The Traitor by Sydney Horler Read Free Book Online Page A

may never see him again. My work with him is done.”

Chapter V
    The Penalty
    Whichever way the eye turned, it encountered nothing but desolation. From the shattered windows of the farmhouse which was being utilised as the temporary G.H.Q. of the Ninety-fifth Brigade, B.E.F., the visual prospect was unlovely in the extreme. Hutments, ammunition and R.E. dumps—with a pock-marked terrain which looked as though an army of devastating maniacs had passed over it, venting their awful rage against the once-fair surface of the earth; a terrible sight—but the two British generals, striding agitatedly up and down the big room which served as an office, had other things to think about besides the desolated landscape.
    Major-General Bentley, a short, stocky man with a high colour, was speaking his mind in very forcible fashion.
    â€œI tell you, Garside,” he said, “it was awful—perfectly horrible. The casualties were shocking. I hate these cursed stunts—always have done. I’ll tell you what the trouble is. —” (mentioning a very august name) “takes his idea of war from the time of Wellington. He’s got about as much conception of modern tactics as one of those.…”
    Garside—tall, thin, hatchet-faced, whose only sign of emotion was the restless tapping of his fingers on the desk before him—shook his head.
    â€œThe stunt was all right,” he declared. “It would have been a good idea if it had only come off.”
    Bentley, stopping in his walk, barked a remonstrance.
    â€œThat’s just my argument: it didn’t come off! The enemy were prepared, and when we went over the top, expecting that the barrage with those new gas shells had cleared the ground, we simply got blown to hell and back.”
    â€œFrom what you tell me, they must have had guns hidden flat in the front line.”
    â€œYes, it was absolute point-blank range. Cost us over five thousand men, and God only knows how many officers. I tell you, Garside, I hate these unnecessary stunts; they’re nothing but blood baths.”
    Again the other shook his head.
    â€œI can see your point of view, but I must still stick to my idea: if this business had only come off, it would have been well worth it.”
    Bentley forgot himself.
    â€œYou don’t want me to call you a bloody fool to your face, do you, Garside? The whole idea was wrong, I tell you! It was ill-considered and ill-timed.”
    â€œKeep your shirt on, Harry,” replied the other. “I’ll tell you what it was—information must have leaked out.”
    â€œHow the devil could it have leaked out?”
    â€œYou’ve been here long enough to know that spies are everywhere.”
    Bentley considered the point. And, in the consideration, something of his former terrible rage vanished.
    â€œYes,” he conceded. “It may have been that their aircraft spotted our troops moving up to the front line in mass.”
    â€œBut that doesn’t account for their preparation against our new gas. The barrage, as you have said, was an utter washout.”
    â€œUtter. Over five thousand casualties.”
    â€œThen it must have been the work of some spy.”
    â€œWell, how are we to prevent spies?”
    â€œThat’s up to our Intelligence.”
    â€œIntelligence!” Bentley snorted. “A thing like that should have been most carefully guarded.”
    â€œWho knew about it?”
    â€œThe War Office, of course; the chap who brought the dispatches over—Clinton; myself, and my staff. Not another soul, as far as I am aware.”
    â€œWell,” observed Garside, “the War Office and yourself can be counted out of it. That leaves just Clinton and your staff.”
    â€œThree of those poor devils went under yesterday. There’s only Morton, Greensmith, Mocksley and Pugh left. I need scarcely tell you, I suppose, that they’re all above suspicion—every man