BIGGLES hummed cheerfully as he cruised along in the new Camel which he had just fetched from the Aircraft Park.
Ànother five minutes and I shall be home,' he thought, but fate willed otherwise. The engine coughed, coughed again, and, with a final splutter, expired, leaving him with a '
dead' prop. He exclaimed softly, pushed the joystick forward, and looked quickly around for the most suitable field for the now inevitable forced landing.
To the right lay the forest of Clarmes. 'Nothing doing that way,' he muttered, and looked down between his left wings. Ah! there it was. Almost on the edge of the forest was a large pasture, free from obstruction. The pilot, with a confidence born of long experience, side-slipped towards it, levelled out over the hedge and made a perfect three-
point landing.
He sat in the cockpit for a minute .or two contemplating his position; then he yawned, pushed up his goggles and prepared to
take stock of his immediate surroundings. He raise his eyebrows appreciatively as he noted the sylvan beauty of the scene around him. Above, the sun shone from a cloudless blue sky. Straight before him a low lichen-covered stone wall enclosed an orchard through which he could just perceive a dull red pantiled roof: To the right lay the forest, cool and inviting. To the left a stream meandered smoothly between a double row of willows.
`Who said there was a war on?' he murmured, lighting a cigarette, and climbing up on to the 'hump' of his Camel, the better to survey the enchanting scene. 'Well, well, let's see if anyone is at home.'
He sprang lightly to the ground, threw his leather coat across the fuselage, and strolled towards the house. An old iron gate opened into the orchard; entering, he paused for a moment, uncertain of the path.
Àre you looking for me, monsieur?' said a musical voice.
Turning, he beheld a vision of blond loveliness, wrapped up in blue silk, smiling at him.
For a moment he stared as if he had never seen a woman before. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened them again. The vision was still there, dimpling.
`You were looking for me, perhaps?' said the girl again.
Biggles saluted like a man sleep-walking.
`Mademoiselle,' he said earnestly, 'I've been looking for you all my life. I didn't think I'd ever find you.'
`Then why did you land here?' asked the girl.
Ì landed here because my mag. shorted,' explained Biggles. `What would have happened if you had not landed when your bag shorted?' inquired the vision curiously.
`Not bag—mag. Short for magneto, you know,' replied Biggles, grinning. 'Do you know, I've never even thought of doing anything but land when a mag. shorts; if I didn't, I expect that I should fall from a great altitude and collide with something substantial.'
`What are you going to do now?'
Ì don't know—it takes thinking about. It may be necessary for me to stay here for some time. Anyway, the war will still be on when I get back. But, pardon me, mademoiselle, if I appear
impertinent; are you English? I ask because you speak English so well.'
'Not quite, monsieur. My mother was English and I have been to school in England,'
replied the girl.
'Thank you, Miss er
`Marie Janis is my name.'
'A charming name more charming even than this spot of heaven,' said Biggles warmly. '
Have you a telephone, Miss .1 .finis? You see, although the matter is not urgent, if I do not ring up my Squadron to say where I am someone may fly around to look for me,' he explained.
The thought of Mahoney spotting his Camel from the air and landing did not, in the circumstances, fill him with the enthusiasm one might normally expect.
`Come and use the telephone, M'sieur le Capitaine,' said the girl, leading the way. 'May I offer you un petit verre?'
`May you?' responded Biggles, warmly. 'I should say you may!'
Five hours later Biggles again took his place in the cockpit of the Camel, which a party of ack-emmas had now repaired. He took off and swung low over the orchard, waving gaily to a slim blue-clad figure that looked upwards and waved back.
Rosy clouds drifted across the horizon as he made the short flight back to the aerodrome.
`That girl's what I've been reading about,' he told himself. 'She's the "Spirit of the Air", and she's going to like me an awful lot if I know anything about it. Anyway, I'd be the sort of skunk who'd give rat poison to orphans if I didn't go back and thank her for her hospitality.'
Biggles, a week later, seated on an old stone bench in the orchard, sighed contentedly.
The distant flickering beam of a searchlight on the war-stricken sky meant nothing to him; a little head, shining whitely in the moonlight, nestled lightly on his sleeve. In the short time that had elapsed since his forced landing he had made considerable progress.
`Tell me, Marie,' he said. 'Do you ever hear from your father?'
`No, m'sieur,' replied the girl sadly. 'I told you he ,,was on a visit to the north when war was declared. In the wild panic of the Boche advance he was left behind in what is now the occupied territory. Communication with that part of France is forbidden, but I have had two letters from him which were sent by way of England by friends. I have not been able to tell him that mama is—dead!'
Tears shone for a moment in her eyes, and Biggles stirred uncomfortably.
Ìt is a hell of a war,' he said compassionately.
Ìf only I could get a letter to him to say that mama is dead and that I am looking after things until he returns I should be happy. Poor Papa!'
Ì suppose you don't even know where he is?' said Biggles sympathetically.
`But yes,' answered the girl quickly; 'I know where he is. He is still at our friend's chateau, where he was staying when the Boche came in.'
`Where's that?' asked Biggles in surprise.
Àt Vinard, near Lille; le Chateau Borceau,' she replied. 'But he might as well be in Berlin,' she concluded sadly, shrugging her shoulders.
Good Lord!' ejaculated Biggles suddenly.
`Why did you say that, monsieur?'
`Nothing--only an idea struck me, that's all,' said Biggles. `Tell me.'
`No. I'm crazy. Better forget it.'
`Tell me—please.'
Biggles wavered. 'All right,' he said. 'Say "please Biggles," and I'll tell you.'
`Please, Beegles.'
Biggles smiled at the pronunciation. 'Well, if you must know,' he said, 'it struck me that I might act as a messenger for you.' `Beegles! How?'
Ì had some crazy notion that I might be able to drop a letter from my machine,'
explained Biggles.
`Mon dieu!' The girl sprang to her feet in excitement, but Biggles held her arm and pulled her towards him.
For a moment she resisted, and then slipped into his arms. 'Bergles—please.'
Marie,' whispered Biggles, as their lips met. Then, his heart beating faster than archie or enemy aircraft had ever caused it to beat, he suddenly pushed her aside, rose to his feet and looked at the luminous dial of his watch. 'Time I was getting back to quarters,' he said unsteadily.
'But, Beegles, it is not yet so late.'
Biggles sat down, passed his hand over his face, and then laughed. 'My own mag. was nearly shorting then,' he said. They both laughed, and the spell was broken.
`Tell me, Beegles, is it possible to drop such a letter to Papa?' said the girl presently.
'I don't know,' said Biggles, a trifle anxiously. 'I don't know what orders are about that sort of thing, and that's a fact. There wouldn't be any harm in it, and they wouldn't know about, it, anyway. You give me the letter and I'll see what I can do.'
`Beegles—yoùWell?'
`Never mind. Come to the house and we will write the letter together.'
Hand in hand they walked slowly towards the house. The girl took a writing-pad from a desk and began to write; the door opened noiselessly and Antoine, Marie's elderly manservant, appeared.
'Did you
ring, mademoiselle?' he asked.
Merci, Antoine.'
'Do you know,' said Biggles, after the man had withdrawn, 'I don't like the look of that bloke. I never saw a nastier-looking piece of work in my life.'
`But what should I do without Antoine, and Lucille, his wife? They are the only two that stayed with me all the time. Antoine is a dear; he thinks only of me,' said the girl reproachfully.
'I see,' said Biggles. 'Well, go ahead with the letter.'
The girl wrote rapidly.
'Look,' she smiled when it was finished. 'Read it and tell me if you do not think it is a lovely letter to a long-lost father.' Biggles read the first few lines and skipped the rest, blushing. Ì don't want to read your letter, kid,' he said.
Marie sealed the letter, addressed it, and tied it firmly to a small paperweight. 'Now,' she said; 'what can we use for a banner?'
`You mean a streamer,' laughed Biggles.
`Yes, a streamer. Why! Here is the very thing.' She took a black-and-white silk scarf from the back of a chair and tied the paperweight to it. 'There you are, mon aviateur,' she laughed. `Take care; do not hit Papa on the head or he will wish I had not written.'
Biggles slipped the packet into the pocket of his British 'warm' and took her in his arms impatiently.
Arriving at the aerodrome he went to his quarters and flung the coat on the bed, and then made his way across to the mess for a drink. As the door of his quarters closed behind him, two men—an officer in uniform and a civilian—entered the room. Without a moment's hesitation the civilian picked up the coat and removed the letter from the pocket.
`You know what to do,' he said grimly.
`How long will you be?'
Àn hour. Not more. Keep him until 11.3o, to be on the safe side,' said the civilian.
'I will,' replied the officer, and followed Biggles into the mess.
Biggles, humming gaily, headed for home. His trip had proved uneventful and the dropping of Marie's letter ridiculously simple. He had found the chateau easily, and swooping low had seen the black-and-white scarf flutter on to the lawn. Safely back across the line he was now congratulating himself upon the success of his mission. S.287, the neighbouring S.E.5 Squadron, lay below, and it occurred to him to land and pass the time of day with them.
Conscious that many eyes would be watching him, he sideslipped in and flattened out for his most artistic landing. There was a sudden crash, the Camel swung violently and tipped up on
to its nose. Muttering savagely, he climbed out and surveyed the damage.
`Why the deuce don't you fellows put a flag or something on this sunken road?' he said bitterly to Wilkinson and other pilots who had hurried to the scene; he pointed to the cause of his misadventure. 'Look at that mess.'
`Well, most people know about that road,' said Wilkinson. 'If I'd have known you were coming I'd have had it filled in altogether. Never mind; it's only a tyre and the prop.
gone. Our fellows will have it right by tomorrow. Come and have a drink; I'll find you transport to take you home. The C.O.'s on leave, so you can use his car.'
`Righto, but I'm not staying to dinner,' said Biggles emphatically. 'I'm on duty tonight,'
he added, thinking of a moonlit orchard and an old stone seat.
It was nearly eight o'clock when he left the aerodrome, seated at the wheel of the borrowed car. He had rung up Major Mullen and told him that he would be late, and now, thrilling with anticipation, he headed for the home of the girl who was making his life worth living and the war worth fighting for.
The night was dark, for low clouds were drifting across the face of the moon; a row of distant archie-bursts made him look up, frowning. A bomb raid, interrupting the story of his successful trip, was the last thing he wanted. His frown deepened as the enemy aircraft and the accompanying archie drew nearer.
`They're coming right over the house, confound 'em,' he said, and switching off his lights raced for the orchard. 'My gosh, they're low!' he muttered, as he tore down the road, the roar of the engines of the heavy bombers in his ears. 'They're following this road, too.' He wondered where they were making for, trying to recall any possible objective on their line of flight. That he himself might be in danger did not even occur to him. He was less than five miles from the house now and taking desperate chances to race the machines. '
The poor kid'll be scared stiff if they pass over her as low as this.'
With every nerve taut he tore down the road. He caught his breath suddenly. What was that? A whistling screech filled his ears and an icy hand clutched his heart. Too well he knew the sound. Boom! Boom! Boom! Three vivid flashes of orange fire leapt towards the sky. Boom! Boom! Boom! —and then three more.
`What are they fanning, the fools? There is only the forest there,' thought Biggles, as, numb with shock, he raced round the last bend. Six more thundering detonations, seemingly a hundred yards ahead, nearly split his eardrums, but still he did not pause. He tried to think, but could not; he had lost all sense of time and reason. He seemed to have been driving for ever, and he muttered as he drove. Searchlights probed the sky on all sides and subconsciously he noticed that the noise of the engines was fading into the distance.
`They're gone,' he said, trying hard to think clearly. 'What if they've hit the house?'
He jammed on his brakes with a grinding screech as two men sprang out in front of the car as he turned in the gates; but he was not looking at them. One glance showed him that the house was a blazing pile of ruins. He sprang out of the car and darted towards the conflagration, but a hand closed on his arm like a vice.
Biggles, white-faced, turned and struck out viciously. 'My girl's in there,' he muttered.
A sharp military voice penetrated his stunned brain. 'Stand fast, Captain Bigglesworth,'
it said.
`Let me go,' snarled Biggles, struggling like a madman. Òne more word from you, Captain Bigglesworth, and I'll put you under arrest,' said the voice harshly.
`You'll what?' Biggles turned, his brain fighting for consciousness. 'You'll what?' he cried again incredulously.
He saw the firelight gleam on the fixed bayonets of a squad of Tommies; Colonel Raymond of Wing Headquarters and another man stood near them. Biggles passed his hand over his eyes, swaying.
Ì'm dreaming,' he said; 'that's it, dreaming. What a nightmare! I wish I could wake up.'
`Take a drink, Bigglesworth, and pull yourself together,' said Colonel Raymond, passing him a flask.
Biggles emptied the flask and handed it back.
Ì'm going now,' said the Colonel. 'I'll see you in the morning. This officer will tell you all you need to know,' he concluded, indicating a dark-clad civilian standing near. 'Good night, Bigglesworth.'
`Good night, sir.'
`Tell me,' said Biggles, with an effort, 'is she—in there?' The man nodded.
`Then that's all I need to know,' said Biggles, slowly turning away.
Ì'm sorry, but there are other things you will have to know,' returned the man.
`Who are you?' said Biggles curiously.
`Major Charles, of the British Intelligence Service.' Ìntelligence!' repeated Biggles, the first ray of light bursting upon him.
`Come here a moment.' Major Charles switched on the light of his car. 'Yesterday, a lady asked you to deliver a message for her, did she not?' he asked.
`Why—yes.'
Did you see it?'
`Yes!'
`Was this it?' said Major Charles, handing him a letter. Biggles read the first few lines, dazed. 'Yes,' he said; 'that was it.
`Turn it over.'
Unconsciously Biggles obeyed. He started as his eyes fell on a tangle of fine lines that showed up clearly. In the centre was a circle.
`Do you recognise that?'
`Yes.'
`What is it?'
Ìt is a map of 266 Squadron aerodrome,' replied Biggles, like a child reciting a catechism.
`You see the circle?'
`Yes.'
<
br /> The Officers' Mess. Perhaps you understand now. The letter you were asked to carry had been previously prepared with a solution of invisible ink and contained such information that, had you delivered it, your entire squadron would have been wiped out tonight, and you as well. The girl sent you to your death, Captain Bigglesworth.'
Ì'll not believe it,' said Biggles distinctly. 'But I did deliver the letter, anyway,' he cried suddenly.
`Not this one,' said Major Charles, smiling queerly. 'You delivered the one we substituted.'
`Substituted?'
`We have watched this lady for a long time. You have been under surveillance since the day you force-landed, although your record put you above suspicion.'
Ànd on the substituted plan you marked her home to be bombed instead of the aerodrome?' sneered Biggles. 'Why?'
Major Charles shrugged his shoulders. 'The lady was well connected. There may have been unexpected difficulties connected with an arrest, yet her activities had to be checked. She had powerful friends in high places. Well, I must be going; no doubt you will hear from Wing in the morning.'
Biggles walked a little way up the garden path. The old stone seat glowed dully crimson.
'Bah!' he muttered, turning. 'What a fool I am. What a hell of a war this is.'
He drove slowly back to the aerodrome. On his table lay a letter. Ripping it open eagerly, he read:
Darling,
I have something important to ask you—something you must do for me. Tonight at seven o'clock I will come for you. It is important. Meet me in the road by the aerodrome. I will be very kind to you, my Biggles.
MARIE.
Biggles, with trembling hands, sat on the bed and re-read the letter, trying to reason out its purpose. 'She timed the raid for
eight,' he said to himself, 'when all officers would be dining in the mess. She knew I should be there and wrote this to bring me out. She knew I'd never leave her waiting on the road—that was the way of it. She must have cared, or she wouldn't have done that.
When I didn't come she went back home. She didn't know I hadn't seen her letter—how could she? Now she's dead. If I hadn't landed at 287 I should be with her now. Well, she'
ll never know.'
51 Biggles Pioneer Air Fighter Page 12