The Rescue at Ypres
The crossing to Dunkirk had passed with no more incident than a queasy stomach, and the journey from there across the border into Belgium was nothing more than a formality. We were met at the other side by a short Belgian of our acquaintance, formerly a high-ranking policeman. He had been pressed into service against the invading Germans, and he now rode with us into Ypres.
“Ah, mes amies,” said Monsieur P-----. “It is good to see you once again.” He might have been comical with his short stature and egg-shaped head if one didn’t know better. At times his accent had been known to grow droll with over-exaggeration, and he sometimes appeared to preen in a harmless sort of way, but it was only to lull and trick his prey – to make those criminals that he sought dismiss him as a fool – for he was a detective of rare and noted ability. There was none of that foolishness today. None of it was necessary for either Sherlock Holmes or me – we knew him well from olden days.
That day, P-----‘s bright green eyes were sharp, and he evinced no more of an accent than any Belgian would when speaking English. I had greeted him fondly, despite the circumstances, and was about to say his name aloud, but he raised a hand. “Non. Simply call me ‘Louis’. I am – how do you say – undercover.”
“Is that why you have shaved your moustache?” I asked – for if the man had been known for anything, it was the well-maintained and luxurious decoration that was so uniquely associated with him. Now it was gone – his bare lip marked only by a small scar. Seeing it that way for the first time, I realized why he’d likely grown the moustache in the first place as a young man.
He nodded, and gave a small shrug. “A sad sacrifice, but necessary. But soon, when these Germans have been put into their places, I shall regrow it, even more resplendent than before.” There was a twinkle in his eye as he said it, and I was glad that it was there, considering what he and his country had been through in recent months.
We settled into the automobile and lurched into motion.
“The urgency of your journey robs me of the joy of seeing you again,” said “Louis”, and then he got down to business, relating the latest news that he and his men had managed to obtain from behind the German lines.
I should have paid more attention, but the sameness of the names of little villages overrun by the Germans in just the past few days began to sound meaningless to me. I was weary from unexpectedly being summoned to Whitehall the night before for instructions. My mind drifted back there, where I’d found a building humming with tense vitality. Even at that hour, the tense men (and women) were dashing here and there, flimsy documents in their hands. Others clustered in groups of twos or threes, whispering urgently as they leaned toward one another before breaking apart to step briskly from here to there. I was feeling my age, and couldn’t help but notice the curious fact that those I passed were all so much younger than me. It was only as I penetrated into the depths of the building, where the decisions were made that would send so many of the young ones to their deaths, that I started to encounter old soldiers like myself.
I was guided to a conference room where I’d been many times before over the last thirty-odd years. Before his “retirement”, when he began to carry out numerous tasks for the British Government to prepare for the unavoidable war, Sherlock Holmes’s clients in Baker Street had ranged from beggars to kings, but a certain percentage of his cases even then had been in service to the Crown, one way or another, and that had occasionally included receiving instructions in this very room – and on one occasion unmasking a traitor. Ever since, I hadn’t been able to enter the room without glancing to the spot where the broken man had jammed a pistol into his mouth and escaped justice.
Now the room was filled with military men, many of them in medal-covered uniforms like something from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, or resembling a few of the more pompous leaders from insignificant countries who had traveled to our shores in ‘87 for the Jubilee. But several of them didn’t feel the need for such puffery, and I knew that they, at least, could be trusted to know what was what without making a right hash of things.
At one end of the long table, bent in close conference, were the Holmes brothers, Sherlock and Mycroft, and also Bancroft Pons, now in his early forties, and just as capable as Mycroft at keeping tabs on the quivers of every strand of the web which had slowly been forged toward protection of British interests over the last four decades.
Seeing me approach, Holmes had straightened his tall lean frame. Now sixty, he still seemed as vital and energetic as when I’d first met him in the laboratory at Barts, ebullient over his just-completed successful experiment that would aid in the forensic identification of dried hemoglobin. I’d seen him infrequently over the last couple of months, following our capture of the German spy Von Bork at a lonely Essex manor house. A couple of days after that, we’d been in London when the country declared war, and had spent a few quiet hours hiding in the pub on the ground floor of the Northumberland Hotel.[1] Since then, Holmes had been busy in service to British Intelligence, while I was involved in rejoining my old unit, and overseeing the preparations for the medical needs there were soon to follow. Too many of the young ones thought that this glorious little exercise would be over by cold weather, but those of us who knew better stayed busy preparing for what might last for years – and this time on our very doorstep, instead of in far-away Afghanistan or on desolate South African plains.
“Your message said that they were being held prisoner,” I said, uselessly repeating what they already knew.
Bancroft stood straight as well, his stout frame quite reminiscent of the seated Mycroft Holmes beside him. He looked up and down the room. “That’s correct,” he replied, his voice low. “According to our sources, ‘Bridges’ and ‘Caesar’ were captured behind the lines, with the threat that they could be shot as spies at any moment.”
I recognized that he intentionally used the two agent’s code names – which told me that even amongst the men in that room there was a certain level of distrust, and that someone there didn’t need to know their true identities. I nodded my understanding.
Although knowing it really made no difference, I asked, “What were they doing when caught?”
“Caesar was playing the part of a minor German nobleman,” answered Mycroft. “Despite his young age, he is a master at projecting the arrogance necessary for such a role.” I nodded – this attitude was one of the reasons that Caesar had earned his code name when he first began working for Mycroft Holmes. On his various missions, he often took the first name of a Roman Emperor: Claudius, for instance, or Trajan or Nero.
“Bridges,” continued Mycroft, “was playing the part of his military escort. Together, they were working both sides towards the middle, and came up with important information about the German’s movements over the next few weeks.”
“They were working with my contact when they were captured,” added Holmes. “It was he who managed to send word about what happened.” Seeing that I was about to ask, he continued. “A bit of bad luck – it seems that one of the aides to an officer who had stopped nearby for the night recalled Caesar from a year or so ago, when he was posing as a beer-swilling chef at a shabby inn. Unknown to our men, a cursory investigation revealed that there is no such noble house as the one claimed by Caesar. They were both put under arrest, and it’s been decided that there’s no time to waste with formalities like prisoner exchanges.”
“How long do we have?” I asked.
“Just hours.”
“And what is our plan?”
“We can’t take a chance on trying to manipulate events from a distance,” replied Holmes, “and there’s no one there that we can trust to handle it satisfactorily. It isn’t simply about saving their lives, but also retrieving the information that they were sent to obtain – if they got it, and if they still have it.”
I nodded. “Then we have to go get them.”
“As simple as that,” rumbled Mycroft Holmes. He had lost some weight over the last couple of years as the war loomed inevitably closer – weight that seemed to have been acquired by Bancroft Pons. A number of responsibilities had also passed to the younger man, but Mycroft – in his self-created and wonderfully unique position – was still indispensable. If his calculating mind agreed that this was the best option, then it wasn’t worth considering any other.
“We’ll cross in a few hours, as soon as we reach the coast, and be behind the lines while it’s still dark,” said Holmes. “We must be there before dawn.” He didn’t need to add that we could not be late, arriving after the traditional time for shooting one’s enemies…
The front right tire of our automobile lurched into a muddy hole, and I was drawn abruptly back to the present, where Holmes and our friend, who I must remember to call “Louis” for the duration of this mission, were sitting in the rear seat, discussing what to expect. The auto was only a year or so old, a Berliet closed car, but it was the only one with enough capacity that could be found at short notice to carry the four of us, as well as our two friends following their rescue. Beside me, our driver – introduced only as “Andy” – skillfully pushed along the bad roads at high speed with confidence and skill, flicking the wheel this way and that with the minimum of effort. In spite of our velocity, and my awareness of what a vehicle of our mass would do if suddenly out of control on the muddy road, I felt no worries – at least about that part of the affair.
As the conversation behind me was proceeding without my involvement, I tried to find out more about our driver. I’d heard his name mentioned a few months before, a story about how he’d wrestled an axe-wielding German agent to the ground on the Flushing docks, but I’d never met him in person. I found that he was a taciturn Scot, and I had certainly known many of those throughout my life – my own father had been one. I asked him where he was from, and he simply growled, “Glencoe.” I nodded, trying to remember if I had relatives from there. It was possible – Watsons were all over, but Glencoe was a long way from Stranraer, where I was born. I managed to tease a bit more out of him – he’d gone to Fettes, and then to Aberdeen to study engineering. With the coming of the war, he’d joined the Royal Engineers, but no sooner had he started to become accustomed to his post than he was pulled a different direction – into a group of agents with special skills being assembled by Bancroft Pons. He’d already been to a few “dances”, as he called the group’s missions, and this wasn’t the first time he’d gone behind enemy lines. He refused to be drawn about the incident in Flushing, where I’d heard that he could have lost an arm.
At that point, seeing his reluctance to elaborate, there wasn’t much left to ask him. To dig any more concerning his past would be impolite, and to ask further about his recent missions would be indiscreet and unprofessional. If he was the kind of man that I perceived him to be, he wouldn’t tell me anything else anyway.
I suspected that he would be quite effective in whatever Bancroft required of him. He was about six feet tall, slim but strongly built, and from the little I’d seen, he moved with an easy grace. He had a mustache similar to my own, and his dark hair was brushed so that a thick comma of black hair fell above his right eye.
Not long after, Andy announced that we were close to the front lines, and would be crossing soon. A few minutes earlier, we pulled to the side of the road, and Louis gave us some different clothing to wear, taken from men recently deceased. I was happy to see that mine fit, and I pulled the heavy wool coat tighter around me and tried to further awaken myself. As I did so, I noticed the coat’s markings, indicating that I was portraying a German officer, I felt a small surge of adrenalin when considering that Holmes and I could now be shot as spies, and that was enough for me to be fully awake.
As we climbed back into the vehicle, I considered the two prisoners we were going to rescue. Knowing that they were in danger, we really had no choice but to make the effort, regardless of the possible information that they might have obtained. Bridges (for I will continue to use their field names in this narrative to protect their identities) was the older of the two, now about thirty-four. He was the spitting image of Holmes in terms of appearance, temperament, and mental acuity. Born and raised in Yorkshire, he’d attended Oxford, and afterwards served as one of Holmes’s apprentices around the turn of the century. He’d opened his own consulting detective practice in 1907, finding increasing success over the course of several years. However, he was dismayed that many people came to him expecting the services Sherlock Holmes. Eventually, he drifted into doing work for the Government as events ran down an ever-steepening slope toward an encompassing European War. Although he had particular skills in cryptography, he was also a master of disguise, and functioned with amazing success as an agent of the small organization controlled by Bancroft Pons.
The young man known as Caesar had a much different background, but had ended up being just as effective as Bridges. Born in 1892 and half-American, he’d spent much of his youth either touring with his mother, an occasional opera singer, across the Continent and the United States, when she wasn’t living in Montenegro with her second husband, Count Vukčić, and her other children. The death of his mother in 1903 turned young Caesar’s life upside down, and through a series of circumstances beyond the scope of this memoir, he came under the influence and tutelage of Sherlock Holmes. During that time, he became close friends with the older Bridges. He evinced a quite notable intelligence, and also an interest in Holmes’s work, but always a distinct trait towards working alone.
In 1911, Caesar inadvertently became involved in a series of events that resulted in the defeat of a group that would have prevented the crowning of King George V. By that time, the nineteen-year-old young man had eschewed college, preferring to educate himself, learning more that way than he probably could have by attending any university. As a result of Caesar’s service to the Crown, he was officially recruited into Mycroft Holmes’s organization, where he and Bridges soon became a team that was unparalleled for its masterful successes in discovering information to aid the British government as the threat of war rolled ever closer.
Working together, the two young men criss-crossed Europe. Their exploits and antics during this time became something of a legend, and although they frequently vexed both Mycroft Holmes and Bancroft Pons to no end, no one could argue with their results.
Since the beginning of the war, just a few months earlier, they had been deep within German territory, working their way back along with the advancing German lines. In the rear seat, Louis was telling Holmes how his own network of agents spread across Belgium had already benefited from what the two had learned. He had been more than willing to assist in setting Mycroft’s sudden plan for their rescue into motion – and so I, a sixty-two-year-old doctor, found myself knocking across the muddy Belgian pre-dawn landscape in a race against the sun to infiltrate a German camp and help effect an impossible rescue.
Sometimes I wondered where my life might have ended up if I’d passed on Stamford’s invitation on that long ago 1881 New Year’s Day to meet an acquaintance of his who needed a flat-mate to share expenses at a set of rooms he’d found in Baker Street. It’s certain that I wouldn’t have found myself in that automobile rattling a few miles beyond Ypres on 17 October, 1914 – but it’s just as likely that I would have remained for a while in that small featureless room of a small private hotel off the Strand where I’d settled upon returning from Afghanistan, nursing my barely healed injuries and spending my wound pension too freely, depending more and more on the artificial solace of drink, and fooling myself that in a few months I’d be healed enough for the Review Board to return me to my unit. When that didn’t happen, would I have resettled in the countryside – perhaps obtaining a little practice and settling down to the life of a rural doctor? Or would I have continued to slide in the same way as my brother – into an alcoholic ignominy and an early death. I gave a little shake of my head. I had picked the correct path – even if the events of the next few hours led to sharing the same firing squad that would now be expanded beyond Caesar and Bridges to include Holmes, Louis, our taciturn driver Andy – and me.
I’m far too world-wearied to have naively thought that the front line would be some formalized location with a high sturdy fence stretching into the distance on either side, and a guard asking to check our papers, but I was surprised when we passed a group of German soldiers slogging in the same direction in which we were headed. I sat up straighter, realizing that we had, at some point, already crossed into enemy territory.
I suspected that we were approaching our destination when the roadway became more thickly peopled with German soldiers walking wearily in both directions, or standing in knots of twos and threes, talking and smoking. The occasional vehicle passed us, heading the other direction, and the road became narrower as we entered into the confines of a small village. Andy seemed entirely conversant with our route, and deftly guided us through several turns before pulling to a stop at a large tent that stood well away from the others, near the edge of the settlement. Not far behind the tent loomed a range of black trees, but in the early morning darkness, I couldn’t tell whether it was just a small stand separating this cleared area from another, or if it extended for miles.
I glanced back to where Holmes had already brushed his hair forward to change his appearance. While that in itself would not have been enough, his inherent skills as an actor, and ability to seemingly alter his features and stance at will would complete the illusion. He pulled on his cap, and he’d already slumped, thickening his body and losing six inches. He looked like a different person.
I glanced back toward the tent, where a guard was squaring himself to attention. I took a deep breath and stepped away from the automobile, tapping the right pocket of my greatcoat as I did so, where my old and faithful service revolver was concealed.
While Andy remained behind at the Berliet, propped on the fender and smoking a cigarette, Holmes walked toward the tent as if he’d been there a hundred times before, with Louis and myself falling in line behind him, acting as anonymous staff members. Louis had assured us that that our clothing would completely pass inspection as authentic, as would the papers that he had provided to us – after all, just hours before, they had been authentic for the men who’d possessed them then. This was proven to be true when the sole armed guard before the tent snapped to full attention when perceiving Holmes’s assumed rank, completely convinced of his authority, and ours as well by way of my friend’s short but masterful performance. No identification was demanded, and we were waved forward and into the tent.
Although it was still dark outside, with only the promise – or threat – of false dawn in the cloud-tarnished east, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust inside the tent. Before I could truly see, I was assailed by a curious combination of smells – damp canvas, the pasture-like scent of churned mud and manure, trod underfoot into an inseparable muck, and unwashed men, and peculiarly the yeasty smell of bread. As my vision cleared, the first thing I saw was a low deal table near the central support pole, and as indicated, the substantial remains of a baguette lying there, alongside a jug of wine.
Then my eyes focused beyond that, to the two men seated on chairs near the back of the tent, their arms pulled behind them.
In the dim yellow light, I first recognized Bridges’ high forehead, so like Holmes’s that for a moment, I would have thought it was my friend who was tied there, as he’d looked a quarter-century before. I was glad that Holmes had taken the precaution of altering his own appearance before entering.
Beside Bridges was another man – Caesar – his thick brown hair brushed straight back from his own high intelligent brow. He was about an inch under six feet, and lean, although with his love of food, his figure would grow should he ever settle long enough in one place. Both he and Bridges were looking at us without expression or apparent recognition. On either side of them stood two grim German soldiers – big ones – with rifles held at the ready. But there was one other in the tent as well.
From the shadows to our left, where he’d been sitting on a folding camp chair, a tall man in what appeared to be an immaculate German uniform – or so it was my impression in that dark setting – uncrossed his legs and stood. Even in that front-line squalor, his pants were immaculately pressed, the cuffs sharp, and there didn’t seem to be a spot of mud upon him. His boots had a gleam in the thin light that should have been missing after any time whatsoever spent in that location.
He took a step forward into the light, and I could see that his face held that Teutonic chiseled aspect so idealized by our German cousins. He was almost a cliché, with his monocle tightly fixed in his left eye, it’s hanging black silk string perfectly and symmetrically balanced upon the right by a thin white dueling scar running from the dark circle under his eye to his jawline. He had blonde hair, parted in a careful knife-thin line on the right side of his head, and his eyes were light – they looked blue in good light, as I knew from when I’d met him once, long ago, at a diplomatic conference in Berne.
At that time, he had taken a particularly surprising and unexpected position that threatened to disrupt a number of sensitive negotiations, to the consternation of both the British and his own people. Holmes had perceived that he was under some sort of duress and, with a very short amount of available time before a crucial vote had to be taken, a desperate investigation was undertaken which had resulted in the timely rescue of the man’s wife from those who had taken her hostage in an attempt to sabotage the proceedings. The German, living under that threat and forced to disrupt the conference, had wept when his wife was returned to him, frankly unashamed to express his feelings. Then – knowing that Holmes and I were guarding his wife against any further last-minute attempts to reach her – he’d rejoined the conference, casting his vote decidedly in favor of the negotiated proposal, and putting a nail into his enemies’ coffin.
It was this man who stepped into the light, looking from of us to the other. Then, in the clear and sharp voice I remembered, he turned to the two guards. “You will wait outside during our discussion.”
The well-disciplined Myrmidons straightened, turned, and were gone in an instant, their intimidating miens somewhat negated by the sloppy squelching of their boots through the muck making up the tent’s floor. After watching the tent flap fall and swing for a moment before shutting completely, the German stepped forward with an outstretched hand, his voice low and urgent.
“Herr Holmes,” he said to my friend, shaking his hand urgently. And then he turned to me. “And Herr Doctor! I’m glad you made it. I was starting to fear the worst.”
He spoke in English, with very little accent, and Holmes interrupted him. “We will speak in German, if you don’t mind, Oberst Metz. Should anyone be listening, we don’t want to confuse them by tossing around an unfamiliar diphthong.”
Metz smiled. “Always the same, Herr Holmes. You never overlook a point. You are the fixed point in a changing age.”
“I leave that honor to Watson, here.” He then made a gesture toward our Belgian friend. “This is Louis. He knows the countryside. It was he who made the local arrangements and will arrange our departure.” Louis and the colonel nodded to one another.
“I feared that you would be too late,” continued Metz. “They have revealed nothing, but at the same time, their assumed identities could not be confirmed. They are to be shot within the hour, when the Divisional Commander arrives from Robaix.”
“Then we haven’t a moment to lose,” replied Holmes, turning toward the prisoners.
“About time,” growled Caesar, his low voice a bit impatient. “I’m getting hungry.”
“I am sorry,” said Metz, turning toward the small table. “I would have fed you if I could.” He had the baguette in hand by the time Holmes had cut Caesar’s bonds, and the young man stood and eagerly took it, tearing off a great hunk and then pulling a bite off with his strong white teeth. He masticated steadily while Bridges was similarly freed. When he was standing up as well, Caesar handed him the other half of the loaf and then stepped past us for the jug of wine. Bridges nodded, but instead of immediately taking a bite, he asked a question.
“How do we plan to depart?” he said. “We were initially caught when we encountered unknown German patrols to the northwest. They’ll be further entrenched throughout that area now.”
“He’s right,” said Metz. “I helped arrange these patrols myself.”
“I don’t suppose that you could get some of them to be redirected?” asked Louis. “When we leave here, it’s very likely that the alarm will be given very soon after. My people are planning for us to loop deeper into occupied territory – that will be unexpected – but I was counting on the northwest being clear for a little longer.”
Metz nodded. “I apologize. I had no idea what you would do after the men were freed. Notifying you of their capture – and fulfilling my old debt to Herr Holmes – is the best that I could do. Until this war is settled, we are still after all on the opposite sides. I can do no more to help, I’m afraid.”
“Make no mistake,” replied Louis, stepping forward. “We are most grateful for all that you have done, and all that you have risked. To inform us of the impending risk to the lives of these men – ” He gestured to the two released prisoners. “ – is more than we can ever repay. It is up to our own efforts and the Good God to manage our escape, now that we have freed them.”
“Speaking of which,” I interrupted, “after we all climb in the car and drive away, how do you, Colonel Metz, keep from being shot yourself? Those three guards outside won’t waste any time in reporting the obvious: That you let us go, even if it appears that you were ordered to release the prisoners to our custody by the character portrayed by Holmes.”
“I have thought of that,” he replied. “After disabling the guards, one by one, you must take me with you as a prisoner as well. Then I will ‘escape’ before you cross the lines.”
Holmes shook his head. “You’re taking a terrible chance,” he said. “It’s unlikely that they’ll ever believe it. Your credibility will be destroyed.”
“Nevertheless,” replied the German.
“And in any case,” added Louis, “the available space in our vehicle is already dangerously tight. A seventh man may not fit – and might dangerously overload us. Should we burst a tire from the excess weight, or become stuck in the mud – ”
His words were cut short when we all heard it – the approach of a vehicle, its brakes squealing as it pulled to a stop outside the tent. Louis cursed under his breath, and Metz’s eyes widened in concern.
“It’s too late. He’s here – to shoot the prisoners.”
“How many?” snapped Holmes, while I pulled my service revolver from my pocket, and Caesar and Bridges stepped to the far corner of the tent, where their possessions were apparently located. In the dim light, I saw them retrieve their guns, turning as one to face the entrance to the tent.
“Just the General – and his driver. The two men we just sent outside will be tasked with the executions.”
“Five of them, then,” said Holmes, “counting the guard outside when we entered. How far are we from anyone else?”
“Far enough,” replied Metz, “if we’re quiet. But any shooting will bring men from the further encampment at a run. There will be no escaping then.”
“Right.” Holmes looked around. “You heard the colonel. Be silent.”
He made a gesture to Bridges and Caesar, and they immediately dropped back into their seats and held their arms behind their backs, as if still tied in the manner in which we’d first seen them. The only difference now was that their arms were free and they held deadly concealed firearms.
Through the dark canvas walls we could hear when the automobile’s engine shut off, and the opening and closing of a single door. Then, after a short interval of boots mashing through wet ground, we caught hints of the murmur of guttural conversation between the new arrival and the three guards just outside the tent. We looked at one another – each was as prepared as possible. Then the tent flap drew back and a sole figure was silhouetted against the brighter near-dawn light. Short and squat, he still had to lean down to enter. I knew that his eyes were adjusting much the same as mine had, but he knew to turn his head first toward the prisoners, ascertaining as soon as he was able that they were still in custody.
“Metz,” said the man in a snide tone, “I understand we have unexpected visitors. Here to watch the show, I imagine? Perhaps get in a little target practice? We can have a competition of sorts with my men – shots from a hundred yards – winner buys the beer.”
Metz’s mouth tightened in distaste, but he stepped forward and said, “They arrived unexpectedly, General – with new orders not to shoot anyone until the prisoners can be questioned further by General der Infanterie Kohl.”
The newcomer raised an amused eyebrow. His form was stout and thick, and his shaved head appeared to grow directly from his broad shoulders, as if no neck was necessary in the construction of this model. The little knob of his chin-bone ballooned into a sagging skin sack that bulged over his tightly buttoned collar, and it said much for his own self-discipline that he hadn’t unbuttoned it to save himself some discomfort when away from those who might expect otherwise, here in this odorous tent on the outskirts of an unknown village.
“Is that so?” he drawled. “Funny, when I left the general’s quarters not half-an-hour ago, he seemed indifferent as to whether these spies lived or died. He believes – and I agree – that they are only here to see what they can see, and having prevented them from carrying home their paltry report, there’s nothing that they can tell us in return. Who is this visitor who has delayed the proceedings?” He looked from me to Holmes, not seeing Louis, who had drifted back into the shadows near the prisoners.
Holmes stepped forward, still unrecognizable as himself in his improvised disguise. “I believe that Oberfst Metz has slightly misunderstood our instructions. We are not here to represent General Kohl, Count. Rather, we are from Berlin, making a tour of the front and on our way to see the general. Along the way, we have a roving brief to collect all spies for further interrogation, instead of short-sightedly eliminating them.”
Upon hearing himself addressed as “Count”, the man appeared more interested. “You know me, then?”
“I do. Count von Und Zu Grafenstein. We met in Berlin last year, although you might not remember our introduction.”
I had to wonder – could there be an element of truth in Holmes’s statement? He might have met the Count in Berlin in 1913. Anything was possible. Since 1912, he’d been spending most of his time traveling, helping gather data to prepare the nation for the upcoming war. A great deal of those months had been undercover in America and parts of Britain in the guise of the bitter Irish expatriate Altamont, but he’d also found time to return to his small farm in Sussex, making appearances as Holmes on occasion in order to give the impression that he was still a retired and reclusive apiarist. He’d also had missions elsewhere – some with my assistance, and some that would never be known to me. It was entirely possible that he’d been to Berlin and met Count von Und Zu Grafenstein while there.
But I knew that wasn’t the first time that we’d met him. In 1902, the Count – who was also the uncle of the recently defeated Von Bork – was nearly murdered by a Nihilist named Klopman. I recalled the events clearly, and Holmes’s capture of the criminal in the post office of the small Dartmoor village of Grimpen. More specifically, I also remembered that Monsieur P----- had been in attendance, and had departed with both the Count and the prisoner, Klopman, for the long train journey back to London.[2] The Count might not recognize Holmes in disguise, and doubtless I had never made an impression on him whatsoever, but P----- was rather unforgettable, and even in this darkened tent on the outskirts of a Belgian village, he – in his undisguised state and sans moustache – would likely be instantly recognizable.
And it was inevitable. The Count took a step toward the prisoners, and P-----, that is to say “Louis”, surely knowing what was about to happen, made as if to shift in a different direction, keeping to the shadows along the tent wall. But the Count’s gaze was attracted by the motion, and something about it seemed to alert him. He took a sudden step toward Louis, and then, being within range to recognize him, his eyes widened with understanding. One could follow his thoughts – the last time he’d seen “Louis” had been in connection to Klopman’s arrest a dozen years before, and that event had involved Sherlock Holmes. With sudden enlightenment, he turned his head sharply, first toward Bridges, and then back to Holmes. There was no mistaking when he saw past the disguise. His expression changed – he tensed and opened his mouth to cry out, certainly to call to the guards outside. It was then that Metz took a step forward, coming up behind him, reaching around to cover the Count’s mouth with his left hand while bringing up his right. The glint of a knife, the unforgettable fast slice of blade across flesh, a gout of black blood spraying across the empty space before the dying man, and then the body silently sinking to the mud.
There was no sound at all for a long moment as we all waited to see if any suspicions were aroused, and then one of the guards outside laughed – shockingly loud – and we were all startled. But silently. Metz turned to Holmes.
“And now you owe me one, I think, Herr Holmes.”
My friend nodded, no making no further attempt to shorten himself or disguise his expression. “We must hurry. Caesar – take the Count’s overcoat. Clean it as best you can. It will appear to be a uniform, and will cover your civilian clothing. Bridges – see if you can prop the body up so that it will look natural enough – if only for a moment – when someone comes in. Even if they find him in a chair, presumably asleep, it might give us a few precious seconds before the alarm is given if they’re hesitant to disturb him.”
Then, as Bridges helped Caesar wrestle the coat from off the corpse, Holmes interrupted. “Do you have the information?”
Metz’s head whipped around. He had forgotten that there was more to this than simply settling a debt by arranging for the rescue of a couple of prisoners. These men had been on a mission.
“I do,” said Bridges, and then he tapped his temple. “Up here.”
“Good enough,” said Holmes, who then turned back to the colonel.
“You have placed yourself in even greater danger,” said Holmes. “Your idea of being taken as a prisoner, only to later escape or be released, won’t work. It isn’t plausible. But there is just a slim chance that you’ll come out of this without being shot yourself.”
Metz’s lips tightened. “I understand.”
“Would you rather be stabbed before or after I knock you unconscious?”
“After, I suppose. But please – let the Doctor do the stabbing.”
“It will be bloody,” I said, “but should heal easily if you keep it away from the mud.”
“After this war is over,” Holmes added, “I’ll buy you a drink. Now turn around.”
Metz did so, but not before he shook hands with Holmes and me. Then he spun, his military training apparent even in that setting and circumstance, and Holmes, using a woven leather blackjack removed from his picket, hit the colonel scientifically behind the right ear. Then, after helping to lower the unconscious man to the ground, I proceeded to pull back his coat and, using my own knife, cut through it and his shirt. After disinfecting the knife and thinking of my Oath and the greater good, I wounded the flesh on his right side above the hip bone. It was a messy injury, but negligible. As long as he played up the head wound, no one would question that he had been attacked.
By then Caesar was wearing the dead Count’s coat, and the blood stains across the front didn’t look too unusual, considering the circumstances in which we found ourselves – doubtless a number of soldiers were already wearing blood-stained clothing. Holmes whispered that we would try and take the guards one by one as they entered, assuming he could lure them inside that way. He then stepped to the flap of the tent and uttered a guttural command for one of them to enter. The flap pulled back, showing more light than just a few minutes earlier, and a dark head cautiously looked in. Holmes, who had been prepared to use his blackjack once more when the fellow had fully entered, instead lowered his arm. The man at the entrance was Andy, our driver.
“I knew something had gone wrong,” he said softly, joining us inside but holding the flap open while observing the seated and somewhat slumped body of the general, the colonel sprawled artfully on the ground, and the two figures of Bridges and Caesar standing nearby. “I cut the odds.”
We looked outside and saw one of the guards, unconscious and somehow propped cleverly to that he couldn’t fall completely flat.
“Where are the others?” asked Holmes.
“In the car. We can carry them in here.”
“Are they alive or dead?”
“Some of both.”
I was impressed – we’d never heard a sound, and Andy had somehow accomplished this feat by himself against four armed soldiers, and in such a way as to attract no attention whatsoever, either inside the tent or out. I was about to say so, when he himself looked around the tent once more and remarked, “I never heard a sound. Nice work.”
We dragged in the three from the car – two deceased – and put them in the darkest part of the tent. We prepared to tie and gag the one that still lived when Andy offered a suggestion.
“Let me change clothes with him first. Then I’ll stay here and slip way into the crowds. Perhaps I can accomplish something more useful over the next few days, instead of just being a chauffeur. I expect I can gum up the German works quite a bit in ways that they aren’t expecting. Besides, that will be one less man in the auto.”
It was agreed, and within moments the rest of us were all climbing into the Berliet, while Andy tossed a wave and walked away in the opposite direction.
“A brave man is young Monsieur Bond,” said Louis. I raised an eyebrow. “Andy. Andrew Bond. He is quite capable. In the few days that I’ve known him, I’ve seen much to admire.”
“Good thing he’s on our side,” said Bridges, who was now driving the car.
The rest of the trip was rather anticlimactic. We avoided the northwest, which had been Louis’s original route of return to Ypres, and instead looped first to the east and then back around toward the border, holding to the smaller roads and farm tracks, and even crossing a pasture on one occasion, nearly becoming mired in the process. When we were back in safe Belgian territory, we pulled over and shed our German clothing, glad for the chance to avoid being shot a second time that day.
At the border, Louis took his leave of us, shaking our hands effusively and hoping that we would see each other sooner rather than later. In fact, it would be another two years before we would re-encounter him, after he’d been forced to flee Belgium after receiving a grievous wound. He settled for a time with a group of other Belgian refugees in Essex. The death of his beloved wife at the hands of the Germans soured him on ever returning to Belgium, and after the war, he gravitated to London, where he achieved a noted amount of success – such that his previous notable years with the Belgian police were all but eclipsed.
When we were back in France, Bridges disclosed the information that he’d carried in his head – he’d always had a good memory for that sort of thing – and then he and Caesar cleaned up, received new orders, and headed immediately back across the lines into occupied territory.
Holmes and I were in London by nightfall. If I’d thought that I was to immediately resume my duties, I was mistaken. Within a week, the two of us were on Tory Island, northwest of Ireland, when the dreadnought HMS Audacious was sunk – a fact that wasn’t revealed to the public until November 1918, over four years later. I’m prevented to this day from revealing the truth behind that decision, but I can assert that Sherlock Holmes’s bravery and abilities once again saved the country from a worse disaster than might be imagined. Hopefully one day the story can be told. It’s my hope to tell all of what we accomplished during the war, but my days are likely too short to ever accomplish that task.