I Spy | Page 3

into his hand by the porter. It was
wrapped about a small electric torch and a book of cigarette papers.
Slowly he read the German script in the note.
Be at the rendezvous by Thursday. Hans, the chauffeur, has full
directions. Do not miss the seventeenth.
After rereading the contents of the note the man tore it into tiny bits and,
not content with that, stuffed them among the tobacco in his pipe.
Striking a match he lighted his pipe and planting his feet on the bag he
gazed long and earnestly at his initials stamped on the much labeled
buckskin. The slowing up of the limousine aroused him from his
meditations, and he glanced out of the window to see which way they
were headed. London, the metropolis of the civilized world, lay behind
him. Catching his chauffeur's backward glance, he signaled him to
continue onward as, removing his pipe, he muttered:
"Gott strafe England!"

CHAPTER II
OUT OF THE VOID
Slowly, the sullen roar of artillery, the rattle of Maxims and rifles sank
fitfully away. A tall raw-boned major of artillery stretched his cramped
limbs in the observation station, paused to look with callous eyes over
the devastated fields before him, then sought the trench. Earlier in the
day the Allies had been shelled out of an advance position by the
enemy and had fallen back on the entrenchments.
"Devilish hot stuff, shrapnel," commented a brother officer as Major
Seymour stopped at his side.
The Major nodded absently, and without further reply advanced a few
paces to meet an ammunition corporal who was obviously seeking him.
"Well?" he demanded, as the non-commissioned officer saluted.
"Only twenty rounds left, Major." The Corporal lowered his voice.
"Captain Hargraves sent word to rush reinforcements here as soon as it
is dark, sir."
Major Seymour glanced with unconcealed impatience at his wrist
watch. God! Would night never come!
"Can't we get our wounded to the base hospital, Major?" asked a
younger officer. He had only joined the unit thirty-six hours before and
while he had faced the baptism of fire gallantly, the ghastly carnage
about him shook his nerve. He was not fed up with horrors as were his
brother officers.
"The wounded would stand small chance of reaching safety if the
German gunners sighted them. They must wait for darkness," replied
Seymour. "Here, take a pull at my flask. Got potted yourself, didn't
you?" noticing a thin stream of blood trickling down his companion's
sleeve.
"Only a flesh wound--of no moment," protested the young man,

flushing at the thought that his commanding officer might have
misunderstood his question. "I'm afraid Captain Hargraves is in a bad
way."
"Hargraves!" The Major spun on his heel. "Where is he?"
"This way, sir," and the Lieutenant led him past groups of men and
officers. It was an appalling scene of desolation. The approach of night
had brought a slight drizzling rain, and the ground, pitted with shell
holes, was slimy with wet, greasy mud. Nearly all the trees in the
vicinity were blasted as if by lightning, and along the right hand side of
the road was a line of A.S.S. carts and limbers blown to pieces. One
horse, completely disemboweled, lay on his back, the inside arch of his
ribs plainly showing. His leader was a mass of entrails lying about, and
on the other side lay four or five more, one with a foreleg blown clear
off at the shoulder, one minus a head. A half-dozen motor cycles and
over a dozen push bikes lay in the mud with some unrecognizable
shapes that had been riding them. Between the advance trenches, in No
Man's Land, the ground was thickly strewn with corpses of Scotties
killed in the charge.
"The Huns had us cold as to range," volunteered the Lieutenant, loss of
blood and reaction from excitement loosening his tongue. "They outed
five guns complete with detachments by direct hits. Here we are, sir,"
and he paused near a demolished gun emplacement. The ground about
was a shambles.
Major Seymour stepped up to one of the figures lying upon the ground,
a mud-incrusted coat thrown over his legs. Several privates who had
been rendering what assistance they could, moved aside on the
approach of their superior officers. Hargraves opened his eyes as
Seymour knelt by him.
"My number's up," he whispered, and the game smile which twisted his
white lips was pitiful.
"Nonsense." Seymour's gruff tone concealed emotion. Hargraves' face
betrayed death's indelible sign. "You'll pull through, once you're back

at the hospital."
Hargraves shook his head; he realized the futility of argument.
"Have you pencil and paper?" he asked.
"Yes." Seymour drew out his despatch book and removed a page.
"What is it, John?" But some minutes passed before his question
received an answer, and