CHAPTER XVI

Konrad von Feldoffer

Slowly Malcolm raised himself into a sitting position. Breathless from the violent shock, blinded by the shower of dust, deafened by the terrific concussion, and with his sense of smell deadened to everything but the acrid fumes of the burst shell, he was at a loss to know what had happened.

"Am I still No. 99,109, Rifleman Carr, or have I gone west?" he asked himself aloud. Beyond a faint hollow rumble, he failed to detect the sound of his own voice. Almost afraid to make the experiment, he flexed his limbs. Nothing much wrong there, anyway.

He was beginning to see, despite the darkness and the nauseating, pungent fumes. He looked at his watch. The glass had vanished. The hands told him that it was three minutes past twelve. Unless the watch had stopped, only five or six minutes had elapsed since the catastrophe took place. He held the timepiece close to his ear, but could hear nothing. Anxiously he watched the big hand, until after a seemingly interminable interval he had conclusive evidence that the watch was still going.

Satisfied on that point, Malcolm took stock of his surroundings. The outlook was limited to the sloping walls of the crater and the vault of black night overhead. Except for a direct hit, he was in a place of comparative safety. Enough for to-night; he would stay where he was until dawn, and then----

"I'm all right," he thought, "but what of my chums?"

Filled with new-born resolution, Malcolm regained his feet and commenced to climb the steep, yielding side of the shell crater. At the third step the soft soil gave way, and he fell on his face. As he did so he heard a loud popping sound, as if his ear-drums were bursting, and the next instant he could hear the distant rumble of the guns and the voices of men in his proximity.

"I'm from Timaru, but I'm not timorous," shouted a voice. "Buck up, lads!"

"That's the Corporal," decided Malcolm. "At all events we haven't all been done in."

"Hallo there!" exclaimed Corporal Preston, as Malcolm gained the lip of the crater. "Who are you?"

"Carr."

"Shouldn't have recognized you," continued the non-com., for Malcolm was hatless, his coat was partly torn away, while his face was black with grime. "Got a buckshie? No--good!"

"Cheer-o, Malcolm!"

This from Selwyn, who was engaged in binding a first-aid dressing round the ribs of the prophetic sergeant of engineers. Four other men lay on the ground, killed outright. Two of them belonged to the ration-party, and the others were Tommies who had been engaged in relaying the uptorn line.

"No use waiting here," declared Preston. "Bring that other truck along."

The first truck lay on its side, the woodwork shattered, and the rations scattered in all directions. The two men on the side nearest the exploding shell had been instantly killed, but the others, sheltered to a certain extent by the vehicle, had got off at the expense of a severe shaking. Nevertheless, all available hands set to work to retrieve the rations, and to set the second truck upon the uninterrupted stretch of rails.

High-explosives were still bursting at varying distances as the ration-party continued their perilous way across the open. It was with feelings of relief that Malcolm heard the Corporal give the word to unload once more. The men had reached the beginning of the communication-trench.

From this point progress was slow. The ramification of trenches was chock-a-block with troops under arms--Australians and New Zealanders, making ready for the task of going over the top.

"You've been a precious long time about it," was the Sergeant's ungracious comment when the ration-party found their own section of trench. "Set to, lads; here's your grub."

Eagerly the men of the platoon threw themselves upon the dearly-bought food. So hungry were they that they made no complaint about the gritty state of the loaves. Perhaps it was as well that they asked no questions. After all, they were able to feed, and in a short space of time pannikins of tea were boiling over the biscuit-tin stoves in the dug-out.

Having fed, Malcolm turned in on his straw bed. He was not sleepy, only stiff, and since it wanted less than an hour to the time fixed for the New Zealanders to turn out under arms, he employed the interval in writing. The other occupants of the dug-out were similarly engaged, knowing that, confronted by the problem of an impending battle, there was a possibility that this might be their last opportunity to communicate with their relatives and friends.

"This is the rottenest part of the whole business," remarked Selwyn. "It gives a fellow time to think about going over, and the prospect isn't a cheerful one."

"You're right," assented a Digger who had taken part in four big engagements. "I quite understand; but mark my words, you'll forget you ever had cold feet the moment the whistle goes."

"It's that plaguey uncut wire and those machineguns I don't like," grumbled Joliffe. "What the brass-hats are thinking about to send the boys against that lot beats me. Why, back in Delville Wood----"

"Rifleman Carr here?" enquired a voice.

The ground-sheet hanging over the entrance to the dug-out was thrust aside, and Sergeant Fortescue, his head partly hidden in his steel helmet, appeared in view.

"Thought I'd drop in for a little chin-wagging," continued Fortescue. "I've some news that might interest you--and Selwyn too."

He pulled a creased and folded newspaper from his pocket, and, holding it up to the guttering light, pointed a shapely yet begrimed forefinger at a certain paragraph.

"Our Muizenberg pal has dodged the firing-party," continued Fortescue. "The blighter is a bit of a wily fox, and judging by his history he's badly wanted."

The paragraph was to the effect that Konrad von Feldoffer, a German convicted of espionage by a general court martial, had made a daring and successful attempt to escape. How, the report did not say, but the fact remained that a dangerous spy was still at large. It went on to say that Konrad von Feldoffer was known to be a German naval officer. Upon the outbreak of hostilities he was in Canada. After various attempts, successful and otherwise, to cripple the internal communications of the Dominion, he fled across the border to the United States. Too late he was traced to Australia, where he enlisted in a Victoria regiment, deserting when the Anzacs were under fire in Gallipoli. Shortly afterwards he turned up in India, joined a volunteer regiment under orders for Mesopotamia, and mysteriously vanished during the retreat from Ctesiphon. Proceeding to England, and posing as a mercantile marine officer, forged documents and an engaging manner procured him an introduction to Whitehall, with the result that he was given a commission in the Royal Naval Reserve and appointed to an armed merchant cruiser. One of his first exploits in that capacity was to board a supposed Norwegian tramp, whose decks were piled high with timber. The vessel was allowed to proceed--a wolf in sheep's clothing, as a dozen or more Allied ships learned to their cost. Three weeks after commissioning, the merchant-cruiser was torpedoed and sunk in broad daylight by a U-boat. While the crew were taking to the boats, the submarine appeared on the surface. To the surprise of the British officer and crew, the hitherto unsuspected spy swam across to the hostile craft. Having picked him up, the U-boat submerged and disappeared from the scene. Too late it was discovered that the renegade was one and the same with the now notorious Konrad von Feldoffer. For several months nothing was heard of the spy's activities. As a matter of fact, the cosmopolitan rogue was particularly busy in South Africa, drifting thence into German South-West Africa, where he played a conspicuous part in a daring gun-running expedition under the nose of a British cruiser.

On the principle that it is advisable to desert a sinking ship in time, von Feldoffer drifted via Johannesburg to Cape Town, where his efforts to get into communication with German mine-layers operating off the Cape met with slight success. He was now anxious to return to the Fatherland. Accordingly he joined an Afrikander regiment of heavy artillery under the name of Pieter Waas, only to be apprehended on board the transport at Selwyn's instigation.

From the date of the paper--it was ten days old already--Malcolm gathered that the spy had been at liberty for nearly a month. Unless he were already recaptured it was pretty certain to conclude that von Feldoffer was clear of the British Isles. Would his experiences and narrow escape deter him from further enterprises or merely whet his appetite for other surprising adventures?

"One thing is pretty clear," declared Fortescue; "he won't risk showing up with the New Zealand boys. But, by Jove, it's close on two o'clock. Our fellows have to assemble at that hour. S'long, chums; I'll look out for you when we fall in. We may as well keep together in this stunt."

Fortescue was barely gone when the Platoon Sergeant entered the dug-out.

"Turn out, boys," he ordered. "Don't forget your gas-masks. Fritz will be letting loose a few gallons of stink, I reckon."

"What time do we go over, Sergeant?" enquired one of the riflemen.

"When the whistles go, sonny," replied the non-com., with a prodigious wink, "and not before."

"Can we go over after?" persisted the questioner.

The Sergeant eyed the man with mock severity.

"Take my tip and hop it sharp," he replied darkly. "The men who remain in the trenches fifteen seconds after the order to advance will be sorry for themselves. If there are any slight casualties, Corporal," he added, addressing Billy Preston, "turn 'em out. It won't be healthy for them to stop in the dug-out."

"Wonder why?" asked several of the men after the Sergeant had departed to give similar instructions to the occupants of the adjoining "desirable villas".

The question remained unanswered. In silence Malcolm and his comrades took their rifles and filed out into the already-crowded communication-trench.

"Let's find Fortescue," said Malcolm, addressing Selwyn in a low voice that hardly sounded like his own. "He'll be in the next bay or the one beyond."

"Lead on, then," prompted his chum.

Slinging their rifles, the twain made their way along the narrow, winding trench, stumbling over the recumbent forms of resting men and squeezing past the fully-accoutred troops packed into the narrow place.

"He was here a minute ago," declared one, after several fruitless enquiries had been made of the denizens of the two adjoining sectors. "Guess he's in the firing-trench. They're fixing the storming-ladders."

The firing-trench was comparatively clear. A dozen men were sitting on the fire-step, listlessly fumbling with their equipment in a vain effort to kill time before the supreme moment arrived to go out into the open. Others were placing in Position the rough wooden ladders by which the stormers would be able to scale the breast-high parapet, each ladder being carefully tested lest an insecure structure should impede the operation of going over the top. A few non-coms., detailed to lay off the distance-tapes, were comparing notes as coolly as if they were arranging for the regimental sports.

"Dashed if I can see him," whispered Malcolm. Although there was no need for speaking in an undertone, the scene of preparation instinctively Compelled him to lower his voice. "Seen anything of Sergeant Fortescue?" enquired Selwyn, addressing a rifleman who had just completed the fixing of one ladder and was thoroughly surveying his work.

The man turned sharply, gave a grunt of Surprise, and before the lad could realize what had happened, he swarmed up the ladder, paused irresolutely for a brief instant on the sandbagged parapet, and leapt into the darkness of No Man's Land. It was the spy, von Feldoffer.