17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight

by Captain W E Johns

  `That's all,' Major Mullen told his officers, briefly. `Wash out for the rest of the day.'

  Chapter 10

  A Dangerous Mission

  A week had elapsed since Forty had made his daring and courageous offer to Major Raymond. The period had been one of expectancy, and, to some extent, anxiety. Three days after the conversation in the squadron office, Major Raymond had called another meeting, at which he had reported the decision of the higher command to permit the '

  Rescue Flight' —as it was now called—to be formed; and, in accordance with this decision, he had invited Forty and Biggles to put their heads together and submit to him a plan of the suggested procedure.

  This they had done, Thirty, Rip, Algy, and Mahoney attending the discussion. The scheme which had been evolved was simple. With the assistance of the map, and one or two risky excursions over Germany, three lonely areas where landings could be made had been selected. These were some distance from each other, and had been labelled aerodromes A, B, and C. Landings had actually been made at these places to confirm their suitability, the time chosen—as on the occasion when they had rescued Forty—

  being the break of dawn.

  A provisional rescue flight had been formed consisting of Biggles, Algy, Thirty, and Rip. Mahoney was not included, although to his flight had been allocated the duty of flying out to meet returning machines and escorting them home.

  Forty, flying under an assumed name, was to allow himself to be recaptured. In the prison camp he was to tell officers whom he could trust implicitly the position of the landing-grounds. Thus, should they succeed in getting out of the prison camps they could make for the nearest one with a fair hope of being picked up in a short time, since the rescue flight was to visit each landing-ground once a week. In the interval of waiting, the escapees would be able to live on food which would be cached in the northern ditch, or hedge, of the landing-ground by the rescue flight when they landed. An escaped officer arriving at one of the landing-grounds was to signify his presence by leaving a piece of newspaper somewhere on the outskirts of the field; to a passer-by, it would be no more than a piece of waste paper. This would prevent the rescue flight making an unnecessary landing.

  In view of the success of the previous raid it was decided to use the same machines. Only the Bristol would land, the two Camels acting as look-outs while the Bristol was on the ground, and as an escort when it was in the air.

  The greatest risk of the whole thing, apart from a bad landing, which would, of course, leave Rip and Thirty on the ground on the wrong side of the lines, was that one of the enemy agents who were known to frequent the prison camps might hear of the plan and cause a trap to be set. These particular agents were selected on account of their knowledge of the English

  language; dressed as British officers, and mingling with them even to the extent of sharing their privations, it was almost impossible to detect them. This was the reason why Forty had decided only to impart the secret to officers whom he recognized, or to officers for whom they could vouch. Nevertheless, there was always a chance that one of those in the know might, in an unguarded moment, let slip a few words which would be pounced upon by the agents whose duty it was to listen for such remarks.

  To this arrangement Major Raymond had added only one suggestion, or rather, request.

  He asked Forty to memorize a list of names of officers who, for some reason known only to themselves, the higher command were particularly anxious to recover. The whereabouts of these particular officers had been made known to the British authorities by their agents in Germany. Naturally, Forty would only be able to communicate with those in whose camp he found himself. That was all, except that Forty was at liberty to come out of Germany, getting himself picked up by the rescue flight, if and when he had reason to suppose that he was under suspicion.

  This settled, the rest of the time had been spent by the members of the special flight making themselves word-perfect in the arrangements and overhauling the machines. And now, on a bright summer's morning, the first move was to be made to put the plan into operation. Forty had to smash his machine deliberately, but as naturally as possible, on the wrong side of the lines. Their goodbyes having been said, they sat in their machines and waited for Biggles, who was having a last word from his cockpit with the C.O.

  Although

  on this occasion, since they would not have to make a landing, there was no reason why Thirty and Rip should not fly their Camels, they had chosen to use the Bristol so as to become thoroughly proficient in the handling of it. In front of their own hangar the propellers of Mahoney's machines were also ticking over, for they were to follow the leading formation and support it should it be attacked by a large number of enemy scouts—which might result in a disaster at the very onset of the operations. A few minutes later the eight machines were in the air, the Bristol in front, with its escort of three Camels giving it the appearance of a photographic machine, and Mahoney's flight some two thousand feet above and behind. These positions were maintained as they roared through the usual barrage of archie over the lines into the enemy sky.

  It was twenty minutes before they saw a hostile machine, and then it was only an old Rumpler which veered off when it saw them coming. Biggles made no attempt to follow it; with his mind concentrated on the major issue he had no inclination to bother about stray machines. So he turned north-west and set off on a new course parallel with the trenches.

  Within a few minutes he saw what he had been hoping to find: a small formation of enemy scouts; five Albatroses in loose formation. They were heading east, apparently returning from a patrol. Biggles turned slightly to cut them off, and his nose went down for the necessary speed.

  It was no doubt due to the fact that they were some way from the lines that the leader of the German patrol

  was not keeping a very keen look-out. Or it may have been that, feeling secure, he had relaxed his vigilance. Be that as it may, the Camels were within range before they were seen, and the result, as often happened in such cases, was instant confusion, each Albatros pilot acting as he thought best. Two of them collided. It was not a violent collision; their wing-tips merely brushed, but for one it was sufficient. His wing crumpled and he went down, spinning. The other cut his engine and also started going down, but under control. Of the other three, one dived out of the fight. The other two turned, but finding themselves outnumbered, broke off after firing a few shots and dived for home. It was a brief affair, and just such a one as Biggles had hoped for.

  Thirty paid little attention to the Germans. He was watching Forty, for a dog-fight was his cue to depart on his dangerous mission. He saw Forty look at him, and his hand go up in a signal of farewell. Biting his lip, Thirty waved back. The propeller of Forty's Camel slowed; a wing-tip dropped; the nose followed, and, the next moment the machine was spinning earthward.

  Thirty continued to circle, watching the spinning machine, terrified lest make-believe should become reality, and it failed to come out. But a few hundred feet above the ground it levelled out and went into a shallow dive, rocking as if it were not completely under control. There was no field large enough for it to land in, but Forty, playing his part, acted as though he had no choice but to land. He attempted to side-slip into the largest field. The wheels touched. But there was no distance between it and the boundary, and a moment later it had plunged into the hedge.

  Still watching, Thirty saw Forty climb out; saw his Very pistol flash. A tongue of flame appeared near the tank. The next moment Forty ran clear as flames enveloped the whole machine. Other figures appeared, running towards the fire.

  After that Thirty's attention was attracted by Biggles flying across his nose, beckoning to him to follow; which he did, realizing that by holding up the others so far from the lines he was endangering their lives. So after a last quick look at the blazing machine on the ground—which Forty had, of course, fired to prevent it from falling into the hands of the enemy—and the lonely figure standing in the
field, he turned and followed his flight-commander.

  They reached the lines without incident; which was just as well, for Thirty was preoccupied with his thoughts, and had they been attacked he might have come badly out of the fight. It was only natural that he should have dreaded this moment; he had been steeling himself for it for days, but now the time had come his intense anxiety could not be allayed. He had . visions of Forty being interrogated by hard-faced Prussians; of the sinister wall of evil repute behind the riding-school at Lille, where agents met their fate, alone, in the cold grey of dawn.

  Thrusting these dismal thoughts aside with an effort he discovered that the Camels were below him, gliding down. He saw the aerodrome, and, presently, landed on it himself.

  `Well, that all went off like clockwork,' said Biggles, joining him. Then, noticing Thirty's depressed expression, 'Don't worry; he'll be all right,'

  he added comfortingly. 'We shall see him again shortly.'

  Ì wish I was as sure of that as you seem to be,' answered Thirty, a trifle bitterly. 'And "

  shortly" you say. A fortnight at the very least. Anything can happen in that time.'

  `Well, we couldn't make it any less,' murmured Biggles, with a slight shrug. 'We've got to give Forty time to get the thing going—divulge the plan to the right people; and then they've got to get away. We arranged that it should be a fortnight before we made our first patrol; but, personally, I think we shall be lucky if we find any one waiting. These prison camps are not so easy to get out of as all that.'

  Thirty nodded. 'Well, I suppose we can only wait and see,' he observed philosophically; and then, turning, he made his way slowly to his room.

  Chapter 11

  Rescue Flight to the Rescue

  There is an old saying, and a true one, that all things come to an end. Nevertheless, before the arranged fourteen days had expired Thirty was beginning seriously to doubt it.

  Never had time seemed so long. There was little he could do except make himself thoroughly proficient with the Bristol by flying it in all weathers and making innumerable practice forced landings, for the C.O. had ruled that the rescue flight—as the special flight was now unofficially called—was not to go over the lines on ordinary duties unless enemy activity made it imperative, his reason being the justifiable fear that a casualty would upset the entire scheme, with possibly disastrous results for those officers who, having taken desperate risks to get out of prison, might wait in vain to be picked up.

  But the last day of the period of waiting had come and gone, and two hours before dawn the following morning the members of the rescue flight were assembled on the tarmac having a final word before making their first raid into enemy territory.

  `We proceed straight to aerodrome A,' Biggles was saying. 'If there is no indication that any one is waiting on the ground we come straight back. It would be asking for trouble to go on to aerodrome B in broad daylight. If we see a piece of paper on the field, you go down and land, Thirty. As soon as you are down,

  taxi up to the northern boundary, where Rip will jump down and dump the food parcel in the hedge; afterwards returning at the double to the machine. That's all—except that if no one shows up you take straight off again. Obviously, if any one is there he'll be on the look-out; if he isn't, well, it's his own fault. We daren't risk waiting. Any one any questions to ask?'

  Receiving no answer, Biggles turned to his machine. Àll right, then,' he said. 'Let's get away.'

  In a few minutes the formation, comprising, as before, two Camels and a Bristol Fighter, were climbing towards the lines and their distant objective. Having already flown over the ground, and as visibility was good, they were able to ignore their compasses and fly by landmarks, an almost full moon—which Biggles had taken into consideration when making his plans— making the major physical features of the ground underneath as clear as though it were daylight.

  There was the usual business of signalling to the British searchlight and archie batteries, and dodging those on the German side, and then the three machines roared on through the deserted hostile sky, the two Camels marking the Bristol by the glow of its exhaust .

  As a matter of detail the sky was not altogether

  deserted, as Thirty, to his alarm, presently discovered when a vague shape loomed up suddenly in front of him. It was so entirely unexpected that he stared at it for a full second, wondering what it could be. Then, instinctively, he kicked his rudder-bar, and swerved wildly, just as the approaching object zoomed upward. For a split second he had a glimpse of undercarriage wheels and spreading wings from which protruded a blunt-nosed nacelle; above it rose the bulky, leather-clad figure of the observer, clinging to his gun as he stared at the machine with which his own had so nearly collided.

  Thirty recognized the type for a British F.E. night-bomber, which must have been returning from an unknown mission; it awakened him to the knowledge that other machines were pursuing their sinister purposes through the war-skies of central Europe, and he resolved to profit by experience and keep a sharp lookout in the future.

  He passed over a harp-shaped wood, and it told him that he was about half-way to his objective. Soon afterwards the stars began to fade, and the moon to lose its brilliancy, as the horizon ahead of him began slowly to pale to the soft misty grey that heralds the approach of the true dawn. Although Thirty wore silk gloves under his fur-lined leather gauntlets his hands were cold, so he beat them in turn on his knees to restore some warmth to them; he also took a piece of chocolate from the pigeon-hole in his dashboard, and munched it with satisfaction. Looking round, he discovered that he could see the Camels clearly, for, now that the darkness had turned to a dim twilight, they had closed up and were flying at his wing-tips. Rip was leaning on his Scarf ring .

  Thirty examined the surrounding sky, above and below, but as far as he could discover there was not another machine in sight. He glanced at his watch and noted the time. '

  Good,' he thought. 'Another ten minutes and we shall be there.'

  As before, it was Biggles who gave the signal to lose height; and they had a lot to lose, for they had been flying at fourteen thousand feet. He surged up alongside the Bristol, and having succeeded in catching Thirty's eye, pointed downward. A moment afterwards his Camel began to sink earthward like a plate going to the bottom of a pool, the illusion of direct drop being caused by the apparent absence of forward speed due to the great height at which they were flying.

  Thirty followed, every nerve alert now that the time for action had come. He stared hard at the landing-ground, or rather the place where he knew it to be, for it was still some distance ahead; he could see nothing on the ground clearly, for, as not infrequently happens, a sort of slight haze had developed and spread like a veil across the still twilight landscape.

  On and on they glided, moving almost silently through the still air which, after the rarefied atmosphere above, seemed to have an almost fluid density. Still keeping together, the three machines dropped slowly through the belt of mist, and, suddenly, from

  just over a thousand feet, everything on the ground was plain to see.

  Thirty saw at once that they had come down almost immediately over the landingground, and he examined it expectantly, looking for the paper signal that would mean that some one was there; or, conversely, the absence of it that would make a landing unnecessary.

  From such a low height a piece of white paper could hardly be overlooked. It was there; Thirty saw it at once, a tiny white mark on the grass not far from the hedge on the northern side of the field. But the paper was not the only thing that Thirty saw: a movement a little to one side attracted his attention, and he focused his eyes on it with misgivings, and then dismay.

  It was not at first easy to see what was happening. Certainly something was going on, but the parties to it were broken up into a number of separate units, although they seemed to be working to a common end. The scene, as a whole, was confused, but as he stared at it Thirty slowly realized that a hunt,
or a pursuit, was in progress; it was concentrated on a wood, or rather a long belt of trees, which bounded the eastern and part of the northern sides of the unofficial landing-ground.

  Down the southern extremity of this wood a man in civilian clothes was running with two dogs of the bloodhound type; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the two hounds were running with a man, for judging by the way he hung back on their leads he was clearly having difficulty in restraining them. Behind this trio, some ten or twelve grey-uniformed soldiers were strung out in twos and threes, all running in the same direction; that is to say, they were following

  the hounds. On the northern side of the wood, in the open area facing it, a number of soldiers were posted at intervals, like sentries, their rifles at the ready. From time to time small groups of soldiers burst out of the trees and then disappeared again within them. In the near distance still more soldiers were hurrying towards the scene, including a number of mounted men who were riding at a gallop. Several cars were racing down a road about a mile away.

  From their actions, and their upturned faces, Thirty knew that the appearance of the aircraft had not passed unobserved. He also had reason to suspect that some of the troops were shooting at them, although none of the bullets struck his machine. More than one of the men pointed upwards, slowing down in their stride as if undecided what action to take.

  Thirty observed all this in one long penetrating look, which occupied much less time than it takes to tell. And the knowledge burst upon him that if these soldiers were pursuing somebody, and it was clear that they were, it could hardly be a coincidence that the pursuit was heading towards the landing-ground—had almost reached it, in fact.

  This completely unexpected situation, which was something for which no allowance had been made, threw his brain into a whirl. What ought he to do? What would Biggles expect him to do?

  His decision, not unnaturally, was to open his engine and remove himself from such a dangerous vicinity with all possible speed. He did, in fact, open his throttle, but simultaneously Biggles's machine roared down past him, heading for the wood, with Biggles gesticulating violently towards the landing-ground. Algy was at Biggles's wing-tip. Thirty saw the tracer streaming from their guns; saw some of the men on the ground dive for the cover of the trees. One fell, Close behind him Rip's gun started its harsh rattle. And still he could not make up his mind what to do. What had Biggles meant?