towards the little town. Here, throwing off his secretive manner, he started off at a brisk walk until he reached a row of semi-detached villas on fairly lofty ground overlooking the harbour. Noisily opening the gate of one of the houses von Loringhoven strode up the path with deliberate footsteps. A timorous step would, he argued with himself, give rise to suspicion. At the front door he knocked loudly and waited. Although the heavy dark curtains over the upstairs windows allowed no strong beam of light to penetrate von Loringhoven knew by the metallic click of a switch that the electric light had just been put on. Then came the shuffling noise of slippered feet descending the stairs and the unbolting of the door. "Hullo, Tom!" exclaimed von Loringhoven, as the door was thrown open, revealing in the faint starlight the tall, burly figure of a man in a long dressing jacket. "Hullo, James!" was the equally boisterous reply. "You're late. Missed the last train, eh? Come in." These histrionic greetings completed, the occupier closed the door and switched on the light, and the ober-leutnant was ushered into a well-furnished room opening out of the hall. "You risked it, then," remarked the ober-leutnant's companion, speaking in German. "I am not surprised, von Loringhoven. Karl told me.... Business brisk?" Ernst von Gobendorff, German by birth and upbringing, but, unfortunately, Anglo-Saxon in appearance, was one of the vast Hun espionage organisation now admitted by the most sceptical to flourish on British soil. With Teutonic thoroughness, and hitherto without the crass blundering that has oft-times wrecked the deep-laid plans of kultur, von Gobendorff had gained a high position in the ranks of the Kaiser's emissaries in hostile lands. He, like many others, was paid by results, although he drew a small fixed salary from his Hunnish paymasters. For the last eighteen months Cornwall had been the scene of his labours, most of his work consisting of transmitting information of the movements of shipping to the U-boat commanders operating off the coast. He looked English; he spoke English with a faultless Midland accent; he had an English registration card, which, though easy to obtain, is generally sufficient to satisfy the curiosity of the average county policeman. Under the assumed name of Thomas Middlecrease, and posing as a commercial traveller to a London house, he "worked" the length and breadth of the Delectable Duchy with a zeal that was the envy and admiration of genuine Knights of the Road. Von Gobendorff was not merely a spy: he was a desperado, whenever opportunity occurred, under the distinguished patronage of the German High Command. His system of communicating with Berlin was so skilfully manipulated that unless all telegraphic and mail dispatches between Great Britain and neutral countries were suspended, he could rely upon his reports reaching the Admiralty-strasse within forty-eight hours. "Business," replied von Loringhoven, leaning back in a lounge chair and thrusting his feet close to an electric radiator--"business is as usual. And yours?" "Rather slack of late," admitted von Gobendorff. "However, I am expecting a coup. How is your brother, the Zeppelin commander?" The ober-leutnant shrugged his shoulders. "Julius burnt his fingers when he kidnapped von Eitelwurmer by mistake," he replied. "You may hear of him again, as I believe there is to be another intensity on the part of our aerial cruisers. By the by, how is von Eitelwurmer?" "Ask me another question, Otto," replied the spy. "All I know is that he's dead; an accident, according to a North Country paper. I did not think it prudent to make further inquiries." "At any rate," remarked von Loringhoven, "he did something to the honour and glory of the Fatherland. But what is this coup to which you referred?" "I hear on excellent authority that a train load of American troops--curse them!--leaves Trecurnow to-morrow; or rather, I should say, to-day," said von Gobendorff, glancing at the clock. The ober-leutnant nodded thoughtfully. "Fairly safe?" he queried. "Well, I'll ask no more questions on that subject. You must be tired, and to do one's work properly rest is essential. I'm going to be your guest, von Gobendorff, for just about twenty-four hours, but in the circumstances I will excuse your absence. By the by, you'll be returning about six, I hope? Dine with me at the Imperial Hotel. I suppose," he added reminiscently, "that the food is not quite so good nor so plentiful as when last I visited Cornwall?" "There is a difference," replied von Gobendorff, "but nothing like to the extent we Germans hoped. This starving-out campaign seems to hang fire." "Our U-boats will bring England to her knees yet," declared the ober-leutnant. "They say these English never know when they are beaten, but they'll find out soon." "One might also say that they never know when they are winning," added the spy. "Much as I hate to have to say it I must admire the matter-of-fact way in which these English take ill-news." "They get plenty of that," retorted von Loringhoven ironically. "Every week, and down go twenty merchant ships. How long can England stand that?" "And how many of our unterseebooten vanish while doing the good work?" asked von Gobendorff. "I am afraid, von Loringhoven, that even you cannot answer the question. It is these Englanders' mule-headed contempt for frightfulness that is making Germany's task doubly--nay, trebly hard. But we must argue no longer, Otto," he added, seeing indications of a rising temper in his guest. "We'll go to bed. I will be off before you are up, so, until to-night at the Imperial Hotel, _auf Wiedersehen_." CHAPTER IV FOILED ERNST VON GOBENDORFF was up betimes. A forty or fifty miles' railway journey was before him. Until he was within a short distance of Poldene Station he did not consider it prudent to assume his disguise. He knew that the great Poldene Bridge was closely guarded both by land and water. To attempt to approach would be courting suspicion, even if he appeared in a military officer's uniform. He knew that he could board a "Service" train at Poldene, but here again the difficulty arose as to how he could obtain the privacy necessary for the ultimate attainment of his designs. The spy alighted at a small station midway between the town and the bridge. He had had a first-class carriage to himself, and the fact that he had entered it as a well-groomed civilian and had left the train dressed in the uniform of a major of the Intelligence Staff passed unnoticed. His next step was to make for an isolated cottage standing on high ground overlooking the river. Three small boys, sauntering along the leafy lane, turned and gazed at the khaki-clad man. It was mere curiosity. They would have stared at any stranger, whether in uniform or otherwise, but von Gobendorff's lowering brows betokened intense annoyance. It meant that he had to walk past his immediate objective and return when the youngsters were at a safe distance. A little farther down the lane a middle-aged man in worn fustian clothes was ambling along. Seeing the supposed major approach the fellow stopped, and, pulling out a clasp knife, began to cut hazel switches from the hedge. By this time von Gobendorff was within ten paces of him, and the man resumed his walk with three wands in his hand. Von Gobendorff seemingly paid little or no attention, but, shifting his suit-case from his right hand to his left, he struck his heel lightly with his malacca cane--thrice, in a most casual way. "Have you been to the cottage, Herr von Gobendorff?" asked the man in German. "I had to go down to the river, but I hoped to be back before you arrived." "It matters little," replied the spy. "Have you arranged about a dog?" "A huge beast," was the reply. "Terrifying in appearance, but he's muzzled and chained." "It is well," rejoined von Gobendorff. "Now listen carefully. I don't want this business bungled. You say you can get across to the signal-post without being seen from the signal-box, and you know what to do?" "Yes," was the reply. "All that is necessary is to remove a bolt from the rod, and the signal-arm, being weighted, will rise to the danger position." "Quite so," agreed von Gobendorff; "but the point is this: can you lower the arm again? The train must be delayed for not longer than five minutes--less if possible. I will place the explosive between the rails. It has a six-minute fuse, so there is little margin. I don't want to be blown up with a crowd of Englishmen." "I understand," replied the other. "But will six minutes be enough?" "Enough and no more," rejoined the spy. "The moment the down train crosses the bridge and gains the double-track the American troop train, which will have to wait for it, will start again. Once over the bridge it will not matter whether the engine is over the point of detonation, for the whole structure will collapse and the train with it. Now, fetch me the dog." The huge St. Bernard showed neither enthusiasm nor mistrust at the sight of its new master. It suffered itself to be taken away on the lead, and, as previously related, the pseudo major and his canine companion contrived to board the guard's van of the Service down train to Trecurnow. In spite of his steady nerves von Gobendorff's pulse quickened as the train came to a standstill on the centre of the lofty bridge. As he expected, the guard's attention was directed towards the signal set at danger. What was better still, the man alighted and walked along the permanent way. The spy waited until he saw the guard returning. Five minutes had almost elapsed, but the signal had not dropped. Von Gobendorff was confronted by two alternatives: either to set the fuse in action and drop the explosive under the carriage before the guard returned, or else wait until the line was reported clear. He chose the former, relying implicitly upon his assistant's ability to lower the signal-arm. Therein he made a grievous error, for the bolt, in being released from the operating rods of the signal, took it into its head to jerk itself out of the man's grasp, rolling down the embankment and choosing a secure retreat under the roots of a thick thorn-bush. The wrench which von Gobendorff's accomplice employed was too massive to be used as a temporary bolt, and in the absence of anything suitable it was impossible to pull down the arm to the safety position. The train beginning to move towards the fellow's scene of action warned him that it was unhealthy to linger longer, so taking to his heels he bolted. Meanwhile the spy cautiously lowered the explosive out of the window, intending to swing it under the carriage, but forgetting that the dog's chain was padlocked round his own wrist von Gobendorff was unpleasantly surprised when the St. Bernard shook his massive head. The sudden jolt had the result of jerking the cord out of the spy's hand, and the leather case dropped upon the permanent way in full view of the occupants of the two adjoining carriages. Von Gobendorff made no effort to retrieve his dangerous property. It was high time that he put a safe distance between him and the explosive, for the fuse had now been active for two minutes and the signal-arm still remained at danger. Uttering maledictions upon himself for not having unlocked the dog's chain from his wrist the spy drew the key from his pocket. To his dismay the key failed to open the padlock, while an attempt to unfasten the rusty spring-hook that fastened the chain to the animal's collar was equally fruitless. Once again the Teutonic love of detail had over-reached itself. Von Gobendorff had arranged everything to the minutest point, but there was a slight flaw in the operations and it led to failure. Followed by the St. Bernard the
{'title': 'The Fritz Strafers: A Story of the Great War by Percy F. Westerman', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}