Part 11

He had caught a glimpse of the barrel projecting over a ledge of rock. With instant decision he trained his own gun upon it, and before it could open fire, he pumped out a hail of lead that struck it from its position, and the men serving it, in spite of their shield, were killed or disabled either by direct shots, ricochets, or splinters.

"One belt empty!" he said, as he replaced it with a full one. "By George! Now we're in for it!"

He had heard the characteristic scream of a shell. Immediately afterwards there was a terrific explosion, and he saw a tall column of smoke, stones, and dust shoot into the air from the rocks not two hundred yards away. In another half-minute another shell exploded, a little nearer.

"They must be 'phoning the range," he said. "Look here, Enderby, I must get you out of it. I can't leave the machine-gun now, but the Serbs must carry you away. Marco Kralevich!" he shouted.

The old man hurried down.

"They'll have the range in a few minutes," said Burton. "I want you and your friend to carry Captain Enderby out along the track yonder, towards where the prisoners are. Take your daughter, too. When you come back, go down into the cellar and relight the train; it must have gone out. They will smash the tower; the only chance of holding them up is to explode the mine. Make haste, for Heaven's sake!"

Marco summoned Nuta and Milosh from the roof. They lifted Enderby, and were half-way down the stairs with him when the Bulgarian gunners made their first hit. A shell carried away a corner of the parapet. The tower shook under the explosion, and the falling masonry plunged into the enclosure, raising a dense cloud of dust. Burton trembled for the safety of his friends, but his thoughts were taken from them by a renewed movement among the enemy. Immediately after the crash, the men concealed in the bushes sprang out, and dashed forward with a cheer. They would have been wiser to wait. Burton saw them indistinctly through the dust, but he had the range to a yard, and again they melted away under his withering fire.

Shells were now bursting around the tower. There was another crash above; fragments of stone fell into the room, striking Burton in many places. It was a moment of racking anxiety. He dared not leave the gun until the track had been destroyed, yet the tower might crumple down upon him. His ammunition was running short--would Marco get back in time? Even if he relit the train, would the flame reach the explosives? And at that crisis he nerved himself for what must be regarded as a supreme act of self-sacrifice. If all else failed, at the last moment he must go himself into the cellar, and fire into the charge.

Deafened by the explosions that now recurred every few seconds, smothered in dust, struck by fragments of stone, half choked by fumes, he still held his place at the window. The enemy had learnt a lesson. They kept out of sight. Before long the guns would have done their work, and when the tower was in ruins the way would be clear.

"They won't charge again till we're smashed," he thought. "Now for it!"

Taking his rifle, he hurried down the stairs. At the trap-door he halted a moment. He knew the risk he was about to run. His work in the tunnel had been so hurried that the backward force of the explosion could not be wholly checked. He was taking his life in his hands; but it was the last hope. He gathered himself together. His foot was on the first step when he was brought to a halt by a rifle shot below. The next instant he was hurled back by a terrific concussion, and fell, an immense noise dinning in his ears. For a moment he lay dazed.

"Marco must have done it!" he said to himself as he staggered to his feet.

Down into the cellar he sprang, gasping in the noisome fumes. His electric torch, still gleaming, lay on the floor. Near the mouth of the tunnel he saw the heroic old Serb prostrate. He rushed to him, stooped over him. Was he yet alive? Burton could not tell. Exerting almost superhuman strength he managed to hoist the big man to his back, and staggered with him across the cellar, up the steps, and across the floor. Almost broken down under the weight of his burden, he was just reaching the entrance when there was an appalling crash. The tower tottered and collapsed, and the two men fell together.

VII

When Burton came to himself, it was to find an officer in khaki, with the red cross of the R.A.M.C. on his sleeve, bending over him.

"That's all right!" said a cheery voice. "He'll do now!"

"Where am I? Where's Marco?" Burton asked faintly.

"The old Serb? Don't worry about him. He has concussion, but he's a tough old boy, and we'll pull him through."

"And the Bulgars?"

"Toiling like niggers to make a new track a mile from here. It's all right. Take this morphine tablet. You shall hear all you want to know, twenty-four hours from now. Rather hard luck to be knocked out twice in one day, I must say."

Young Marco, after long wandering and losing his way several times, had lighted on a part of the British rearguard and delivered his note, which passed from a subaltern through his company commander and colonel until it came to the hands of the brigadier. An examination of the map decided that officer to dispatch a regiment of light cavalry to the tower. They reached it some ten minutes after it fell, having heard the outlines of the story from Captain Enderby, whom they met a few hundred yards away, keeping an eye on the three prisoners, as he said with a smile. Milosh and Nuta, who were returning to the tower when the explosion occurred, had narrowly escaped burial in the ruins. Rushing forward through the smoke and dust, they had found the two men unconscious but alive, protected by the only half-destroyed arch of the entrance.

The shelling had ceased with the fall of the tower; the track had been rendered utterly impassable by the explosion of the mine; and before the enemy were aware of the presence of the British cavalry, and their guns again came into play, the regiment had withdrawn with Burton, his party and the prisoners, and were well on their way to the British lines.

The value of the defence of the tower was handsomely acknowledged by the brigadier. It had saved his rearguard. The Serbs were compensated for the loss of their belongings in the abandoned cart, and young Marco, besides presents given him by the British officers, found himself the happy possessor of innumerable souvenirs from the men. Old Marco, who soon recovered, received special commendation and reward for his heroism in firing the mine at the risk of his life. As for Burton, no one was more surprised than he when he learnt that his name had been sent in for the V.C.

THE MISSING PLATOON

I

Burton rode at an easy jog trot, smoking a cigarette. He had a day off, and by way of recreation had borrowed a horse to visit the battery for which he had done a good deal of "spotting," but which he had not yet seen. His only communication with it had been by wireless from the air.

It was a fine spring afternoon--rather ominously fine, he thought, for the sunlight had that liquid brightness which often preludes dirty weather. Dust flew in clouds from the white road before the gusty wind. From somewhere ahead came the booming of guns, and now and then he saw bursts of smoke above the trenches a few miles away.

He came to a solitary house at the roadside. It was partly demolished; but in the doorway, flanked by a solid wall of sandbags, a subaltern was standing. Burton reined up.

"Officers' quarters of No. 6?" he asked laconically.

"The same," was the reply.

"My name's Burton: thought I'd come over and have a look at you."

"You're the chap, are you? Well, I'll take you round. They're all in the gun-pits, waiting orders. Take your horse round to the back: we get pip-squeaks here occasionally."

Having placed the horse in safety, Burton accompanied his guide across the road, through what had once been a market-garden, to a turfy mound resembling a small barrow, such as may be seen here and there in the south of England. But this mound in France was obviously not an ancient burial-place. There was something recent and artificial in its appearance. A deep drain encircled it, and on its western side there was a small opening, like the entrance to an Eskimo hut.

"Here we are," said his guide, Laurence Cay, second lieutenant. "Mind your head."

Burton stooped and entered. He found himself in a spacious chamber, dimly lit through the doorway and the hurdles stretched across the farther end. To him, coming from the brilliant sunlight, the interior was at first impenetrably dark; but as his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he saw the gun, clean, silent, on a bed of concrete; rows of shells placed in recesses in the walls; and the opening of a tunnel.

"That leads to our dug-out," said Cay. "We'll find some one there."

A few steps through the tunnel brought them to a large cave-like room, furnished with table and chairs, four bunks and a store cupboard. Two officers were taking a late luncheon.

"Let me introduce Burton, V.C., D.S.O., one of our spotters," said Cay. "Captain Adams, Mr. Mortimer."

"Hullo, Burton? So it's you. How d'ye do?" said the captain, shaking hands. "Haven't seen you for an age. Have a drink?"

"A cosy little place, this," said Burton, as he quaffed a mug of cider.

"H'm! Pretty fair. We're proof against anything but a 'Jack Johnson.' They haven't discovered us yet. We've had a few pip-squeaks and four-twos, by accident. We make better practice, I think."

"You missed a chance this morning."

"How's that?"

"Well, that mill, you know, just across the way--the Huns' divisional headquarters."

"Across the way! It's five miles--and a hill between!"

Burton, who knew Captain Adams of old, ignored the interruption. It was an easy amusement to "draw" Adams.

"With a little promptitude, and--h'm--accuracy, you might have bagged the whole lot; and who knows if Big or Little Willy mightn't have been there on a visit? But you were so slow getting to work that they all got away--except the cooks."

"But, hang it all! I gave the order 'Battery action' one second after we got the first call from O.P. and...."

"Yes, but your first shell plugged into a cabbage patch half a mile to the left."

"O.P. reported 300 yards," snorted the captain indignantly.

"Wanted to spare your feelings, old man. As I was saying, it only scared the Huns and gave them time to clear out. The second shell was just about as far to the right: demolished a pigsty."

"Come now, how the deuce do you know that?"

"Well, the divisional cooks started to make sauerkraut and sausage----"

At this point Adams noticed that his subalterns were writhing with the effort to contain their laughter; and perceiving at last that he was being "chipped," he caught Burton by the collar and hurled him towards one of the bunks. This was the opening move of a scrimmage which might have continued until both were breathless had not Adams suddenly remembered himself.

"Gad, Burton, this won't do!" he said. "Bad example to those young innocents" (indicating the subalterns). "Quite like old times at school, eh? But really----"

"How long have you been a captain, Adams?"

"Gazetted a fortnight ago; it came through orders a week later. Must give up skylarking now, you know. Have another drink."

They sat down, compared notes, talked over old times: the conversation became general.

"Trench raids are becoming more common," said Cay presently. "You heard what happened the other day?"

"What was that?"

"The better part of a platoon of the Rutlands is missing. They hold the trenches in front of us, you know. Well, they got up a night raid, and penetrated the Huns' first line: came back with a handful of prisoners and no casualties to speak of. But when they took stock, something over forty men of this platoon were missing."

"They went too far, I suppose, and were cut off. Very bad luck."

"If they're prisoners! Whatever happens to me, I hope I shan't be a prisoner. These raids are the order of the day now; I suppose they're useful. At any rate they give our fellows something to do."

At this moment Burton started as the words "Battery action" came from somewhere in a roar like that of a giant.

"Megaphone!" cried Adams, jumping up.

The officers rushed into the gun-pit. The men who had been working outside came racing in. In a few moments another order was shouted through a megaphone by the man in the telephone room--a shell-proof cave hard by. "Target M--one round battery fire."

Captain Adams took up a map of the German trenches, and with a rapidity that amazed Burton, angles and fuses were adjusted, and in a few seconds a shell went whistling and screaming towards its invisible target miles away. Cay had gone to the wireless instrument in the corner, and sat with the receiving telephones at his ears.

"Range right; shell dropped quarter-mile to the left," he called presently.

New adjustments were made; the gun fired again.

"How's that?" asked Adams.

It seemed only a few seconds before Cay, repeating the message he had received from the invisible aeroplane scouting aloft, replied: "Got him!" A moment later he added: "New battery----" He broke off: the burring of the instrument had ceased. He tried to get into communication again, but failed. "Ask O.P. if they've seen the 'plane," he called to the telephonist. Presently came the answer: "Went out of sight behind a wooded hill. Afraid a Hun 'Archie' has brought it down."

Meanwhile the order "Break off" had been received. The immediate task of the battery was accomplished.

II

The officers returned to their dug-out.

"Your colleague hasn't had your luck, Burton," said Adams. "It's more than a pity. He had evidently spotted a fresh battery. The Huns will have time to conceal it unless some one else spots it and tips us the wink."

They went outside and scanned the sky. No aeroplane was in sight.

"I think I'd better go up," said Burton. "I'm off duty to-day, but it would be a pity to lose the chance. The new battery must have been visible from where he saw your target. I ought to be able to find it if I go at once."

"A good idea! We might smash it before it gets to work. You'd better 'phone your flight commander. I'll lend you my trench map."

Burton hurried to the telephone room. In a few minutes he returned.

"O.K.," he said, "but I'll have to go alone. My observer's away, and there's no one else handy."

"That's awkward. You can't pilot and work the wireless too."

"Perhaps not, but if I can spot the battery I can return with my observer to-morrow, and then we'll be able to set you to work on it."

"Good! You've seen what we can do."

"Well, not exactly seen; but apparently it wasn't a pigsty this time. Look out for me in an hour or so."

He returned to the house, remounted, and rode back rapidly to the aerodrome. There he explained the circumstances at greater length to his flight commander, set the mechanics to work, and within ten minutes was ready to start.

"We're in for a storm, I fancy," said his commander as he got into his place; "but perhaps you'll be back before it breaks."

The weather had gradually changed. The sky had become thick, the air was sultry and oppressive. As Burton climbed in a wide spiral it was like going from a Turkish bath into the cooling room, fresh and exhilarating. He circled over the aerodrome until he had attained an altitude of six or seven thousand feet, then steered towards the German lines, still rising steadily. The spot for which he was making was four or five miles away. Soon the bewildering network of the British trenches glided away beneath him. Then the German trenches came into view. On the roads behind he noticed tiny black specks moving this way and that--supply wagons, no doubt, or motor-cars bringing up fresh men.

The whirr of his engine was broken into by something like the sound of a pop-gun. He looked around; a woolly ball of smoke hung in the air on his right. Immediately afterwards there were more pops, and the ball became the centre of a cluster. Burton swerved to the left, then dodged a long roll of greenish-yellow smoke with a red tongue of flame in the centre. The German "Archies" were at work. He flew on, swinging from side to side, until he calculated that he was about three miles behind the front line of trenches. Then he turned at right angles and commenced a methodical search of the ground stretched like a patchwork quilt below him. Here was a brown patch of plough-land, then a blob of vivid green denoting grass, or one of green speckled with white--an orchard in the blossom of spring. In the distance the silvery streak of a river pursued its winding way. A train was rolling across it, like a toy train on a toy bridge.

A dark mass below him broke apart, resolving itself into individual dots. "Afraid of bombs," he thought. At the spot where the centre of the crowd had been, the ground appeared to be blackened. "Shouldn't wonder if that's the missing aeroplane," he thought. "It caught fire, or they've burnt it. But where's that new battery? Things are getting hot." Shells were bursting all about him. Now and then the machine lurched, and he looked round anxiously to see the extent of the damage. A few wires, perhaps, were hanging loose; a few rents gaped in the fabric; nothing serious as yet. But it was getting very uncomfortable.

Up and down he flew, feeling the strain of doing double work. With his map pinned down in front of him he scanned the ground for some new feature. Ah! What is that? Peering through his glasses he descries a group of men in suspicious activity about a clump of bushes. They scatter as he passes over. A shell sets the machine rocking. He swings round and soars over the spot again, even venturing to descend a few hundred feet. The clump is not marked on the map. What is that in the middle of it? The flight has carried him beyond it before he can answer the question; but he turns again, and circles over the place. There is something unnatural in the appearance of the bushes. The shells are bursting thicker than ever. Something cracks just behind his seat. But he thrills as he realises that his reconnaissance has succeeded. "The battery is hidden in that clump, or I'm a Dutchman."

He marked the spot on his map, moved the elevator, soared aloft, and steered for home, making a circuit northward to avoid an anti-aircraft gun that lay directly between him and the aerodrome. And now for the first time he was aware that the threatening storm was about to burst. The westerly wind had increased in force; the sky was blacker; huge waves of cloud were rolling eastward. He flew into the wind and tried to rise above the clouds. Suddenly Heaven's artillery thundered around him; there was a blinding flash; he was conscious of pain as though he had received a heavy blow; then for a while he was lost to all about him.

When he partly recovered his senses and tried to regain control of the machine he was in a state of bewilderment. The aeroplane was nearly upside down. He scarcely knew which was top and which bottom. He struggled to right the machine: when he succeeded, with great creaking of the controls, he was alarmed to see that he was within a few hundred feet of the ground, above a wood. Exercising all his self-command he managed to swerve clear of the tree-tops, and in another moment or two the machine came to the ground with a bump that seemed to shake out of place every bone in his body.

Half dazed, he unstrapped himself with trembling fingers and scrambled from his seat. Rain was pouring in a deluge. The sky was black as night. His feet had just touched the sodden soil when he became aware of a number of figures rushing towards him from the undergrowth. Fumbling for his revolver, he was felled by a shrewd blow.

Again he lost consciousness for a moment. Then he heard an English voice.

"You silly blighter! Couldn't you see?"

"He was going to shoot."

"Well, what of it? He couldn't hit a haystack. Didn't you see he was fair crumpled with the fall?"

"You may talk, but I wasn't going to be shot in mistake for a bloomin' Hun."

"I tell you any fool could see he was one of ours. I was sure of it. You ought to have made sure--striking your superior officer."

"Silence, you men!" called an authoritative voice. An officer had come up from the shelter of the wood. "The noise you are making can be heard a mile off. You'll bring the whole Hun army down on us."

As a matter of fact, the men had begun by speaking in stage whispers, their tones becoming louder and louder in their excitement as the altercation proceeded.

Burton rose stiffly and painfully to his feet.

"Beg pardon, sir," sheepishly muttered the man who had knocked him down. "It's raining so hard----"

"That's all right," Burton interposed. "Where am I?"

"It's you, Burton!" said the officer. "Come among the trees. You men, lug the aeroplane in; the rain's so thick that perhaps the Huns haven't seen where it fell."

"But we're in no danger in our own lines?" said Burton in surprise.

"We aren't in our own lines," rejoined the officer, dragging Burton into the wood. "We're marooned."

"Gad, Hedley, are you the missing platoon?"

"Yes; I'll tell you."

"Let me have a look at the machine first. By George! I thought I was done for."

"It was a narrow squeak. But you've always had wonderful luck. Here's the machine. What's the damage?"

Burton examined the aeroplane and gave a rueful shrug.

"Two holes in the engine cowl, a dozen in the planes, bracing wires shot away; they don't cripple her, but the worst thing is that one of the landing wheels is buckled. She's useless till that is put right."

"Well, perhaps we can get that done for you. You seem as badly crocked as the machine, and no wonder."

"But tell me, Hedley, where are we? And how did you get here?"

"Tell you by and by," said Hedley, who spoke in whispers and showed other signs of nervous apprehension. "Come on."

"But I can't leave the machine."

"You must. We can't take it with us. It won't be found while the rain lasts."

"I can't fly back unless I get this wheel straightened."

"All right. Stanbridge," he said, calling up a short, sturdily-built corporal, "get that buckled wheel off. Quick work!"

"Very good, sir."

"You'll find some tools on board," said Burton.

"And don't make a row," Hedley added.

It was the work of only a few minutes to detach the wheel. There was no conversation; everybody showed nervous impatience; two or three men kept watch at the edge of the wood.

"Now then," said Hedley.

He led the way, groping through the wood. Burton followed on his heels: he felt himself a compendium of aches. Rain was still falling. Through it could be seen the blurred lights of a distant building. A short walk brought the party to what appeared to be a thick hedge of bramble bounding a field. There was a whispered challenge.

"Potsdam," whispered Hedley in return, giving the password.

He turned, took Burton by the arm, and guided him through an opening which had suddenly disclosed itself in the bramble hedge. A sentry stood aside; the party filed in. Burton found himself moving down a sharp declivity, which by and by opened out into a spacious cave, lit by a single candle-lamp. Two or three men got up from the stools on which they had been sitting. The floor was roughly boarded. A table stood in the centre. Along one side were a number of large wooden bins.

"We sleep on them," said Hedley. "Rather stuffy quarters, you perceive."

"Concentrated essence of earth and candle smoke," said Burton, sniffing.