The Invasion of England by Richard Harding Davis
This is the true inside story of the invasion of England in
1911 by the Germans, and why it failed. I got my data from
Baron von Gottlieb, at the time military attaché of the
German Government with the Russian army in the second
Russian-Japanese War, when Russia drove Japan out of
Manchuria, and reduced her to a third-rate power. He told me
of his part in the invasion as we sat, after the bombardment
of Tokio, on the ramparts of the Emperor's palace, watching
the walls of the paper houses below us glowing and smoking
like the ashes of a prairie fire.
Two years before, at the time of the invasion, von Gottlieb
had been Carl Schultz, the head-waiter at the East Cliff
Hotel at Cromer, and a spy.
The other end of the story came to me through Lester Ford,
the London correspondent of the New York Republic. They gave
me permission to tell it in any fashion I pleased, and it is
here set down for the first time.
In telling the story, my conscience is not in the least
disturbed, for I have yet to find any one who will believe
What led directly to the invasion was that some week-end
guest of the East Cliff Hotel left a copy of "The Riddle of
the Sands" in the coffee-room, where von Gottlieb found it;
and the fact that Ford attended the Shakespeare Ball. Had
neither of these events taken place, the German flag might
now be flying over Buckingham Palace. And, then again, it
As every German knows, "The Riddle of the Sands" is a novel
written by a very clever Englishman in which is disclosed a
plan for the invasion of his country. According to this plan
an army of infantry was to be embarked in lighters, towed by
shallow-draft, sea-going tugs, and despatched simultaneously
from the seven rivers that form the Frisian Isles. From there
they were to be convoyed by battle-ships two hundred and
forty miles through the North Sea, and thrown upon the coast
of Norfolk somewhere between the Wash and Mundesley. The fact
that this coast is low-lying and bordered by sand flats which
at low water are dry, that England maintains no North Sea
squadron, and that her nearest naval base is at Chatham, seem
to point to it as the spot best adapted for such a raid.
What von Gottlieb thought was evidenced by the fact that as
soon as he read the book he mailed it to the German
Ambassador in London, and under separate cover sent him a
letter. In this he said: "I suggest your Excellency bring
this book to the notice of a certain royal personage, and of
the Strategy Board. General Bolivar said, 'When you want
arms, take them from the enemy.' Does not this also follow
when you want ideas?"
What the Strategy Board thought of the plan is a matter of
history. This was in 1910. A year later, during the
coronation week, Lester Ford went to Clarkson's to rent a
monk's robe in which to appear at the Shakespeare Ball, and
while the assistant departed in search of the robe, Ford was
left alone in a small room hung with full-length mirrors and
shelves, and packed with the uniforms that Clarkson rents for
Covent Garden balls and amateur theatricals. While waiting,
Ford gratified a long, secretly cherished desire to behold
himself as a military man, by trying on all the uniforms on
the lower shelves; and as a result, when the assistant
returned, instead of finding a young American in English
clothes and a high hat, he was confronted by a German officer
in a spiked helmet fighting a duel with himself in the
mirror. The assistant retreated precipitately, and Ford,
conscious that he appeared ridiculous, tried to turn the
tables by saying, " Does a German uniform always affect a
Territorial like that?"
The assistant laughed good-naturedly.
"It did give me quite a turn," he said. "It's this talk of
invasion, I fancy. But for a fact, sir, if I was a Coast
Guard, and you came along the beach dressed like that, I'd
take a shot at you, just on the chance, anyway."
"And, quite right, too!" said Ford.
He was wondering when the invasion did come whether he would
stick at his post in London and dutifully forward the news to
his paper, or play truant and as a war correspondent watch
the news in the making. So the words of Mr. Clarkson's
assistant did not sink in. But a few weeks later young Major
Bellew recalled them. Bellew was giving a dinner on the
terrace of the Savoy Restaurant. His guests were his nephew,
young Herbert, who was only five years younger than his
uncle, and Herbert's friend Birrell, an Irishman, both in
their third term at the university. After five years' service
in India, Bellew had spent the last "Eights" week at Oxford,
and was complaining bitterly that since his day the
undergraduate had deteriorated. He had found him serious,
given to study, far too well behaved. Instead of Jorrocks, he
read Galsworthy; instead of "wines" he found pleasure in
debating clubs where he discussed socialism. Ragging,
practical jokes, ingenious hoaxes, that once were wont to set
England in a roar, were a lost art. His undergraduate guests
combated these charges fiercely. His criticisms they declared
unjust and without intelligence.
"You're talking rot!" said his dutiful nephew. "Take Phil
here, for example. I've roomed with him three years and I can
testify that he has never opened a book. He never heard of
Galsworthy until you spoke of him. And you can see for
yourself his table manners are quite as bad as yours!"
"Worse!" assented Birrell loyally.
"And as for ragging! What rags, in your day, were as good as
ours; as the Carrie Nation rag, for instance, when five
hundred people sat through a temperance lecture and never
guessed they were listening to a man from Balliol?"
"And the Abyssinian Ambassador rag!" cried Herbert. "What
price that? When the DREADNOUGHT manned the yards for him and
gave him seventeen guns. That was an Oxford rag, and carried
through by Oxford men. The country hasn't stopped laughing
yet. You give us a rag!" challenged Herbert. " Make it as
hard as you like; something risky, something that will make
the country sit up, something that will send us all to jail,
and Phil and I will put it through whether it takes one man
or a dozen. Go on," he persisted, "And I bet we can get fifty
volunteers right here in town and all of them
"Give you the idea, yes!" mocked Bellew, trying to gain time.
"That's just what I say. You boys to-day are so dull. You
lack initiative. It's the idea that counts. Anybody can do
the acting. That's just amateur theatricals!"
"Is it!" snorted Herbert. "If you want to know what stage
fright is, just go on board a British battle-ship with your
face covered with burnt cork and insist on being treated like
an ambassador. You'll find it's a little different from a
first night with the Simla Thespians!"
Ford had no part in the debate. He had been smoking
comfortably and with well-timed nods, impartially encouraging
each disputant. But now he suddenly laid his cigar upon his
plate, and, after glancing quickly about him, leaned eagerly
forward. They were at the corner table of the terrace, and,
as it was now past nine o'clock, the other diners had
departed to the theatres and they were quite alone. Below
them, outside the open windows, were the trees of the
embankment, and beyond, the Thames, blocked to the west by
the great shadows of the Houses of Parliament, lit only by
the flame in the tower that showed the Lower House was still
"I'LL give you an idea for a rag," whispered Ford. "One that
is risky, that will make the country sit up, that ought to
land you in Jail? Have you read 'The Riddle of the Sands'?"
Bellew and Herbert nodded; Birrell made no sign.
" Don't mind him," exclaimed Herbert impatiently. "HE never
reads anything! Go on!"
"It's the book most talked about," explained Ford. "And what
else is most talked about?" He answered his own question.
"The landing of the Germans in Morocco and the chance of war.
Now, I ask you, with that book in everybody's mind, and the
war scare in everybody's mind, what would happen if German
soldiers appeared to-night on the Norfolk coast just where
the book says they will appear? Not one soldier, but dozens
of soldiers; not in one place, but in twenty places?"
"What would happen?" roared Major Bellew loyally. "The Boy
Scouts would fall out of bed and kick them into the sea!"
"Shut up!" snapped his nephew irreverently. He shook Ford by
the arm. "How?" he demanded breathlessly. "How are we to do
it? It would take hundreds of men."
"Two men," corrected Ford, "And a third man to drive the car.
I thought it out one day at Clarkson's when I came across a
lot of German uniforms. I thought of it as a newspaper story,
as a trick to find out how prepared you people are to meet
invasion. And when you said just now that you wanted a chance
to go to jail --"
"What's your plan?" interrupted Birrell.
"We would start just before dawn--" began Ford.
"We?" demanded Herbert. "Are you in this?"
"Am I in it?" cried Ford indignantly. "It's my own private
invasion! I'm letting you boys in on the ground floor. If I
don't go, there won t be any invasion!"
The two pink-cheeked youths glanced at each other inquiringly
and then nodded.
"We accept your services, sir," said Birrell gravely. "What's
In astonishment Major Bellew glanced from one to the other
and then slapped the table with his open palm. His voice
shook with righteous indignation.
"Of all the preposterous, outrageous--Are you mad?" he
demanded. "Do you suppose for one minute I will allow--"
His nephew shrugged his shoulders and, rising, pushed back
"Oh, you go to the devil!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "Come on,
Ford," he said. "We'll find some place where uncle can't hear
Two days later a touring car carrying three young men, in the
twenty-one miles between Wells and Cromer, broke down eleven
times. Each time this misfortune befell them one young man
scattered tools in the road and on his knees hammered
ostentatiously at the tin hood; and the other two occupants
of the car sauntered to the beach. There they chucked pebbles
at the waves and then slowly retraced their steps. Each time
the route by which they returned was different from the one
by which they had set forth. Sometimes they followed the
beaten path down the cliff or, as it chanced to be, across
the marshes; sometimes they slid down the face of the cliff;
sometimes they lost themselves behind the hedges and in the
lanes of the villages. But when they again reached the car
the procedure of each was alike--each produced a pencil and
on the face of his "Half Inch" road map traced strange,
At lunch-time they stopped at the East Cliff Hotel at Cromer
and made numerous and trivial inquiries about the Cromer golf
links. They had come, they volunteered, from Ely for a day
of sea-bathing and golf; they were returning after dinner.
The head-waiter of the East Cliff Hotel gave them the
information they desired. He was an intelligent head-waiter,
young, and of pleasant, not to say distinguished, bearing. In
a frock coat he might easily have been mistaken for something
even more important than a head-waiter--for a German ridingmaster,
a leader of a Hungarian band, a manager of a Ritz
hotel. But he was not above his station. He even assisted the
porter in carrying the coats and golf bags of the gentlemen
from the car to the coffee-room where, with the intuition of
the homing pigeon, the three strangers had, unaided, found
their way. As Carl Schultz followed, carrying the dust-coats,
a road map fell from the pocket of one of them to the floor.
Carl Schultz picked it up, and was about to replace it, when
his eyes were held by notes scrawled roughly in pencil. With
an expression that no longer was that of a head-waiter, Carl
cast one swift glance about him and then slipped into the
empty coat-room and locked the door. Five minutes later, with
a smile that played uneasily over a face grown gray with
anxiety, Carl presented the map to the tallest of the three
strangers. It was open so that the pencil marks were most
obvious. By his accent it was evident the tallest of the
three strangers was an American.
"What the devil!" he protested; "which of you boys has been
playing hob with my map?"
For just an instant the two pink-cheeked ones regarded him
with disfavor; until, for just an instant, his eyebrows rose
and, with a glance, he signified the waiter.
"Oh, that!" exclaimed the younger one. "The Automobile Club
asked us to mark down petrol stations. Those marks mean
that's where you can buy petrol."
The head-waiter breathed deeply. With an assured and happy
countenance, he departed and, for the two-hundredth time that
day, looked from the windows of the dining-room out over the
tumbling breakers to the gray stretch of sea. As though
fearful that his face would expose his secret, he glanced
carefully about him and then, assured he was alone, leaned
eagerly forward, scanning the empty, tossing waters.
In his mind's eye he beheld rolling tug-boats straining
against long lines of scows, against the dead weight of
field-guns, against the pull of thousands of motionless,
silent figures, each in khaki, each in a black leather
helmet, each with one hundred and fifty rounds.
In his own language Carl Schultz reproved himself.
"Patience," he muttered; "patience! By ten to-night all will
be dark. There will be no stars. There will be no moon. The
very heavens fight for us, and by sunrise our outposts will
be twenty miles inland!"
At lunch-time Carl Schultz carefully, obsequiously waited
upon the three strangers. He gave them their choice of soup,
thick or clear, of gooseberry pie or Half-Pay pudding. He
accepted their shillings gratefully, and when they departed
for the links he bowed them on their way. And as their car
turned up Jetty Street, for one instant, he again allowed his
eyes to sweep the dull gray ocean. Brown-sailed fishing-boats
were beating in toward Cromer. On the horizon line a
Norwegian tramp was drawing a lengthening scarf of smoke.
Save for these the sea was empty.
By gracious permission of the manageress Carl had obtained an
afternoon off, and, changing his coat, he mounted his bicycle
and set forth toward Overstrand. On his way he nodded to the
local constable, to the postman on his rounds, to the driver
of the char à banc. He had been a year in Cromer and was well
known and well liked.
Three miles from Cromer, at the top of the highest hill in
Overstrand, the chimneys of a house showed above a thick
tangle of fir-trees. Between the trees and the road rose a
wall, high, compact, forbidding. Carl opened the gate in the
wall and pushed his bicycle up a winding path hemmed in by
bushes. At the sound of his feet on the gravel the bushes new
apart, and a man sprang into the walk and confronted him.
But, at sight of the head-waiter, the legs of the man became
rigid, his heels clicked together, his hand went sharply to
Behind the house, surrounded on every side by trees, was a
tiny lawn. In the centre of the lawn, where once had been a
tennis court, there now stood a slim mast. From this mast
dangled tiny wires that ran to a kitchen table. On the table,
its brass work shining in the sun, was a new and perfectly
good wireless outfit, and beside it, with his hand on the
key, was a heavily built, heavily bearded German. In his
turn, Carl drew his legs together, his heels clicked, his
hand stuck to his visor.
"I have been in constant communication," said the man with
the beard. "They will be here just before the dawn. Return to
Cromer vand openly from the post-office telegraph your cousin
in London: 'Will meet you to-morrow at the Crystal Palace.'
On receipt of that, in the last edition of all of this
afternoon's papers, he will insert the final advertisement.
Thirty thousand of our own people will read it. They will
know the moment has come!"
As Carl coasted back to Cromer he flashed past many pretty
gardens where, upon the lawns, men in flannels were busy at
tennis or, with pretty ladies, deeply occupied in drinking
tea. Carl smiled grimly. High above him on the sky-line of
the cliff he saw the three strangers he had served at
luncheon. They were driving before them three innocuous golf
"A nation of wasters," muttered the German, "sleeping at
their posts. They are fiddling while England falls!"
Mr. Shutliffe, of Stiffkey, had led his cow in from the
marsh, and was about to close the cow-barn door, when three
soldiers appeared suddenly around the wall of the village
church. They ran directly toward him. It was nine o'clock,
but the twilight still held. The uniforms the men wore were
unfamiliar, but in his day Mr. Shutliffe had seen many
uniforms, and to him all uniforms looked alike. The tallest
soldier snapped at Mr. Shutliffe fiercely in a strange
"Du bist gefangen!" he announced. "Das Dorf ist besetzt. Wo
sind unsere Leute?" he demanded.
"You'll 'ave to excuse me, sir," said Mr. Shutliffe, "but I
am a trifle 'ard of 'earing."
The soldier addressed him in English.
"What is the name of this village?" he demanded.
Mr. Shuttiffe, having lived in the village upward of eighty
years, recalled its name with difficulty.
"Have you seen any of our people?"
With another painful effort of memory Mr. Shutliffe shook his
"Go indoors!" commanded the soldier, "And put out all lights,
and remain indoors. We have taken this village. We are
Germans. You are a prisoner! Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir, thank'ee, sir, kindly," stammered Mr. Shutliffe.
"May I lock in the pigs first, sir?"
One of the soldiers coughed explosively, and ran away, and
the two others trotted after him. When they looked back, Mr.
Shutliffe was still standing uncertainly in the dusk, mildly
concerned as to whether he should lock up the pigs or obey
the German gentleman.
The three soldiers halted behind the church wall.
"That was a fine start!" mocked Herbert. "Of course, you had
to pick out the Village Idiot. If they are all going to take
it like that, we had better pack up and go home."
"The village inn is still open," said Ford. "We'll close It."
They entered with fixed bayonets and dropped the butts of
their rifles on the sanded floor. A man in gaiters choked
over his ale and two fishermen removed their clay pipes and
stared. The bar-maid alone arose to the occasion.
"Now, then," she exclaimed briskly, "What way is that to come
tumbling into a respectable place? None of your tea-garden
tricks in here, young fellow, my lad, or --"
The tallest of the three intruders, in deep guttural accents,
interrupted her sharply.
"We are Germans!" he declared. "This village is captured. You
are prisoners of war. Those lights you will out put, and
yourselves lock in. If you into the street go, we will
He gave a command in a strange language; so strange, indeed,
that the soldiers with him failed to entirely grasp his
meaning, and one shouldered his rifle, while the other
brought his politely to a salute.
"You ass!" muttered the tall German. " Get out!"
As they charged into the street, they heard behind them a
wild feminine shriek, then a crash of pottery and glass, then
silence, and an instant later the Ship Inn was buried in
"That will hold Stiffkey for a while!" said Ford. "Now, back
to the car."
But between them and the car loomed suddenly a tall and
impressive figure. His helmet and his measured tread upon the
deserted cobble-stones proclaimed his calling.
"The constable!" whispered Herbert. "He must see us, but he
mustn't speak to us."
For a moment the three men showed themselves in the middle of
the street, and then, as though at sight of the policeman
they had taken alarm, disappeared through an opening between
two houses. Five minutes later a motor-car, with its canvas
top concealing its occupants, rode slowly into Stiffkey's
main street and halted before the constable. The driver of
the car wore a leather skull-cap and goggles. From his neck
to his heels he was covered by a raincoat.
"Mr. Policeman," he began; " when I turned in here three
soldiers stepped in front of my car and pointed rifles at me.
Then they ran off toward the beach. What's the idea--
manoeuvres? Because, they've no right to--"
"Yes, sir," the policeman assured him promptly; "I saw them.
It's manoeuvres, sir. Territorials."
"They didn't look like Territorials," objected the chauffeur.
"They looked like Germans."
Protected by the deepening dusk, the constable made no effort
to conceal a grin.
"Just Territorials, sir," he protested soothingly;
"skylarking maybe, but meaning no harm. Still, I'll have a
look round, and warn 'em."
A voice from beneath the canvas broke in angrily:
"I tell you, they were Germans. It's either a silly joke, or
it's serious, and you ought to report it. It's your duty to
warn the Coast Guard."
The constable considered deeply.
"I wouldn't take it on myself to wake the Coast Guard," he
protested; "not at this time of the night. But if any
Germans' been annoying you, gentlemen, and you wish to lodge
a complaint against them, you give me your cards--"
"Ye gods!" cried the man in the rear of the car. "Go on!" he
As the car sped out of Stiffkey, Herbert exclaimed with
"What's the use!" he protested. "You couldn't wake these
people with dynamite! I vote we chuck it and go home."
"They little know of England who only Stiffkey know," chanted
the chauffeur reprovingly. "Why, we haven't begun yet. Wait
till we meet a live wire!"
Two miles farther along the road to Cromer, young Bradshaw,
the job-master's son at Blakeney, was leading his bicycle up
the hill. Ahead of him something heavy flopped from the bank
into the road--and in the light of his acetylene lamp he saw
a soldier. The soldier dodged across the road and scrambled
through the hedge on the bank opposite. He was followed by
another soldier, and then by a third. The last man halted.
"Put out that light," he commanded. " Go to your home and
tell no one what you have seen. If you attempt to give an
alarm you will be shot. Our sentries are placed every fifty
yards along this road."
The soldier disappeared from in front of the ray of light and
followed his comrades, and an instant later young Bradshaw
heard them sliding over the cliff's edge and the pebbles
clattering to the beach below. Young Bradshaw stood quite
still. In his heart was much fear--fear of laughter, of
ridicule, of failure. But of no other kind of fear. Softly,
silently he turned his bicycle so that it faced down the long
hill he had just climbed. Then he snapped off the light. He
had been reliably informed that in ambush at every fifty
yards along the road to Blakeney, sentries were waiting to
fire on him. And he proposed to run the gauntlet. He saw that
it was for this moment that, first as a volunteer and later
as a Territorial, he had drilled in the town hall, practiced
on the rifle range, and in mixed manoeuvres slept in six
inches of mud. As he threw his leg across his bicycle,
Herbert, from the motor-car farther up the hill, fired two
shots over his head. These, he explained to Ford, were
intended to give " verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and
unconvincing narrative." And the sighing of the bullets gave
young Bradshaw exactly what he wanted--the assurance that he
was not the victim of a practical joke. He threw his weight
forward and, lifting his feet, coasted downhill at forty
miles an hour into the main street of Blakeney. Ten minutes
later, when the car followed, a mob of men so completely
blocked the water-front that Ford was forced to stop. His
head-lights illuminated hundreds of faces, anxious,
sceptical, eager. A gentleman with a white mustache and a
look of a retired army officer pushed his way toward Ford,
the crowd making room for him, and then closing in his wake.
"Have you seen any--any soldiers?" he demanded.
"German soldiers!" Ford answered. "They tried to catch us,
but when I saw who they were, I ran through them to warn you.
They fired and--"
"How many--and where?"
"A half-company at Stiffkey and a half-mile farther on a
regiment. We didn't know then they were Germans, not until
they stopped us. You'd better telephone the garrison, and--"
"Thank you!" snapped the elderly gentleman. "I happen to be
in command of this district. What are your names?"
Ford pushed the car forward, parting the crowd.
"I've no time for that!" he called. "We've got to warn every
coast town in Norfolk. You take my tip and get London on the
As they ran through the night Ford spoke over his shoulder.
"We've got them guessing," he said. "Now, what we want is a
live wire, some one with imagination, some one with authority
who will wake the countryside."
"Looks ahead there," said Birrell, "as though it hadn't gone
Before them, as on a Mafeking night, every window in Cley
shone with lights. In the main street were fishermen,
shopkeepers, "trippers" in flannels, summer residents. The
women had turned out as though to witness a display of
fireworks. Girls were clinging to the arms of their escorts,
shivering in delighted terror. The proprietor of the Red Lion
sprang in front of the car and waved his arms.
"What's this tale about Germans?" he demanded jocularly.
"You can see their lights from the beach," said Ford.
"They've landed two regiments between here and Wells.
Stiffkey is taken, and they've cut all the wires south."
The proprietor refused to be "had."
"Let 'em all come!" he mocked.
"All right," returned Ford. "Let 'em come, but don't take it
lying down! Get those women off the streets, and go down to
the beach, and drive the Germans back! Gangway," he shouted,
and the car shot forward. "We warned you," he called, "And
it's up to you to--"
His words were lost in the distance. But behind him a man's
voice rose with a roar like a rocket and was met with a
savage, deep-throated cheer.
Outside the village Ford brought the car to a halt and swung
in his seat.
"This thing is going to fail!" he cried petulantly. "They
don't believe us. We've got to show ourselves--many times--
in a dozen places."
"The British mind moves slowly," said Birrell, the Irishman.
"Now, if this had happened in my native land--"
He was interrupted by the screech of a siren, and a demon car
that spurned the road, that splattered them with pebbles,
tore past and disappeared in the darkness. As it fled down
the lane of their head-lights, they saw that men in khaki
clung to its sides, were packed in its tonneau, were swaying
from its running boards. Before they could find their voices
a motor cycle, driven as though the angel of death were at
the wheel, shaved their mud-guard and, in its turn, vanished
into the night.
"Things are looking up!" said Ford. "Where is our next stop?
As I said before, what we want is a live one."
Herbert pressed his electric torch against his road map.
"We are next billed to appear," he said, "about a quarter of
a mile from here, at the signal-tower of the Great Eastern
Railroad, where we visit the night telegraph operator and
give him the surprise party of his life."
The three men had mounted the steps of the signal-tower so
quietly that, when the operator heard them, they already
surrounded him. He saw three German soldiers with fierce
upturned mustaches, with flat, squat helmets, with long brown
rifles. They saw an anæmic, pale-faced youth without a coat
or collar, for the night was warm, who sank back limply in
his chair and gazed speechless with wide-bulging eyes.
In harsh, guttural tones Ford addressed him. "You are a
prisoner," he said. "We take over this office in the name of
the German Emperor. Get out!"
As though instinctively seeking his only weapon of defence,
the hand of the boy operator moved across the table to the
key of his instrument. Ford flung his rifle upon it.
"No, you don't!" he growled. "Get out!"
With eyes still bulging, the boy lifted himself into a
"My pay--my month's pay?" he stammered. "Can I take It?"
The expression on the face of the conqueror relaxed.
"Take it and get out," Ford commanded.
With eyes still fixed in fascinated terror upon the invader,
the boy pulled open the drawer of the table before him and
fumbled with the papers inside.
"Quick!" cried Ford.
The boy was very quick. His hand leaped from the drawer like
a snake, and Ford found himself looking into a revolver of
the largest calibre issued by a civilized people. Birrell
fell upon the boy's shoulders, Herbert twisted the gun from
his fingers and hurled it through the window, and almost as
quickly hurled himself down the steps of the tower. Birrell
leaped after him. Ford remained only long enough to shout:
"Don't touch that instrument! If you attempt to send a
message through, we will shoot. We go to cut the wires!"
For a minute, the boy in the tower sat rigid, his ears
strained, his heart beating in sharp, suffocating stabs.
Then, with his left arm raised to guard his face, he sank to
his knees and, leaning forward across the table, inviting as
he believed his death, he opened the circuit and through the
night flashed out a warning to his people.
When they had taken their places in the car, Herbert touched
Ford on the shoulder.
"Your last remark," he said, " was that what we wanted was a
"Don't mention it!" said Ford. "He jammed that gun half down
my throat. I can taste it still. Where do we go from here?"
"According to the route we mapped out this afternoon," said
Herbert, "We are now scheduled to give exhibitions at the
coast towns of Salthouse and Weybourne, but--"
"Not with me!" exclaimed Birrell fiercely. "Those towns have
been tipped off by now by Blakeney and Cley, and the Boy
Scouts would club us to death. I vote we take the back roads
to Morston, and drop in on a lonely Coast Guard. If a Coast
Guard sees us, the authorities will have to believe him, and
they'll call out the navy."
Herbert consulted his map.
"There is a Coast Guard," he said, "stationed just the other
side of Morston. And," he added fervently, "let us hope he's
They lost their way in the back roads, and when they again
reached the coast an hour had passed. It was now quite dark.
There were no stars, nor moon, but after they had left the
car in a side lane and had stepped out upon the cliff, they
saw for miles along the coast great beacon fires burning
Herbert came to an abrupt halt.
"Since seeing those fires," he explained, "I feel a strange
reluctance about showing myself in this uniform to a Coast
"Coast Guards don't shoot!" mocked Birrell. "They only look
at the clouds through a telescope. Three Germans with rifles
ought to be able to frighten one Coast Guard with a
The whitewashed cabin of the Coast Guard was perched on the
edge of the cliff. Behind it the downs ran back to meet the
road. The door of the cabin was open and from it a shaft of
light cut across a tiny garden and showed the white fence and
the walk of shells. v
"We must pass in single file in front of that light,"
whispered Ford, "And then, after we are sure he has seen us,
we must run like the devil!"
"I'm on in that last scene," growled Herbert.
"Only," repeated Ford with emphasis, "We must be sure he has
Not twenty feet from them came a bursting roar, a flash, many
roars, many flashes, many bullets.
"He's seen us!" yelled Birrell.
After the light from his open door had shown him one German
soldier fully armed, the Coast Guard had seen nothing
further. But judging from the shrieks of terror and the
sounds of falling bodies that followed his first shot, he was
convinced he was hemmed in by an army, and he proceeded to
sell his life dearly. Clip after clip of cartridges he
emptied into the night, now to the front, now to the rear,
now out to sea, now at his own shadow in the lamp-light. To
the people a quarter of a mile away at Morston it sounded
like a battle.
After running half a mile, Ford, bruised and breathless, fell
at full length on the grass beside the car. Near it, tearing
from his person the last vestiges of a German uniform, he
found Birrell. He also was puffing painfully.
"What happened to Herbert?" panted Ford.
"I don't know," gasped Birrell, "When I saw him last he was
diving over the cliff into the sea. How many times did you
"About twenty!" groaned the American, "And, besides being
dead, I am severely wounded. Every time he fired, I fell on
my face, and each time I hit a rock!"
A scarecrow of a figure appeared suddenly in the rays of the
head-lights. It was Herbert, scratched, bleeding, dripping
with water, and clad simply in a shirt and trousers. He
dragged out his kit bag and fell into his golf clothes.
"Anybody who wants a perfectly good German uniform," he
cried, "can have mine. I left it in the first row of
breakers. It didn't fit me, anyway."
The other two uniforms were hidden in the seat of the car.
The rifles and helmets, to lend color to the invasion, were
dropped in the open road, and five minutes later three
gentlemen in inconspicuous Harris tweeds, and with golf clubs
protruding from every part of their car, turned into the
shore road to Cromer. What they saw brought swift terror to
their guilty souls and the car to an abrupt halt. Before them
was a regiment of regulars advancing in column of fours, at
the " double." An officer sprang to the front of the car and
seated himself beside Ford.
"I'll have to commandeer this," he said. "Run back to
Cromer. Don't crush my men, but go like the devil!"
"We heard firing here," explained the officer " at the Coast
Guard station. The Guard drove them back to the sea. He
counted over a dozen. They made pretty poor practice, for he
isn't wounded, but his gravel walk looks as though some one
had drawn a harrow over it. I wonder," exclaimed the officer
suddenly, "if you are the three gentlemen who first gave the
alarm to Colonel Raglan and then went on to warn the other
coast towns. Because, if you are, he wants your names."
Ford considered rapidly. If he gave false names and that fact
were discovered, they would be suspected and investigated,
and the worst might happen. So he replied that his friends
and himself probably were the men to whom the officer
referred. He explained they had been returning from Cromer,
where they had gone to play golf, when they had been held up
by the Germans.
"You were lucky to escape," said the officer "And in keeping
on to give warning you were taking chances. If I may say so,
we think you behaved extremely well."
Ford could not answer. His guilty conscience shamed him into
silence. With his siren shrieking and his horn tooting, he
was forcing the car through lanes of armed men. They packed
each side of the road. They were banked behind the hedges.
Their camp-fires blazed from every hill-top.
"Your regiment seems to have turned out to a man!" exclaimed
"MY regiment!" snorted the officer. "You've passed through
five regiments already, and there are as many more in the
dark places. They're everywhere!" he cried jubilantly.
"And I thought they were only where you see the camp-fires,"
"That's what the Germans think," said the officer. "It's
working like a clock," he cried happily. "There hasn't been a
hitch. As soon as they got your warning to Colonel Raglan,
they came down to the coast like a wave, on foot, by trains,
by motors, and at nine o'clock the Government took over all
the railroads. The county regiments, regulars, yeomanry,
territorials, have been spread along this shore for thirty
miles. Down in London the Guards started to Dover and
Brighton two hours ago. The Automobile Club in the first hour
collected two hundred cars and turned them over to the Guards
in Bird Cage Walk. Cody and Grahame-White and eight of his
air men left Hendon an hour ago to reconnoitre the south
coast. Admiral Beatty has started with the Channel Squadron
to head off the German convoy in the North Sea, and the
torpedo destroyers have been sent to lie outside of
Heligoland. We'll get that back by daylight. And on land
every one of the three services is under arms. On this coast
alone before sunrise we'll have one hundred thousand men, and
from Colchester the brigade division of artillery, from
Ipswich the R. H. A.'s with siege-guns, field-guns, quickfiring
-guns, all kinds of guns spread out over every foot of
ground from here to Hunstanton. They thought they'd give us a
surprise party. They will never give us another surprise
On the top of the hill at Overstrand, the headwaiter of the
East Cliff Hotel and the bearded German stood in the garden
back of the house with the forbidding walls. From the road in
front came unceasingly the tramp and shuffle of thousands of
marching feet, the rumble of heavy cannon, the clanking of
their chains, the voices of men trained to command raised in
sharp, confident orders. The sky was illuminated by countless
fires. Every window of every cottage and hotel blazed with
lights. The night had been turned into day. The eyes of the
two Germans were like the eyes of those who had passed
through an earthquake, of those who looked upon the burning
of San Francisco, upon the destruction of Messina.
"We were betrayed, general," whispered the head-waiter.
"We were betrayed, baron," replied the bearded one.
"But you were in time to warn the flotilla."
With a sigh, the older man nodded.
"The last message I received over the wireless," he said,
"before I destroyed it, read, 'Your message understood. We
are returning. Our movements will be explained as manoeuvres.
And," added the general, "The English, having driven us back,
will be willing to officially accept that explanation. As
manoeuvres, this night will go down into history. Return to
the hotel," he commanded, "And in two months you can rejoin
On the morning after the invasion the New York Republic
published a map of Great Britain that covered three columns
and a wood-cut of Ford that was spread over five. Beneath it
was printed: "Lester Ford, our London correspondent, captured
by the Germans; he escapes and is the first to warn the
On the same morning, In an editorial in The Times of London,
appeared this paragraph:
"The Germans were first seen by the Hon. Arthur Herbert, the
eldest son of Lord Cinaris; Mr. Patrick Headford Birrell--
both of Balliol College, Oxford; and Mr. Lester Ford, the
correspondent of the New York Republic. These gentlemen
escaped from the landing party that tried to make them
prisoners, and at great risk proceeded in their motor-car
over roads infested by the Germans to all the coast towns of
Norfolk, warning the authorities. Should the war office fail
to recognize their services, the people of Great Britain will
prove that they are not ungrateful."
A week later three young men sat at dinner on the terrace of
"Shall we, or shall we not," asked Herbert, "tell my uncle
that we three, and we three alone, were the invaders?"
"That's hardly correct," said Ford, "as we now know there
were two hundred thousand invaders. We were the only three
who got ashore."
"I vote we don't tell him," said Birrell. "Let him think with
everybody else that the Germans blundered; that an advance
party landed too soon and gave the show away. If we talk," he
argued, "We'll get credit for a successful hoax. If we keep
quiet, everybody will continue to think we saved England. I'm
content to let it go at that."