CHAPTER XII

St. George's Eve

The "downed" airman was undoubtedly feeling the after effects of his crash. His forehead was swathed in a bloodstained linen-substitute bandage made of paper. He had been deprived of his leather flying-coat, triplex glasses, and fur-lined boots. Even his tunic had been taken from him. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, disclosing a pair of badly-scorched arms, while in his fiery descent his eyebrows had been singed, notwithstanding the protection afforded by his goggles.

He eyed Alec curiously. Although the latter greeted him with a smile and an outstretched hand, the pilot evinced no enthusiasm. There was a distinctly stand-offish manner about him that put a damper on the Sub's advances.

"By Jove! That was a fine stunt of yours," remarked Seton, as a preliminary to a friendly conversation.

"Think so?" queried the other with a slight drawl.

"Rather!"

"'Umph!"

The attempt fizzled out. Both men stood silent, contemplating each other like a couple of boxers about to engage in a bout.

"Can I do anything for you?" asked Seton.

"No, thanks."

Another interval of silence. Alec was wondering how to pass the time with such a mouldy messmate. He had rejoiced at the prospect of companionship, but his realizations in that respect were falling far short of his anticipations.

The day wore on. The new arrival spent most of his time in possession of the open window, while Alec resumed his vigil at the seaward aperture of the cell until the midday meal was brought in.

Suddenly the Sub felt a hand laid upon his shoulder, and the pilot's voice speaking peremptorily:

"Who and what are you?"

Seton told him his name and rank.

"You'll take your oath on it. Proper jonnick?"

"Proper jonnick," declared the somewhat mystified naval officer.

"Good enough!" continued the R.A.F. pilot with a laugh. "Had to be on my guard, don't you know? Thought you were a Boche agent."

"Thanks," said Alec. "And what gave you that impression, may I ask?"

"Natural caution, that's all," answered the pilot. "Fritz has a nasty habit of putting a Boche in with a fellow as a sort of room-mate, merely to try and pick his brains, don't you know? Don't say it isn't done, 'cause it is. Your opening remark about my little stunt rather strengthened my suspicion."

"And what made you alter your opinion?"

"A fairly long period of observation," replied the pilot. "What settled it was the way you were taking your soup or skilly. Beastly rotten stuff, but a Hun couldn't take it silently--you did."

"You're sure you're not mistaken?" asked Alec facetiously.

"Certain sure," rejoined the other. "My name? Oh, just Smith! When a fellow wants to be specially polite he addresses me as Allerton-Smith. But, by Jove, what a rotten crib to be shoved into! How long have you been here?"

Seton told him.

"Doesn't say much for my skill in egg-dropping," continued the pilot. "Our fellows have got hold of the idea that the Huns have a large petrol-store close to the head of the Mole. Consequently I've tried my level best to bomb the place, and apparently you into the bargain."

"Then I can assure you that you weren't far wide of the mark," said Alec. "Several times you rather put the wind up me, to say nothing of rudely disturbing my beauty sleep."

"Is that so--then I apologize," declared Smith. "All the same it is a bit gratifying to know that I do get near the mark sometimes."

"You did early this morning, at any rate." said Seton. "Those U-boats went up beautifully."

"And so did I," added the pilot. "Haven't quite got over the rotten sensation yet. Wonder my 'bus wasn't pulverized with solid stuff flying up. The air seemed stiff with bits of submarines. Funny thing happened--but perhaps I'm boring you?"

"Not at all," Alec hastened to assure him. "What happened?"

"Well, the old 'bus was whirling like a piece of straw. I was hanging over the side of the fuselage, when I saw a huge piece of metal rising, up to meet me--awfully weird sensation. Thought my number was up for a dead cert, when the chunk of stuff seemed to stop still, and then drop and disappear."

"How was that?" asked the Sub.

"Simply that my old 'bus was just a few feet above the highest point reached by the up-flung metal before gravity won the tug-of-war, don't you know. Then I came tumbling down, doing a sort of _splitasse_ all over the place. Thought I was going to crash right on top of a house when the 'bus sort of pulled herself together, flattened out and then made a fairly decent sort of landing in the middle of the canal, which wasn't bad for a machine without a tail. Next thing I remember was being hauled on board a boat and taken off to the head of the Mole. Why the Boches wanted to do that puzzles me. It wasn't out of consideration for you, old bird."

"Evidently not," remarked Seton. "It's my belief, strengthened by a hint from von Brockdorff-Giespert, that we are here as a species of cock-shies for our own fellows. By the by, have you met von Brockdorff-Giespert?"

"The U-boat staff-bloke? Rather!" replied the pilot. "He tried to pump me, and, finding that was no go, tried to put the screw on. There was nothin' doin'."

The pilot paced up and down the limits of his prison-cell like a caged animal. Then suddenly wheeling, he asked:

"Ever thought of doing a bunk?"

"Many a time," replied the Sub. "That's as far as it went. Even supposing I got clear of this show, what's to be done? Not a chance of finding a boat, and putting to sea."

"Putting to sea!" repeated the airman. "That's all you sailors think about. The Huns know it too, and directly you were missed they'd send out torpedo-craft as far as they dared go to look for you. No, it's inland--that's the wheeze. It would put the Boches off the scent, and a fellow would stand a fighting chance of getting across into Holland."

"We're still behind iron bars--and massive ones at that," Seton reminded him.

"Quite so," admitted Smith. "There are other means; this was a gun-emplacement."

"So I believe."

"I know for a fact," declared the pilot. "The Huns constructed half a dozen for big guns to be directed seaward. The old R.N.A.S. knocked them about so badly that Fritz abandoned the idea. Now, does that suggest anything?"

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"The guns must have been served when they were in position."

"Admitted."

"And Fritz may make plenty of blunders, but he's no fool. Having placed the guns in position in well-concealed emplacements, he wouldn't send the ammunition along in the open. He'd connect the emplacements by passages to run the stuff up on tram-lines. You can take it from me, my festive, that if we dug down we'd break into a tunnel already provided for our edification."

"Sounds feasible," admitted Seton.

"Then when shall we start?" asked the pilot.

"Now," decided the Sub promptly.

Both men were warming to their work. Even if the desired result were not forthcoming, it was something to occupy their minds, and to ward off the deadly monotony.

"We'll have to go slow," cautioned Seton. "The floor looks pretty solid, and we've no tools."

"Haven't we, by Jove!" exclaimed Smith, producing a steel marline-spike of about nine inches in length. "I saw this beauty in the boat that brought me across the harbour, and, thinking it might come in useful, I annexed it. We'll start with this stone; it looks slightly wonky."

While one listened at the door for the sentry, the other tackled the cement. Working in turns, they succeeded at the end of three hours' work in prising the slab from its bed. Underneath was a quantity of rubble, bordered on one side by a stone slab.

"We're breaking into the old trap-hatch," declared the pilot. "We must clear this rubble and get rid of it. I vote we carry on till supper-time, and then stand by till midnight. It will be a slow business at first."

Handful by handful the rubble was removed, and thrown cautiously through the window on the seaward-side of the Mole. Before supper was brought in, the stone slab that formed the only barrier between the cell and the arch of the communication gallery was exposed.

In good time the upper slab was replaced and dust rubbed into the exposed joints, so that the gaoler would not notice anything was amiss.

"To-night's the night," remarked Smith, as the two prisoners partook of their frugal, unappetizing meal. "We'll have a jaunt ashore, if nothing else."

"What day is it?" asked Alec. "I've lost all count of time."

"Twenty-second of April," replied the pilot.

"Good enough!" exclaimed Seton joyfully. "St. George's Eve--a good omen."

As night fell the two officers prepared to renew their task. If Smith's surmise were correct, the actual business of breaking out of their cell seemed a fairly simple matter. Seton wondered why he had not thought of a similar plan before. Then he reflected that, had he done so, and had the work of getting clear of the Mole been successful, he would most certainly have attempted to make for the open sea. The idea of bluffing the Hun by going inland and thence across the Dutch frontier had never occurred to him.

Nevertheless the whole business was fraught with peril. The men were liable to be shot at sight by the sentries; if recaptured they might also be executed as spies, since they were not in uniform. Without doubt Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert would not be backward in taking any steps to make it decidedly unpleasant for them should they have the ill-luck to be recaptured.

Directly the rounds had made their usual inspection and had taken their departure, Alec and his R.A.F. comrade set to work. With only a marline-spike and two pairs of hands, the task of removing the cemented-in stone was a tedious and formidable one. They had to proceed cautiously and silently, lest the alert sentries detected the grating of cold steel against hard cement.

At intervals they desisted to listen. It was quite possible that the communication-tunnel might still be in use, in which case it was falling out of the frying-pan into the fire with a vengeance, and at the expense of a terrific amount of hard and purposeless toil.

"Wonder how goes the time," gasped Smith, pausing to straighten his aching back and to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. "Getting on for midnight, I should say."

"No fear; it's not much past eight o'clock," replied Alec. "I'll just see."

He went to the seaward aperture and gazed skywards. The night was dark and calm. The stars shone brilliantly, although obscured here and there by patches of mist. In the northern sky the Great Bear flamed in stellar splendour. By its position with relation to the Pole Star, Alec was able to confirm his surmise with a fair degree of accuracy.

"It's certainly not nine yet," he reported. "We've eight hours of darkness; ought to do something in that time. By Jove, this cement's hard! Wonder if it came from England?"

He took the marline-spike from his companion. It was wet and sticky. The pilot's hands, hitherto well kept and unused to hard manual labour, were almost raw. Alec's were not much better, while every muscle in his body and limbs was aching with the unwonted exertion.

Yet doggedly they continued their work, each man relieving the other at, roughly, a quarter of an hour's interval. The stone was beginning to show signs of working loose.

"Wonder if any of our fellows will be over to-night," remarked the airman. "We don't give Fritz much rest."

"It's been quieter to-day than ever since I've been here," said Alec. "You were the last fellow to come over."

"And stay here," added the other grimly. "Hope Fritz doesn't think that one man being brought down will put the others off. If so, he's vastly mistaken."

"I wish there would be a big raid or bombardment," declared the Sub. "We'd have to run the risk of being strafed; but, on the other hand, Fritz would be much too busy to worry about us. What's the weight of this stone: three-quarters of a hundredweight?"

"Quite," replied Smith promptly. He had been mentally calculating the cubic capacity and weight of that wedge-shaped piece of stone for hours past. "It's not the weight that matters so much. It's the awkward shape of the brute."

For the next ten minutes the two toilers were silent. Every jab with the now-blunted marline-spike was telling. The stone was almost ready for removal.

"Hist!" whispered Seton, holding up a warning hand. Although it was night, the stars enabled the men, accustomed to the sombre conditions, to see with comparative ease.

"What is it?" whispered Smith.

In reply Seton inserted the point of the spike into a crevice and pressed his ear lightly against the blunt end. His suspicions were not ill-founded. The metal, acting as a transmitter of sound, enabled him to detect footsteps in the corridor beneath.

"Rough luck," remarked the pilot in a low tone.

"We'll stand fast for a bit," decided Seton. "It may be that it's only a patrol or a party drawing stores. It's not far from midnight now."

As he spoke a gun barked a few yards off, quickly followed by another and another, until the masonry quivered and swayed with the terrific detonations.

Both men made their way to the window, which, unaccountably, their gaolers had not closed by means of the metal shutter.

Seaward avast bank of fog--whether natural or artificial the watchers had no means of telling--was punctured by rapid and vivid flashes of light. Star-shells and search-lights illumined the sky. Shells were screeching and bursting everywhere, until the sea and sky seemed blotted out with smoke and far-flung columns of spray.

Suddenly Seton gripped his companion's arm, causing him to wince with pain, and pointed to an indistinct grey mass looming through the fog. It was a vessel, blazing away with quick-firers and heading straight for the Mole.

"Thank God for that sight!" ejaculated Alec fervently. "This is the beginning of St. George's Day with a vengeance."