Read Ebook: With Haig on the Somme by Parry D H Webb Archibald Illustrator

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Ebook has 1217 lines and 47837 words, and 25 pages

They, too, were just leaving the cloud-bank, which ended there, misled by the idea that their prey would make a bee-line for safety; but they saw the Aviatik at the same moment that Dennis saw them, and circled round to cut him off from home.

Dennis realised that he was now above French soil. His engines were working magnificently, and dropping to an altitude of two thousand metres, which gave him a clear view of towns and buildings, he consulted his chart, identified Nancy far away on his right front, and trusted all to Providence.

He had judged wisely, as it proved, and knew that he was out-distancing the enemy aircraft tearing in hot pursuit--all but one persistent Fokker that evidently meant business. He even found time to glance backward at his companion, who, with the folds of the French flag wrapped round his shattered shoulder to dull the force of the keen air, sat huddled up in his cockpit, apparently insensible.

Once a shell came up from the ground, and burst between pursuer and pursued, and a gleam of fierce hope shot through the lad's heart as he saw the French "75" making good practice against the vicious little gadfly.

Higher and higher mounted the Fokker to get out of range, and still Dennis kept on, remembering his appointment with the French Generalissimo, and glancing alternately from the chart to the little clock beside the aneroid barometer, whose registration was useless at that height.

"Twenty-five minutes! Great Scott! can I do it?" he muttered, clutching the control wheel with his frozen fingers.

"Well, messieurs, it is a pity, and I am afraid something must have happened to that young officer," said General Joffre, consulting his watch for the last time. "I must find another messenger to carry my reply to the Commander-in-Chief of our Allies."

And then he stopped as a murmured exclamation broke from the group of officers, and everyone looked up to the grey sky across which some rainclouds were drifting.

Two dots scarcely larger than flies on a window-pane had suddenly detached themselves from the rain clouds, and were manoeuvring curiously in the direction of the village. Larger and larger they grew, the smaller dot obviously trying to gain the advantage of height, and mingling with the throb of the engines they could now hear the rattle of a machine-gun.

"What is the meaning of this?" said the Generalissimo, fixing them with his glass. "These machines are German. I can see the Iron Cross painted upon them both. Send word to the battery yonder to make ready. It is a raid, and they are adopting those manoeuvres to deceive us."

He started when he heard the Generalissimo's order, for even yet he could not be sure, but the dots had now grown so large that it was possible to tell the make of the two machines, and somebody said: "The first one is an Aviatik; the other is a Fokker."

If the seeming chase were a piece of German stage management it was certainly being carried out with marvellous realism, for now Martique could distinctly see the puffs of the machine-gun, and that the bullets were ripping through the lifting planes of the Aviatik.

"Mon G?n?ral!" he cried suddenly, "for the love of heaven order our battery not to fire! Look! The observer in that machine is waving a French flag. He has dropped it now, and he slues his gun into position--but with one arm only! He is wounded!"

"Do you know what you are talking about, young man?" said the Generalissimo sternly.

"Forgive me, mon G?n?ral!" faltered Martique. "It was a little secret. Oh, look! The Fokker has got the top place, and is about to ram poor Laval and his English companion!"

Everyone held his breath, for indeed it was as Martique had cried. The Aviatik was volplaning down in a wide spiral now, and above it the relentless pursuer poised like a hawk. He was judging the circumference of those spiral curves, and even the Generalissimo himself tightened his lips under the huge white moustache.

Over the side of the fuselage there was no mistaking the glorious red, white and blue that fluttered wildly in the descent, and then the Aviatik's swivel-gun spoke three times. A German always speaks French badly, but that German gun rang out with a true accent that time, and the Fokker gave a strange quiver, burst into a sheet of flame, and dropped like a stone to death and destruction six thousand feet below!

There was an instant stampede to the spot, the Generalissimo himself following, unable to curb his curiosity; but as he reached the bank at the edge of the cornfield a running figure in leather jacket and flying helmet checked his pace and, throwing up his goggles, saluted smartly.

"Mon G?n?ral, I hope you will accept my apology," said Dennis Dashwood. "I am five minutes behind my time, but I am here, and I have a good deal to tell you!"

The Sing-Song in the Dug-out

Three surgeons, hastily summoned to the spot, knelt with their instruments beside Claude Laval, not twenty yards from the bodies of the two German airmen whom he had brought down the afternoon before, and in the circle that surrounded them stood the Generalissimo, holding the old French colour which would never ornament the walls of that distant hunting-lodge again.

"He will recover," said one of the doctors, getting up from his knee. "But he will want the most careful attention. The whole thing is marvellous. There is not one man in a thousand that could have lived through such an adventure!"

"Mon G?n?ral," he said, but so faintly that the Commander of the French Armies had to stoop over him, "I should not have lived if it had not been for my companion. He is brave, that boy--oh, braver than I can make you understand. But, mon G?n?ral," and a wistful look came into the deep-sunk eyes, "they have taken my Cross of the Legion and destroyed it!"

"You were a chevalier of the Order, mon lieutenant, if I remember," said the Generalissimo. "The Republic does not forget her sons when they behave as you have behaved. You shall have another Cross, and this time it will be the Cross of an Officer of the Legion of Honour. And listen! The English lieutenant shall have one too, if the word of C?sar Joffre carries any weight in France. Messieurs, let us salute these two brave men who have both deserved so well of the Republic!" And, lifting his kepi, the gallant Frenchman kissed Dennis on both cheeks amid a burst of generous applause that came from the hearts of all of them.

Dennis pressed Laval's left hand in both his own as he left him with a happy smile on his face; and with a last look at the Aviatik, followed General Joffre to his automobile.

"Adieu, lieutenant!" said the great soldier, with a lingering grip after an interview that lasted half an hour, "I have no other message for your General. He will find it all written in that envelope, which you will give him."

"Now, Martique," said Dennis, settling himself beside him in the motor, "I am in your hands." And almost before the car had started, Second Lieutenant Dennis Dashwood, of the 2/12 Battalion, Royal Reedshire Regiment, was sound asleep!

"Oh, hang it, Martique! What did you wake me for? I haven't been asleep five minutes," grumbled Dennis. And then he sat bolt upright as he recognised the handsome face of the man who had shaken him by the shoulder, and saw the amused smile in his eyes.

"It is a good car, I admit," said Sir Douglas Haig. "But I hardly think it has done the mileage between this place and Bar-le-Duc in so short a time as that, and your chauffeur tells me that you have snored all the way."

Dennis gasped, to find himself once more in front of the headquarters of the General Commanding in Chief, and turned scarlet.

"I took the liberty of abstracting General Joffre's reply from your pocket without disturbing you," continued Sir Douglas. "And I have had the story of your extraordinary exploit from Martique here. Take my advice, Dashwood, and be chary in future about embarking on such adventures; they hardly come within the scope of your day's duty."

And then, seeing the shamefaced look that came over the lad, he added quickly: "Do not read any censure into my words; they were only intended to convey a little fatherly advice. And now the question arises, what is to be done with you? You have shown a most remarkable aptitude, and General Joffre has given such an account of your nerve that I am in two minds whether or not to transfer you to my personal staff--or would you prefer a spell of duty with your regiment?"

"Do you mean for the Great Push?" said Dennis, in an eager voice.

"Confound your great push!" said the General, with a faint flash of sternness in his expressive eyes. "There's too much talk knocking around about our future movements."

For the life of him Dennis could not help smiling all over his face.

"Well, I see where your heart lies," said the G.O.C. in Chief; "and Martique, who is going your way, shall give you a lift. I wish you the best of good luck, Mr. Dashwood, and I am very much obliged to you for the way you have carried out your mission."

The guns still thundered, and the shells had never ceased to rend and pulverise the enemy position day and night. Otherwise, everything was quiet on our front. The raids had ceased, and the wind was unfavourable to any German gas attack.

"Come on, Dennis," said his brother; "there's nothing doing, and I'm fed up. Let's drop in to that sing-song for an hour. They've got an awfully good chap I'm told, who plays the piano like a blooming Paderewski."

"I'm with you," said Dennis. And they made their way into the subterranean dug-out which had so nearly proved his tomb on the night we had carried the front-line trench.

It seemed odd to plunge suddenly into an atmosphere of merriment within a few yards of the men posted at the periscopes along the sandbagged parapet. The electric lights were burning, and a blue haze of tobacco smoke obscured the air from a semicircle of listeners, sitting on packing-cases and forms round the piano on the platform, and the chorus of "Gilbert the Filbert," sung with a will, greeted them as they descended the stairs.

All sorts and conditions of men were gathered there--officers and privates in mutual good fellowship. The Second-in-Command of the Reedshires had just given them a ballad, and sung it jolly well too; and the armourer sergeant and one of their own lieutenants were fooling about as they waited to appear in a comic turn.

The lieutenant was dressed as a French peasant girl, and really looked quite pretty; and the armourer sergeant was supposed to resemble George Robey!

"Oh, there's the chap I was speaking to you about," said Captain Bob, pointing to a wounded Highlander, whose head was enveloped in a bandage. "He's a regular genius on the keyboard; that is why there are such a lot of chaps here to-night. He only blew in a couple of days ago from the brigade on our right when he heard we were lucky enough to have a piano."

They made room for the two new-comers; and as the closing lines of the chorus died away, there were great cries of "Jock, Jock! We want Jock!" from the audience.

The Highland private's face expanded into a sheepish grin, and as he stepped up on to the platform you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Not a sound but that dull burst and boom that they had all got used to and scarcely heard now, and then the keys of the piano broke in upon the tense hush, touched by a master hand.

"Isn't that fine!" whispered the Second-in-Command, who was sitting next to Dennis. "When this beastly war has finished that man would fill Queen's Hall to the roof. And to think he's just one of Kitchener's privates, and the first pip-squeak that comes his way may still that marvellous gift for ever!"

Dennis nodded, for the improvised melody which had just ceased had touched him, as it had touched every man in the room.

But there is no time for sentiment in the trenches; it is out of place there, and after a roar of "Bravo!" and a great clapping of hands had succeeded a momentary pause, voices cried clamorously: "Give us that thing you sang last night, Jock--that song with the whistling chorus!"

"Now you'll hear the reverse of the medal, and upon my soul, it's equally good!" explained the Second-in-Command. "He's like poor old Barclay Gammon and Corney Grain and half a dozen of those musical-sketch men rolled into one. It's his own composition too."

There was a great chord on the piano, the performer laid his cigarette on the music rest, and made an amazing face by way of introduction.

"Gentlemen, I call this song 'All Boche'--because it is," he remarked. And then he sang a string of purely topical verses, brilliantly clever in their allusions to the everyday events in which they all bore their part, and he did not spare the failings of various officers and N.C.O.'s, who were supposed to be imaginary, but whom everybody recognised; and when he had done he resumed his seat quietly on the edge of the platform as though it had been nothing, and Dennis went over to him.

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