Covington Clarke

1

Near noon, the following day, a motor cycle with side car snorted to a sudden stop at the newly erected hangar tents of an American Pursuit Group, and McGee crawled stiffly from the bone-racking, muscle-twisting “bath tub.” He thanked the mud-splashed, goggled driver, adding, by way of left-handed compliment, that he had been given more thrills in the last five kilometers than he had received in all his months in the Allied Air Service.

He turned toward the hangar. There was but one ship on the field, a two-seater. By its side stood Siddons and his air mechanic. They seemed to be in close-headed conference.

McGee clicked his teeth in a little sound of suppressed emotion, slipped through the hangar door and stood face to face with his own old Ack Emma.

“For the luva Pete!” exclaimed the startled air mechanic. “When did you get here, Lieutenant?”

McGee extended his hand in greeting. Williams grasped it, eagerly.

232“Well, for the luva Pete?” he repeated, lacking words in his surprise and pleasure. “Lieutenant Larkin! Oh, Lieutenant Larkin!” he began roaring. “Oh, Bill! Where’s Larkin?”

“Just left a minute ago,” came a voice from under the hood of a new Spad. “Went over to his quarters to wash up. Grease from head to foot.”

“I’ll go show you his quarters,” Williams said, eagerly.

“Never mind, I’ll find him,” McGee said. “Have to check in at headquarters first. I hear Cowan is still C.O.”

“Yes, sir. He sure is. And he’s a darb, Lieutenant.”

“So I hear. Piling up quite a record. How many of the old gang still here, Williams?”

“Not many. If the Hun doesn’t get ’em, nerves and the smell of castor-oil does. Half a dozen of ’em gone flooey in the stomach. Couldn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive and couldn’t keep that down. It’s a tough game, Lieutenant. Next war that comes yours truly is going to join the infantry.”

“Don’t do it,” McGee warned, as he turned away. “I’ve just had a little experience with the infantry and it’s not such a bed of roses. See you later, Williams.”

“Well for the luva Pete!” Williams commented to himself, standing arms akimbo as he watched McGee 233cross over toward headquarters. “And they said that bird’s head was busted wide open and his brains scattered all over France. Now there he is, big as life. I’ll bet ten bucks to a lousy centime he lives to fall off a merry-go-round and break his neck. For the luva Pete!”

2

McGee’s return to the squadron would have been fittingly celebrated but for the fact that five o’clock the following morning had been designated as “zero hour” for the greatest drive ever undertaken by Americans on foreign soil. He had arrived just in time to hurl himself into the feverish preparations for the support which all air units must give the massed ground forces that would hurl themselves upon the supposedly impregnable Hindenburg Line. With the coming of dawn the combat squadrons must gain and hold air supremacy. Nothing less than complete and absolute supremacy would satisfy Great Headquarters, who in planning the drive were high in the hope that the fresh divisions of American soldiers could break through the Hindenburg Line and by hammering, hammering, hammering at the enemy force him into peace terms before the coming of winter.

McGee was tickled pink by his timely arrival, but it was not all a matter of rejoicing. For one thing, it 234seemed that almost the entire group was made up of new faces. Of those flight pilots whom he had first met when he came to the squadron as an instructor, only three remained–Yancey, Nathan Rodd and Siddons. Of course Larkin was still on top, and Cowan not only held his command, but had established quite a reputation. Yancey had earned the right to a nickname more appropriately fitting than “the flying fool,” for he was anything but a fool and his mounting victories proved that he had something more than luck.

Nathan Rodd, his nerve unshattered by his first unfortunate encounter with the enemy, was still as taciturn as ever, preferring to let his deeds speak for him.

As for Siddons, McGee could get no information out of Larkin save that everyone thought that Siddons had some pull. A good flyer, yes, Larkin admitted, but forever cutting formation, flying off where he pleased, absenting himself for two or three days, and returning with the thinnest of excuses. But he got by, somehow, and Cowan was the only one who appeared friendly toward him. For the past twenty-four hours, Larkin told McGee, Siddons had been working on a two-seater and had made two test flights. No one seemed to know what was back of it, but rather believed Siddons was to be transferred to Observation, at least during the coming battle.

235To this information McGee made no reply, but secretly hoped that Siddons was in fact being transferred to Observation, where his activities would be more easily accounted for due to the fact that he would be carrying an observer.

3

Late that afternoon rain began falling, and at mess time the mess hall became the stage for exceptionally spirited banter and wild conjecture as to what would happen on the morrow. Confidential battle orders carried the information that artillery preparation would begin at midnight, continuing with great concentration until 5:30 a.m., zero hour, when the attacking forces of nine American divisions would storm over the top in the beginning of a titanic struggle to carry the famous Hindenburg Line and sweep the Germans back through the Argonne and beyond the Meuse.

Every fighting unit had been given comprehensive plans of the objectives and of the ground over which they were to advance. The air units were especially drilled in the battle plans, for Great Headquarters would look to the Observation section and to the pursuit planes for a full measure of information as to how the battle went.

Major Cowan’s pursuit group was only one of the 236many ready to begin operations on this new front, but none could have shown more enthusiasm and eager expectancy than did this group of young men who wolfed down their evening meal and jested in a strained, light-hearted manner that betrayed the nerve tension under which they were laboring. To-morrow morning was the start of the Big Show!

All the pilots were present at this meal save Siddons, who had taken off alone, in a two-seater, a few minutes before sundown. He had let it be known that he was reporting to Observation for special duty, and no one seemed sorry to see him go.

The evening meal was scarcely finished when McGee and Larkin were forced to withdraw from the good-natured kidding match by a summons to report to Major Cowan. They obeyed, grumbling, and with heated, spirited contention that they were beyond doubt the most command-ridden lieutenants in the entire A.E.F.

“He wants to spend half the night with those maps all of us have been getting goggle-eyed over for the last two days,” Larkin complained as they approached Cowan’s hut. “He’s a map hound, if there ever was one! I think that bird knows every trench line, strong point, pill box and artillery P.C., between here and Sedan. And so do I! He’s pounded it into my head.”

“I wish I knew as much,” McGee quickly resigned 237himself. “This drive is all so sudden and unexpected, to me, that I hardly know where I am right now. I’ve an idea the Old Man is going to tell me I can’t go along.”

“Don’t worry, fellow,” Larkin told him, pausing at the Major’s door. “Every guy with two arms, two legs and two eyes will be along on this little fracas. Believe me, this is to be some show!”

As they entered they noticed that Cowan stood with his back to the door, bending over a large map spread out on the table.

“What did I tell you?” Larkin whispered to McGee. “We’re in for a session of night map flying.”

McGee did not hear him. His interest was upon a sergeant and four privates who were seated on a bench against the wall just to the right of the door. He noted that they wore side arms only, and that on their sleeves were the blue and white brassards of the Military Police. M.P., eh? Then something was up!

Cowan turned from his map. “Ah, you are here. Sergeant,” he addressed the non-com in charge of the detail, “post your detail just outside the door and wait. If anyone approaches with a–ah–prisoner, admit them.”

“Yes, sir.” The detail filed out.

Cowan saw the look of question on the faces of the two pilots.

“You are wondering why they are here, eh? Well, 238they have been sent down from Corps Headquarters to take charge of a prisoner. We hope to hold a little reception here within a short time–possibly any minute now.”

“Who is to be honored, Major?” Larkin asked.

“A rather well known gentleman,” Cowan replied, tantalizingly. “Both of you are quite well acquainted with Lieutenant Siddons, I believe?”

Larkin looked at McGee in astonishment.

“No, sir,” McGee replied to Cowan, “no one in this outfit knows that fellow very well.”

“Quite right,” Cowan agreed. “Lieutenant Larkin, I recall that you lost your old R.F.C. uniform a good while back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in the pocket was your old identification fold, and certain other papers? An old pass to Paris, for one thing?”

“Why–yes, sir. The identification card was there, but I don’t recall what I did with that old pass.”

“It was there,” Cowan told him, “and it grieves me to inform you that the uniform, and all that the pockets contained, was stolen by Lieutenant Siddons.”

“What! Are you sure?”

“There is no doubt about it. Furthermore, he delivered them into the hands of the enemy.” 239Larkin was too dumbfounded for words, but McGee displayed little surprise.

“So you have at last found out what I knew all along, Major?” Red asked.

“Not at last,” Cowan replied, with meaning emphasis. “Your uniform, Lieutenant Larkin, will be returned to you soon–we hope.”

“Oh!” McGee jerked his head toward the door. “So that’s the reason for the M.P.’s. You are going to nab him?”

“Not exactly that.” Cowan was enjoying the curiosity provoked by the suspense he was creating. “I believe both of you have heard of a certain German ace, Count von Herzmann?”

“Have we!” Larkin replied.

McGee ran his fingers along a white scar still showing through the hair which had not yet grown out long enough to be the flaming red mop of old.

“Seems I’ve heard of him,” he said. “And I seem to recall that one of his flyers left me this little souvenir on the top of my head. I’d like to pay the Count back–in person.”

“You’ll never get the chance!” Cowan replied. “But if all our plans work out, you will meet him in person soon–in this very room!”

“What!” It was a duet of surprise.

“Yes, here. Count von Herzmann in person–and in Lieutenant Larkin’s long lost uniform.”

240Both McGee and Larkin sank weakly into two convenient chairs, the expression on their faces disclosing that they were trying to select the proper order of the first of a thousand questions.

“Well–what’s that to do with–with Siddons?” McGee at last found stammering tongue. “Where does he come in?”

“He comes in a few minutes after the Count. He will land the Count in a field near here, let him alight, and then take off again and proceed to this ’drome. The Count, left alone, will doubtless make his way into the woods bordering the field, where he will promptly be nabbed. That little drama should be taking place now. For your information, the credit for this coup goes to Lieutenant Siddons.”

McGee and Larkin stared at each other, scarce believing their ears.

“Well what do you know about that!” McGee’s half audible remark was the trite expression so commonly used by those who are staggered by a sudden revelation.

“I know all about it,” Cowan said, actually laughing–the first time either of the others had ever heard him even so much as chuckle. “I know all about it, and I’ve called you here for two reasons: I think you, McGee, are entitled to see the next to the last act in this little–ah–tragedy, I suppose it should be called; and I want Larkin to be present when his 241 uniform reappears. I might need him for purposes of identification.”

“But–”

Cowan lifted a protesting hand. “Don’t ask questions. Better let me tell it. The story will have to be brief, and a bit sketchy, for time flies. The things you don’t know about all this would fill a book. Perhaps I had better start at the beginning:

“In 1914, when the war first broke out, the man you know as Siddons was living in Germany, with his father and mother, and was in his second year in a Berlin university. He was born in America, of German-American parents. For your information, his right name is Schwarz, not Siddons.”

“I always thought he looked like a German,” McGee said.

Cowan merely nodded. “Naturally, he does. His father, who had come to America in his youth to escape four years military service with the colors, developed into an exceedingly shrewd business man and had been sent back to Germany as the Berlin representative of one of our large exporters. Though he had become an American citizen, he was, quite naturally, genuinely sympathetic with Germany as against England and France. But when it began to be almost a certainty that America would be drawn into the war, the Schwarz family held a family conference and the old man declared himself as being 242loyal to America, his adopted country, if war actually came.

“During the months of strained relationship between our country and Germany, the Schwarz family had to keep their mouths shut and saw wood. Then, suddenly, America declared war. Many Americans, and German-Americans, were caught in Germany. This was the case of the Schwarz family. The old gentleman was arrested, in fact, and the military authorities claimed that since he had never served with the colors he was subject to their orders.

“Then young Schwarz–the man you know as Siddons–saw a chance to relieve the pressure and at the same time serve America in a most unusual way, a way not possible with one man in a million.”

“Serve America? You mean Germany?” Larkin interjected.

“I said America,” Cowan replied testily. He did not like to be interrupted. “You’d better let me tell it my way. As I was saying, Siddons, claiming to be in complete sympathy with the German cause, offered his services to them as a secret agent, unfolding a plan which they, in their alarm and need, swallowed–hook, line and sinker.

“The plan was this: He proposed that he be given instruction in secret service work and then be returned to America, where he would pose as a loyal American, get in the army, and serve as an under 243cover man for Germany. They fell for it like a ton of brick, following the stupid reasoning that because of his German blood he must by nature be truly German. It may sound funny to you, but they preach that very thing, and they truly believe it.

“Well, certainly young Schwarz was cast perfectly for the role. He was widely travelled, spoke German fluently, and his English was flawless. They were quick to see the advantages. His proposition was accepted. He was given a brief schooling in their spy system, and then, for show, he was ordered out of Germany–under the fictitious name of Siddons.

“The rest was easy. We had a very poor spy system at the beginning of the war. There was no such branch of service as we now call G2. But it was forming, and to them Schwarz made his way, unfolded his plan, and after a careful checking up on his story they decided to take a chance. A spy within a spy! Wheels within wheels! It was a great idea. Do you see it?”

His two auditors made no sign other than a staring, amazed look.

“G2 was at first suspicious,” Cowan went on, “but he gave them so much information concerning actual conditions in Germany that they could no longer doubt him. They sent him to an aviation training school, telling him to guard his neck at all times and not run any undue risks.

244“You know the rest–or most of it. He has been invaluable to us, and to-night he will pull his greatest job. And since I have made free to tell you all this, you may be certain it is his last trip across the lines. He reports that the German High Command is getting a bit suspicious, and he dare not trust his luck much further.”

McGee, who had been listening with intense interest, exhaled audibly as Cowan finished his narration. “Well!” he exclaimed. “I’ll never jump to conclusions again. Now I know why that fellow has always acted like he was answerable to no one but himself. And I thought him yellow! And next I thought he was a spy. Well, I was right about that–but the wrong way around. I take my hat off to him! It takes nerve to fill his job.”

“It does indeed!” Cowan agreed fervently. “Perhaps you recall how I bawled him out for cutting formation over Vitry that day when we were on our way up for our first action? And how I sent him over the lines on a mission to locate von Herzmann’s Circus?”

McGee nodded. “I certainly do remember it. You sure said plenty!”

“Hokum! All hokum!” Cowan said. “Actually, he was going over on a daylight mission of an entirely different nature, and what I said in your presence was merely to mislead you. Unfortunately, you happened 245to see him running the Archie fire and saw the signals which he had used again and again in crossing over. When you reported to me, we feared the cat was out of the bag. There seemed to be only one way out–to pledge you to secrecy and lead you to believe that we were simply waiting for the proper time to bag him. I knew you would keep your word, and that is another reason why you are here–as a sort of reward. You are the only one who has ever had any such suspicions.”

Larkin laughed, mirthlessly. “That makes a lot of chuckle-heads out of the rest of us, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Lieutenant. But you did make life rather hard for Siddons. He was afraid to form close friendships. Poor Hampden was the only one he was ever very close to, and Hampden was as ignorant of the facts as any of you. Siddons had to be careful. He knows that the Germans also have spies. Should they get proof of his duplicity, he would be a doomed man.”

“Well,” McGee sighed again, “he can have my share of that kind of service. I prefer to meet mine without any blindfold over my eyes. I’ll make my apologies to him, and admit to his face that he has more nerve than most men I know. But there is one thing I can’t get through my head, Major. How could he keep fooling them if he never took them any information?”

246“He did take them information. But it was always so cleverly false–just near enough the truth that he could hardly be blamed for not having it more accurate–or else it was the real truth but too late to be of any value to them. You can be sure we gained by his work.”

“One more question from me, Major,” Larkin spoke up. “What makes you so sure that Count von Herzmann–”

The door was thrown open by a helmeted, muddy doughboy sergeant from the lines. Then into the room, followed by the mud-spattered doughboy and the M.P. detail, walked a smiling, confident, blond young man, attired in the uniform of a member of the British Air Forces.

The suddenness and surprise of the movement started the ends of Cowan’s moustache to twitching.

“Sir,” spoke up the muddy infantryman, “here’s that bozo we all been lookin’ for.”

Major Cowan arose. “Count von Herzmann, I believe?” he said as calmly as though it were a social meeting.

The prisoner lifted his eyebrows in well feigned surprise. “There is some dreadful mistake here, Major,” he said with a calm assurance as he took from his pocket a small identification fold, bound in black leather. “I am–”

“Just a moment,” the Major interrupted. “Permit 247me first to introduce one of these gentlemen. Count von Herzmann, this is Lieutenant Richard Larkin, whose uniform you are now wearing and whose identification card you hold in your hand. I am sure you are glad to meet him.”

For the briefest moment von Herzmann’s mouth dropped open. He knew the jig was up! Almost immediately, however, he regained the debonair, easy grace of a splendidly poised loser. He bowed to Larkin, who stood with mouth agape and eyes popping out.

“I am indebted to Lieutenant Larkin for the use of his uniform,” von Herzmann said. “I regret that it will probably be returned to him with bullet holes in it. Oh, well–such is war, eh? Perhaps he can find some satisfaction in keeping it as a souvenir. He can point to the holes and say, ‘Count von Herzmann, the German ace and spy, was just behind these holes.’”

Every man in the room felt awed and a trifle uneasy. Here was a man whose cool courage they could envy. Not every man can face death with so grim a jest.

“However,” von Herzmann turned to Cowan, “it gives me pleasure to report that I foresaw the possibility of this very thing and so arranged matters that a certain Mr. Schwarz, whom you call Siddons, will be shot five days from now.”

248“What!” Cowan stormed. He wheeled to the sergeant. “Sergeant, where did this man–”

“The sergeant doesn’t know,” von Herzmann put in. “He is the third man in whose charge I have been placed. Perhaps you had better let me tell you, Major. Your planes are quite wretched and inferior, sir, and when the engine of the one I was making use of died suddenly, we were forced to land quickly and take what the Fates had in store. We struck an old shell hole, turned over, and my pilot was killed, poor fellow! Too bad it wasn’t the other way round. He wore his own uniform, and could hardly have been shot as a spy.”

Cowan sank into a chair, rather heavily. His poise was no match for von Herzmann’s, who seemed to be getting a keen delight out of the Major’s discomfiture.

“I was not at the controls,” von Herzmann continued, “but the engine sputtered as though it were out of fuel.”

Major Cowan nodded his head sadly. “It was. Poor Siddons was right,” he mused, seemingly unconscious for the moment of the presence of the others.

“Only half right,” von Herzmann corrected, smiling.

“No,” Cowan replied with spirit, “all right. He feared you might become suspicious and double-cross him, and with that in mind he put just enough gas in 249 the tank to carry the plane there and part way back. He made rather careful tests. But he installed another tank, with a feed line that he could cut in–in case he were flying the plane. If not–well, you see what happened.”

Count von Herzmann merely shrugged his shoulders at this piece of news which must have been irritating in the extreme. “Ah, well,” he said easily, “one cannot think of everything. In our haste to get away, neither I nor my pilot thought of that possibility. Very clever fellow, this man Schwarz. We both made good guesses, and we both lose. Kismet! We both serve our country, and we both get shot. So be it. Wars are very old, Major; death quite as common as life; and the old Hebraic law still operative–‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth!’ In this case, an ace for an ace and a spy for a spy. Even up, and the war rolls on. I wonder, Major, just when it will close?”

Seemingly, as in answer to his question, from toward the front came the sudden roaring of thousands of guns. Doors rattled, the ground quivered, and through the window the sky was alight with a pulsating red-white glare.

For a few minutes every man in the room stood listening.

“What is–that?” Count von Herzmann asked at last.

250“The beginning of the end,” Cowan answered. “You wondered when it would come. Soon now. Nearly five thousand heavy calibre guns are blowing your trenches to bits, and will continue until we go over in the morning.”

“So?” The German’s face was a picture of pained surprise. “So the attack comes here? Gott! Had I known–had we known.” He paused, obviously pained, then again resumed his jesting poise. “You can be sure, Major, that I regret I am not on the receiving end of your artillery preparation and that I shall be unable to meet your squadron with my Circus to-morrow morning over the lines.”

“I dare say,” was Cowan’s reply as he turned to the sergeant in charge of the Military Police detail. “Sergeant, take charge of the prisoner and deliver him to First Corps Headquarters. And make sure that he does not escape.”

The sergeant saluted, grinning expansively.

“He’s got a fat chance to get away from me, sir,” he said. “I’m the spy bustin’est baby in this man’s army.”

“You will treat him with courtesy,” Cowan ordered. “He is a brave man.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. “So was Nathan Hale, sir–but he got shot just the same.”