17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight

by Captain W E Johns

  `There's the hut,' he said in a voice that had an oddly dramatic ring behind it.

  Keeping under cover, the others crept forward and looked over Thirty's shoulders.

  They saw a valley very much like the one through which they had just come, except that it was not quite so rough and the banks were not so steep. The hut, a small, square, dilapidated building, rested a little way up the hill-side, making a pleasing feature in what was a very pretty piece of scenery.

  `Well, if looks are anything to go by, it's deserted,' decided Biggles, referring, of course, to the hut.

  Èven if he is there, it is not unlikely he is out at this hour of the morning,' Thirty pointed out.

  `Then we'll push along and set all doubt at rest,' declared Biggles. 'Once we get to the but we shall soon find out if any one has been living in it.'

  He half rose, preparatory to moving on, but instantly dropped flat again as a sound floated down the valley. `What was that?' jerked out Algy.

  `Sounded like some one shouting—calling a dog,' whispered Thirty, the colour going from his face.

  À gamekeeper, perhaps,' suggested Biggles. 'Do they have gamekeepers here, Thirty?'

  `Yes; there are wild boars in the forest, and they mark them down for hunting.'

  Further speculation was cut short by the arrival on the scene of a party of new-comers, and the mystery of the call was explained. On the face of it, it looked as if the attempt at rescue had come to an abrupt end, for the party consisted of six men. In front, with a hound dragging on its lead, was a green-coated game warden, a feather curling jauntily from his cap and a brass hunting horn swinging at his side.

  But it was not the mere sight of the gamekeeper that caused the last vestige of colour to drain from Thirty's face, leaving it a chalky grey; it was those who followed close behind him—five German soldiers with an unter offizier —judging by his manner—at their head. They wore the regulation grey uniforms, and, with the exception of the unter offizier, who wore a pickelhaube, the well-known coal-scuttle steel helmets. Down the hill-side they came, scrambling round a shoulder of rock in such a way that their objective was at once obvious. It was the hut.

  Ànd to think we got so near,' moaned Thirty in a voice of anguish; 'and after all this time, to arrive just five minutes too late.'

  Àll right, don't lose your head,' replied Biggles, evenly. 'You ought to be dancing for joy.'

  `Dancing for— Why?'

  `Don't you realize what that little party means? It means the most important thing of all.

  Your brother is still alive—at least, that's how it looks to me. The gamekeeper must have spotted him and fetched the troops. Don't worry. The game is still ours if we keep cool.

  We know they are there—but they don't know we are. That's our trump card. Now let us see if we can play it. This way—quickly.'

  Without a glance behind to see if the others were following, Biggles was off down the hill-side to get round the obstacle that lay across their path, jumping nimbly from rock to rock and ducking under the droop-ing branches of the sombre firs that often stood in his path. His automatic was in his hand.

  The others followed. Up the opposite bank they clambered, pulling themselves up by any hand-hold that offered, until they were in a thick belt of trees, running over a sloping bed composed of generations of fir needles on which their feet made no noise. Under cover of the trees they ran on until they were, as near as they could judge, opposite the hut, where Biggles slowed down and crept forward. The others followed at his heels, and were just in time to see the second act of the drama that was being enacted in the sylvan scene.

  Another actor had appeared. Moving cautiously from tree to tree, and from rock to rock, he was coming down a water-worn gully towards the hut. He wore no coat. His shirt and breeches were in rags. A tangle of long unkempt hair covered his head, and merged into a scrubby growth of beard on his cheeks and chin. He carried a small furry creature in his hands. His position was such that he could not see the other party, any more than the Germans could see him. Each oblivious to the other's presence, they were converging on the same spot—the ramshackle hut.

  Ìt's him!' Biggles hissed the two vital words.

  `How do you know?' breathed Thirty. 'I don't recognize him.'

  `Look at his field-boots. Boots like that are only cut in England.'

  `Then I'm going to save him,' said Thirty in a strangled voice, and leaping forward, opened his mouth to shout.

  With a panther-like bound Biggles sprang at him

  and bore him to the ground, his hand over his mouth. `Quiet, you idiot,' he grated savagely. 'Do you want to get us all killed. We can't take on rifles with automatics at this range.' He released his grip and got up.

  Thirty, crestfallen, and looking near to tears, did the same. 'This is a case of more haste less speed,' muttered Biggles. 'We can do nothing but watch—for the moment.'

  Resuming their look-out positions they were in time to see the third act of the grim play that was in progress. Forty—assuming it was Forty—suddenly scrambled up the side of the gully so that he stood in a position where the but was in plain view. Unfortunately for him, in his ascent a loose stone had become dislodged and went crashing down to the bottom of the gully, taking several others with it.

  At the noise, the members of the enemy party crouched low in the gorse and heather with which the more open parts of the hill-side were covered. Forty also remained motionless for a few moments, but as nothing happened he continued his journey, now running swiftly across the open area towards the hut, unaware of the many eyes that were watching him. Reaching the hut, he disappeared from view.

  Instantly the five German soldiers sprang to their feet, and, spreading out fanwise, converged swiftly on the hut. As they neared it, however, they slowed down, drawing closer to each other. Presently all five of them stood together outside the door.

  With parted lips and staring eyes, his heart pounding furiously against his ribs, Thirty watched what he knew would be the next move.

  The unter offizier made a signal to his men; their rifles covered door and window. Then, with his own rifle ready for instant action he pushed the door open and disappeared from sight. His voice barked an order, clearly heard by the airmen. The soldiers hurried forward. They, too, disappeared into the hut, and once more the hill-side was deserted.

  `This is our cue,' snapped Biggles. 'It's now or never. Come on.'

  Sliding, jumping, and sometimes falling, they tore down the hill-side. Through the brook at the bottom and up the other side towards the but they sped, panting under the strain of their exertions until they were within a dozen yards of their objective, when Biggles flung up his hand in a signal to halt. Thirty, his automatic clutched in his right hand, brushed the perspiration from his eyes with the other, and waited for the next move. It was not long in coming.

  Crouching low, with the stealth of an Indian on the war-path, Biggles made his way to the rear of the hut, where he sank on to his right knee and beckoned the others to join him. From inside the but came the harsh voice of the unter offizier, answered occasionally by a softer tone.

  `We shall have to wait until they come out,' breathed Biggles. 'Jump out when I do and be ready to shoot like lightning. If they drop their rifles and put their hands up, all right, but any move by one of them to raise his rifle, let him have it. It's the only way. It's either they or we for it, and they won't hesitate to shoot us. Ssh! here they come.'

  The airmen, placed as they were on the far side of the but from the door, could not, of course, see the others; they could only guess what was happening by the sound of their voices and movements. They heard the door creak back on its hinges, the shuffle of footsteps and the soft thud of the butts of the Germans' rifles as they were rested on the ground.

  Thirty could see Biggles bracing his muscles for the spring that would reveal their presence, so he was at his heels when, with the lithe agility of a panther, and his pistol held out in front of him, Bi
ggles darted into the open.

  `Hande hoch !' he snapped.

  There was a moment or two of utter silence; a curious silence; a hush that was charged with expectancy, like the lull between a flash of lightning and the crash of thunder. The Germans stood still, in the positions in which the shock of surprise had found them, staring wide-eyed at the three automatics that menaced them. Then, like a film that breaks and is continued, movement was restored.

  With a low snarl the unter offizier jerked up his rifle, but almost as soon as the movement began Biggles's pistol roared. The movement ceased, and the look of hate on the unter offizier's face turned to wonder. Then his legs seemed to fold up under him and he crashed to the ground like a wet overcoat falling from a peg.

  Simultaneously with this, another of the Germans moved his rifle, but he desisted as Thirty's automatic jerked round to him. Another leapt backwards to the side of the but so swiftly that he was out of sight when Algy's bullet ripped a splinter from the corner of the building.

  `Get him,' ejaculated Biggles, and then counter-

  manded the order as the man was heard to be crashing down the hill-side. 'All right, let him go,' muttered Biggles, whose automatic had never wavered from the others. He stepped forward, and, one after the other, took the rifles out of their hands and threw them in a heap on the ground. `Gehen !' he told them, pointing in the direction from which they had come.

  The Germans, pale-faced, backed away for a few yards, and then turning, they walked hurriedly away, breaking into a run as soon as they were out of effective range.

  Turning, Biggles flashed a quick glance at the bearded man in the tattered clothes who, during all this time, had not moved. He appeared to be even more dazed than the Germans at the swift sequence of events. Biggles spoke briskly. 'Are you Fortymore?'

  `Yes.'

  `Come on, then. We'll leave the handshakes until afterwards if you don't mind. Let's get out of this. We've some way to go, and things will be pretty hot here presently.'

  Without waiting for the other to reply he started off at a dog-trot down the valley. The others followed. But before they had taken a dozen steps two things happened at once.

  The bellow of an aero engine sent the birds wheeling into the air, and somewhere not far away a rifle cracked. The bullet struck a piece of rock just in front of Biggles and richocheted, screaming, into the air.

  It's the Hun who bolted,' yelled Biggles. 'Run for it.'

  Twice more the rifle cracked, the report reverberating from hill to hill, but either the German was a bad shot, or the running, crouching figures were too difficult a target, for the shots, like the first one, struck harmlessly against the hill-side.

  Immediately afterwards the four airmen rounded the spur of rock which concealed them from the rest of the valley. But Biggles did not stop. Running, and jumping over obstacles, he raced on down the gorge that led to the machines, and not until they were in sight of them did he ease the pace. He slowed down for the rescued prisoner to catch up with him, for, due no doubt to the privations he had endured, Forty was catching his breath in gasps, and it was clear that he was near the end of his endurance.

  `Sorry to rush you like this,' apologized Biggles, 'but after shooting that Hun we can't afford to get caught. Not much farther to go. There are our machines.'

  Forty had no breath to answer. He could only nod.

  A minute later they reached the machines, and it was clear from a glance that Rip had obeyed his orders to the letter. The Bristol's propeller was ticking over, and Rip was standing by the nose of Biggles's machine.

  Àll right, easy all,' called Biggles. 'Everything in order, Rip?'

  `Not a sign of any one,' replied Rip. 'You've got him, then?' he added, grinning with delight as he looked at the new member of their party.

  `We can't talk now; there will be a bunch of Huns here in a few minutes. Let's get away.

  Forty, you travel in the back seat of the Biff . Thirty, you know the way I told you to go home. Go to it. Don't stop whatever happens. We must reckon that those Huns we've just left will get on the telephone and set things buzzing, so we may have to fight. Never mind if Algy and I stop; you keep going for the lines as fast as you can go.

  That's all.'

  The party split up, each member hurrying to his allotted machine. Rip started Biggles's propeller, then Algy's, afterwards climbing up into the back seat of the Bristol in which Forty was already standing. 'Bit of a squeeze, I'm afraid,' he grinned. 'Be awkward if we have to use the gun.'

  `You lie flat on the floor,' Forty told him, 'that's the best way. It will spread the weight, and give me room to work the gun if we run into a rough house.'

  Further conversation was cut short by the roar of the three engines as the machines moved forward.

  Thirty, after a glance to make sure that the others were ready, opened his throttle wide.

  The Bristol surged forward, tail up. Except for taking a longer run than usual to get off it behaved as usual, and he drew a deep breath of relief as he banked slowly round until his nose was pointing to the west. A quick look over his shoulder revealed the two Camels taking up position just above and behind him, so he resumed his course with joy and confidence in his heart.

  Àn hour and we'll be safe,' he thought exultantly.

  Chapter 8

  A Race for Life

  But in this he was not quite correct. He was to learn what many other British pilots had already learned—sometimes to their cost—that a return journey from enemy country could take a good deal longer than the outward trip because of the wind, which in northern France almost invariably blows from west to east, retarding the speed of a plane in direct ratio to its force.

  The machines had been in the air for nearly an hour when Thirty first became aware of this unfortunate factor. He was flying level at ten thousand feet when his astonished eyes fell on a conspicuous landmark, a lake, which he had noticed on the outward journey.

  According to his calculations, based on time, they ought to be nearly home, whereas he had a clear recollection of passing over the lake a good twenty minutes after they had crossed the lines. This meant, in effect, that they had not covered more than two-thirds of the return journey.

  Looking down, he saw what he hoped to see. Smoke. There is nothing unusual in this; one can usually see smoke of some sort from the air. In this case it was being generated by a smouldering bonfire in a corner of a field, and a grunt of disgust broke from his lips.

  From the way the smoke rolled low over the ground he knew that the wind—which, as usual, had risen after

  the sun was up—could not be less than twenty-five miles an hour.

  So far they had not seen a single aircraft of any sort, but now he looked around the sky anxiously, and was not a little relieved to see that it was still clear, except far away to the west, where the top of a long line of cumulus clouds was just showing, like a breaking wave, above the horizon.

  The Bristol roared on towards them, as if anxious to make their acquaintance, the engine voicing its rhythmic bellow which, by reason of its very regularity, Thirty barely noticed.

  He had just sat up straight after picking up his map, which had fallen to the floor, when, with a start, he saw Biggles's Camel surge down beside him. He saw that Biggles was pointing, urging him to a slightly more southerly course. He complied at once, but, naturally, wondered why Biggles had taken this step. The other Camel returned to its original position, so he stared hard down the course he would have followed had not the change been made. For some time he could see nothing unusual, but then he caught his breath sharply as his eyes fell on a number of tiny objects that were moving across the landscape. But for the fact that they were in perfect V formation they might have been insects, so small were they; and they might, literally, have been crawling on the ground, which is the invariable effect created in such circumstances. They were still too far away for Thirty to make out their national markings, or recognize the type, but he knew that they co
uld only be enemy machines so far over the lines.

  Watching them closely, he saw that they were flying on a straight course that would soon take them out of sight, but as he regarded them apprehensively he saw the light flash on the top plane of the leader, and he knew that he had turned. One by one the other machines of the formation followed, a brilliant streak of light flashing for an instant from each one in turn as the rays of the sun caught the polished wing surfaces.

  Continuing to watch, now with marked apprehension, Thirty saw that the formation had altered its course and was now standing directly towards them. The inference was obvious. They had been seen by the lynx-eyed leader of the enemy patrol, who was coming to investigate. A minute later Thirty could see the black crosses on their wing-tips; and, as before, they gave him a queer thrill. He realized now that the ever-vigilant Biggles had spotted the enemy machines the instant they had come within his range of vision, and the change of course he had ordered was an attempt to escape observation.

  Thirty stared ahead fixedly through his centre-section hoping to see the lines, for the question seemed to him to be one of whether the enemy machines would overtake them, and climb up to them, before they reached the security of their own country.

  Five minutes passed slowly. Thirty, glancing at his watch every few seconds, found it difficult to believe that it was only five minutes, that time could move so slowly.

  Looking back at the enemy machines he saw that they were now no more than a thousand feet below, and perhaps a quarter of a mile behind. Still in formation, they were banking very slowly to a course that

  would bring them immediately behind the three British machines.

  Thirty looked over his shoulder to make sure that his brother had seen them; there was no need to ask; Forty was leaning idly against the rear gun mounting, staring down at the enemy scouts with an expression of bored indifference. The sight did a lot to restore Thirty's confidence, and he looked back again at the enemy. He could only see three of them now, for the others were immediately behind him; he recognized them for Albatros scouts, and saw that they were creeping up steadily.