Theres certainly something very peculiar, remarked the superintendent-in-charge to the sub-editor. If theres been an earthquake or an electrical disturbance, then it is a most extraordinary one. Every single line reaching to the coast seems interrupted.
Yes. Its uncommonly funny, Fergusson remarked. I wonder what could have happened. Youve never had a complete breakdown like this before?
Never. But I think
The sentence remained unfinished, for his assistant returned with a slip of paper in his hand, saying
This message has just come in from Paris. Ill read it. Superintendent Telephones, Paris, to Superintendent Telephones, London. Have obtained direct telegraphic communication with operators of all five cables to England. Haarlem, Zandyport, Barkum, and Emden all report that cables are interrupted. They can get no reply from England, and tests show that cables are damaged somewhere near English shore.
Is that all? asked Fergusson.
Thats all. Paris knows no more than we do, was the assistants response.
Then the Norfolk and Suffolk coasts are completely isolated cut off from post office, railways, telephones, and cables! exclaimed the superintendent. Its mysterious most mysterious! And, taking up the instrument upon his table, he placed a plug in one of the holes down the front of the table itself, and a moment later was in conversation with the official in charge of the traffic at Liverpool Street, repeating the report from Paris, and urging him to send light engines north from Wymondham or Beccles into the zone of mystery.
The reply came back that he had already done so, but a telegram had reached him from Wymondham to the effect that the road-bridges between Kimberley and Hardingham had apparently fallen in, and the line was blocked by débris. Interruption was also reported beyond Swaffham, at a place called Little Dunham.
Then even the railways themselves are broken! cried Fergusson. Is it possible that theres been a great earthquake?
An earthquake couldnt very well destroy all five cables from the Continent, remarked the superintendent gravely.
The latter had scarcely placed the receiver upon the hook when a third man entered an operator who, addressing him, said
Will you please come to the switchboard, sir? Theres a man in the Ipswich call office who has just told me a most extraordinary story. He says that he started in his motor-car alone from Lowestoft to London at half-past three this morning, and just as it was getting light he was passing along the edge of Henham Park, between Wangford village and Blythburgh, when he saw three men apparently repairing the telegraph wires. One was up the pole, and the other two were standing below. As he passed he saw a flash, for, to his surprise, one of the men fired point-blank at him with a revolver. Fortunately, the shot went wide, and he at once put on a move and got down into Blythburgh village, even though one of his tyres went down. It had probably been pierced by the bullet fired at him, as the puncture was unlike any he had ever had before. At Blythburgh he informed the police of the outrage, and the constable, in turn, woke up the postmaster, who tried to telegraph back to the police at Wrentham, but found that the line was interrupted. Was it possible that the men were cutting the wires, instead of repairing them? He says that after repairing the puncture he took the village constable and three other men on his car and went back to the spot, where, although the trio had escaped, they saw that wholesale havoc had been wrought with the telegraphs. The lines had been severed in four or five places, and whole lengths tangled up into great masses. A number of poles had been sawn down, and were lying about the roadside. Seeing that nothing could be done, the gentleman remounted his car, came on to Ipswich, and reported the damage at our call office.
And is he still there? exclaimed the superintendent quickly, amazed at the motorists statement.
Yes. I asked him to wait for a few moments in order to speak to you, sir.
Good. Ill go at once. Perhaps youd like to come also, Mr. Fergusson?
And all four ran up to the gallery, where the huge switchboards were ranged around, and where the night operators, with the receivers attached to one ear, were still at work.
In a moment the superintendent had taken the operators seat, adjusted the ear-piece, and was in conversation with Ipswich. A second later he was speaking with the man who had actually witnessed the cutting of the trunk line.
While he was thus engaged an operator at the farther end of the switchboard suddenly gave vent to a cry of surprise and disbelief.
What do you say, Beccles? Repeat it, he asked excitedly.
Then a moment later he shouted aloud
Beccles says that German soldiers hundreds of them are pouring into the place! The Germans have landed at Lowestoft, they think.
All who heard those ominous words sprang up dumbfounded, staring at each other.
The assistant-superintendent dashed to the operators side and seized his apparatus.
Halloa halloa, Beccles! Halloa halloa halloa!
The response was some gruff words in German, and the sound of scuffling could distinctly be heard. Then all was silent.
Time after time he rang up the small Suffolk town, but in vain. Then he switched through to the testers, and quickly the truth was plain.
The second trunk line to Norwich, running from Ipswich by Harleston and Beccles, had been cut farther towards London.
But what held everyone breathless in the trunk telephone headquarters was that the Germans had actually effected the surprise landing that had so often in recent years been predicted by military critics; that England on that quiet September Sunday morning had been attacked. England was actually invaded. It was incredible!
Yet Londons millions in their Sunday morning lethargy were in utter ignorance of the grim disaster that had suddenly fallen upon the land.
Fergusson was for rushing at once back to the Weekly Dispatch office to get out an extraordinary edition, but the superintendent, who was still in conversation with the motorist, urged judicious forethought.
For the present, let us wait. Dont let us alarm the public unnecessarily. We want corroboration. Let us have the motorist up here, he suggested.
Yes, cried the sub-editor. Let me speak to him.
Over the wire Fergusson begged the stranger to come at once to London and give his story, declaring that the military authorities would require it. Then, just as the man who had been shot at by German advance spies for such they had undoubtedly been in order to prevent the truth leaking out, gave his promise to come to town at once, there came over the line from the coastguard at Southwold a vague, incoherent telephone message regarding strange ships having been seen to the northward, and asking for connection with Harwich; while Kings Cross and Liverpool Street Stations both rang up almost simultaneously, reporting the receipt of extraordinary messages from Kings Lynn, Diss, Harleston, Halesworth, and other places. All declared that German soldiers were swarming over the north, that Lowestoft and Beccles had been seized, and that Yarmouth and Cromer were isolated.
Various stationmasters reported that the enemy had blown up bridges, taken up rails, and effectually blocked all communication with the coast. Certain important junctions were already held by the enemys outposts.
Such was the amazing news received in that high-up room in Carter Lane, City, on that sweet, sunny morning when all the great world of London was at peace, either still slumbering or week-ending.
Such was the amazing news received in that high-up room in Carter Lane, City, on that sweet, sunny morning when all the great world of London was at peace, either still slumbering or week-ending.
Fergusson remained for a full hour and a half at the Telephone Exchange, anxiously awaiting any further corroboration. Many wild stories came over the wires telling how panic-stricken people were fleeing inland away from the enemys outposts. Then he took a hansom to the Weekly Dispatch office, and proceeded to prepare a special edition of his paper an edition containing surely the most amazing news that had ever startled London.
Fearing to create undue panic, he decided not to go to press until the arrival of the motorist from Ipswich. He wanted the story of the man who had actually seen the cutting of the wires. He paced his room excitedly, wondering what effect the news would have upon the world. In the rival newspaper offices the report was, as yet, unknown. With journalistic forethought he had arranged that at present the bewildering truth should not leak out to his rivals, either from the railway termini or from the telephone exchange. His only fear was that some local correspondent might telegraph from some village or town nearer the metropolis which was still in communication with the central office.
Time passed very slowly. Each moment increased his anxiety. He had sent out the one reporter who remained on duty to the house of Colonel Sir James Taylor, the Permanent Under-Secretary for War. Halting before the open window, he looked up and down the street for the arriving motor-car. But all was quiet.
Eight oclock had just boomed from Big Ben, and London still remained in her Sunday morning peace. The street, bright in the warm sunshine, was quite empty, save for a couple of motor-omnibuses and a sprinkling of gaily dressed holiday-makers on their way to the day excursion trains.
In that centre of London the hub of the world all was comparatively silent, the welcome rest after the busy turmoil that through six days in the week is unceasing, that fevered throbbing of the heart of the worlds great capital.
Of a sudden, however, came the whirr-r of an approaching car, as a thin-faced, travel-stained man tore along from the direction of the Strand and pulled up before the office. The fine car, a six-cylinder Napier, was grey with the mud of country roads, while the motorist himself was smothered until his goggles had been almost entirely covered.
Fergusson rushed out to him, and a few moments later the pair were in the upstairs room, the sub-editor swiftly taking down the motorists story, which differed very little from what he had already spoken over the telephone.
Then, just as Big Ben chimed the half-hour, the echoes of the half-deserted Strand were suddenly awakened by the loud, strident voices of the newsboys shouting
Weekly Dispatch, spe-shall! Invasion of England this morning! Germans in Suffolk! Terrible panic! Spe-shall! Weekly Dispatch, Spe-shall!
As soon as the paper had gone to press Fergusson urged the motorist whose name was Horton, and who lived at Richmond to go with him to the War Office and report. Therefore, both men entered the car, and in a few moments drew up before the new War Office in Whitehall.
I want to see somebody in authority at once! cried Fergusson excitedly to the sentry as he sprang out.
Youll find the caretaker, if you ring at the side entrance on the right, there, responded the man, who then marched on.
The caretaker! echoed the excited sub-editor bitterly. And England invaded by the Germans!
He, however, dashed towards the door indicated and rang the bell. At first there was no response. But presently there were sounds of a slow unbolting of the door, which opened at last, revealing a tall, elderly man in slippers, a retired soldier.
I must see somebody at once! exclaimed the journalist. Not a moment must be lost. What permanent officials are here?
Theres nobody ere, sir, responded the man in some surprise at the request. Its Sunday morning, you know.
Sunday! I know that, but I must see someone. Whom can I see?
Nobody, until to-morrow morning. Come then. And the old soldier was about to close the door when the journalist prevented him, asking
Wheres the clerk-in-residence?
How should I know? Gone up the river, perhaps. Its a nice mornin.
Well, where does he live?
Sometimes ere sometimes in is chambers in Ebury Street, and the man mentioned the number.
Better come to-morrow, sir, about eleven. Somebodyll be sure to see you then.
To-morrow! cried the other. To-morrow! You dont know what youre saying, man! To-morrow will be too late. Perhaps its too late now. The Germans have landed in England!
Oh, ave they? exclaimed the caretaker, regarding both men with considerable suspicion. Our people will be glad to know that, Im sure to-morrow.
But havent you got telephones, private telegraphs, or something here, so that I can communicate with the authorities? Cant you ring up the Secretary of State, the Permanent Secretary, or somebody?
The caretaker hesitated a moment, his incredulous gaze fixed upon the pale, agitated faces of the two men.
Well, just wait a minute, and Ill see, he said, disappearing into a long cavernous passage.
In a few moments he reappeared with a constable whose duty it was to patrol the building.
The officer looked the strangers up and down, and then asked
Whats this extraordinary story? Germans landed in England eh? Thats fresh, certainly!
Yes. Cant you hear what the newsboys are crying? Listen! exclaimed the motorist.
Hm. Well, youre not the first gentleman whos been here with a scare, you know. If I were you Id wait till to-morrow, and he glanced significantly at the caretaker.
I wont wait till to-morrow! cried Fergusson. The country is in peril, and you refuse to assist me on your own responsibility you understand?
All right, my dear sir, replied the officer, leisurely hooking his thumbs in his belt. Youd better drive home, and call again in the morning.
So this is the way the safety of the country is neglected! cried the motorist bitterly, turning away. Everyone away, and this great place, built merely to gull the public, I suppose, empty and its machinery useless. What will England say when she learns the truth?
As they were walking in disgust out from the portico towards the car, a man jumped from a hansom in breathless haste. He was the reporter whom Fergusson had sent out to Sir James Taylors house in Cleveland Square, Hyde Park.
They thought Sir James spent the night with his brother up at Hampstead, he exclaimed. Ive been there, but find that hes away for the week-end at Chilham Hall, near Buckden.
Buckden! Thats on the Great North Road! cried Horton. Well go at once and find him. Sixty miles from London. We can be there under two hours!
And a few minutes later the pair were tearing due north in the direction of Finchley, disregarding the signs from police constables to stop, Horton wiping the dried mud from his goggles and pulling them over his half-closed eyes.
They had given the alarm in London, and the Weekly Dispatch was spreading the amazing news everywhere. People read it eagerly, gasped for a moment, and then smiled in utter disbelief. But the two men were on their way to reveal the appalling truth to the man who was one of the heads of that complicated machinery of inefficient defence which we so proudly term our Army.