With Haig on the Somme Part 40

"Your handcuffs, my man!" said Dennis, "this is one of the most dangerous German spies at large. I accept all responsibility for my action, but I am going to take her to our Brigade Headquarters for further identification."

A Red Cross nurse is a very sacred personality to the British soldier, but Dennis's voice carried conviction with it, although the artful jade made a bold bid for liberty.

She ceased her struggles and said in a plaintive tone without a trace of foreign accent, "It is a wicked mistake. I am a Welsh woman, and my name is Margaret Jones. The Sister on the train will bear witness for me."

"I have yet to learn," said Dennis, fully aware of the renewed look of doubt in the faces of the men, "that a Red Cross nurse has any right to pilfer a field letter-box, or that she usually carries a Browning pistol for that purpose. Besides----" And at a venture he suddenly transferred his grip from her left wrist to the nurse's headgear she wore.

"There you are!" he said, sternly triumphant, as the splendidly made red wig came away and revealed the black hair beneath it. "Those handcuffs!"

And they closed with a snap on the wrists of the German spy.

Martique was sounding his horn as a signal that he was ready, but he was not prepared for the sight that greeted his eyes as Dennis and the M.P.

came up to the car with their prisoner.

"You might give me a bit of a chit, sir, to show it's all right," said the policeman, when they had lifted her into the front seat, pale and rigid now. "And if you take my advice," he whispered, "you'll keep an eye on her; she can wriggle like an eel, and if she grabs the steering-wheel when you're moving, she'll break all your bloomin' necks for you."

"I'll watch it," said Dennis with a smile.

In the telephone dug-out at Brigade Headquarters a man was speaking into the receiver, and the man at the other end of the wire out in a certain sector of the firing line smiled as he recognised the voice.

"That's you, Pater, isn't it?" said Bob.

"Yes," replied Brigadier-General Dashwood. "Any news yet?"

"None at all, sir," said Bob, his face changing; "the balloon's been found pretty well riddled, with the observer dead in the basket. The Highlanders took the wood this morning, you know, but there's no sign of Dennis. We can only hope for the best, Pater, and that is, that he is a prisoner. Eh? What did you say?--I can't hear you--are you there?"

"Hold the wire a moment," came the response, delivered in a startled voice; and Bob Dashwood sighed as he rested his elbow on his knee and looked about him at the appalling destruction of the place.

The Great Push was still continuing without a check, and the Reeds.h.i.+res had again made good with the other regiments of the Brigade.

Somebody came up to him for orders, and he gave them, and somebody else arrived with a request for his presence in another part of the new position.

"You must wait a moment; I am talking to the Brigadier," he said, and then feeling the pause had been a long one, he turned to the receiver again.

"Hallo! Hallo! Are you there, Pater?" he queried, and the reply that reached his ear was a startling one.

"Yes, I'm here, and who do you think is here too? The cat with nine lives has turned up again, and, by Jupiter! Bob, he's brought another cat with him. Dennis is with me without a scratch, and he's captured Ottilie von Dussel, red-haired and red-handed!"

"Oh, good egg!" shouted Major Dashwood, commanding the 2/12th Battalion of the Royal Reeds.h.i.+re Regiment. "Where did he find her? How did he do it?"

"Gently, my dear Robert," said the Brigadier; "he will be with you in a couple of hours, and then he'll tell you the whole thing."

CHAPTER x.x.x

Under the Enemy Wall

With the coming of dusk came Dennis Dashwood back to the old battalion, just at roll-call. The last quarter of a mile he performed at the double, and burst into the fire-trench like a bolt from the blue.

When his brother officers shook hands with him--for all were delighted at his return--an irresistible murmur of welcome rippled along A Company, and as Hawke's name was called at the moment, that worthy replied with a ringing yell.

"Report yourself at office to-morrow," said the lieutenant in charge of No. 2 Platoon, and Harry Hawke so far forgot himself as to answer, "Right-o, Governor!" at the same time lifting his trench helmet on to the point of his bayonet and waving it frantically.

An enemy sniper promptly sent it spinning on to the top of the parados.

"You shall do four days' field punishment, Hawke!" said the outraged officer.

"Forty days if you like, sir--I don't care what becomes of me. 'Ere's Mr. Dashwood back agin--that's good enough!"

No. 2 Platoon, carried away by the infectious enthusiasm, joined in the shout.

"Another word," cried the lieutenant, "and No. 2 Platoon shall go back into the reserve!" And amid the dead silence that followed that awful threat, Dennis reached them, lifting a warning finger.

"Steady, men," he said. "Thank you for the welcome, but it's not done in the best platoons, you know. How are you, Littlewood?"

"Top-hole, old chap! Where have you been, you beggar? You've managed to completely demoralise the company."

"You shall have a narrative of my expedition all highly coloured, by and by," laughed Dennis. "I've had no end of a time, and I've brought back the news that we've got the Prussians in front of us by way of a change."

"The d.i.c.kens we have!" said Littlewood. "Any chance of their counter-attacking?"

"That's the idea, old man. I'm going on listening-post to-night, and I shouldn't wonder if we get it pretty hot. Bob tells me you've had it in the neck whilst I've been away."

"By Jove, yes!" said Littlewood gravely, "seventy-five casualties last night. Spencer's gone, young Fitzhugh, Blennerha.s.set, and Bowles, all killed. There wasn't enough of Bowles left to bury even--nothing but one boot with a foot in it--high explosive, you know, and he was only married two days before he came out!"

"Rotten hard lines!" said Dennis, pa.s.sing along the front of the platoon, and stopping before Harry Hawke.

"You and Tiddler are 'for it' to-night, remember," he said, and the two men grinned delightedly. "Ah, Wetherby! Going strong?"

"A1," replied the boy, as the parade was dismissed, "but I say, we've got beastly quarters this time. Look here," and he pointed to a mere dint in the side of the trench with a piece of sacking by way of protection from the vulgar gaze.

"Hum! we'll alter that to-morrow--it's certainly not palatial," said Dennis. "I suppose there's none of my clobber come up?"

"Oh yes, it's all here; I saw to that," said young Wetherby, blus.h.i.+ng like a girl, as he pointed to a haversack and a brown valise which contained his friend's campaigning kit.

"What a good little chap you are!" exclaimed Dennis.

"Not at all. I f.a.gged for you at Harrow, and somehow I had the idea you'd turn up," and young Wetherby blushed again.

He was a pretty pink-faced boy, who wrote extremely sweet poetry in his odd moments.

"Well, I'm going to have a shave," said Dennis; "and I say, Wetherby, you might grope in the kit-bag and put a refill in that spare torch of mine. I've got an idea it may be useful to-night. Oh, hang this rain!"

The steady drizzle which had set in as the light faded had turned to a heavy, pitiless downpour.