was a two-seater that made off when the pilot saw them coming.
They were within five miles of the landing-ground when Rip struck Thirty on the shoulder.
Thirty looked round. Rip pointed. Following the outstretched hand Thirty saw a number of tiny specks far behind them. There were five or six, he was not sure which, so far away were they and so close together did they fly.
Rip leaned over, and cupping his hands round his mouth, yelled in Thirty's ear, 'They're following us.'
Thirty nodded to show that he understood. He saw Biggles and Algy both look round, and then at each other. Biggles's Camel surged forward until it was just in front of and not more than ten feet away from, the Bristol's port wing-tip, with Biggles making unmistakable signs to Thirty that he was to go on.
Without another glance behind, Thirty put his nose down and dived for the landing-field, which he could now see in the distance. He knew that everything now was a matter of time. If he could get down and pick up his passenger before they were overtaken there was a chance that he might fight his way home, but if the enemy scouts caught him first it would be hopeless to attempt to land.
Reaching the field he turned into the wind and then side-slipped down steeply, and in spite of the desperate situation a faint smile crept over his face as he saw the guards officer standing out in the field as if he owned it. Wondering subconsciously whether the officer was a brave man or a fool, Thirty flattened out and landed. Possibly it was due to his haste, but, for the first time, he made a bad landing. Or he may have touched a rut, or a molehill. He never knew. But he held his breath as the Bristol bounced like a rubber ball, and he waited for the shock of it to come down again, fully expecting the undercarriage to crumple. Normally, in such circumstances he would have opened up his engine and gone round again, but now there was no time for such a proceeding.
Bump . . . bump . . . bump. The undercarriage creaked as the Bristol finally settled on the ground in a manner that would have disgraced a pupil at a flying training school, but it stood the strain, and Thirty, gasping his relief, pushed up his goggles.
There was no need for him to taxi up to his passenger, for the major was less than a hundred yards away and sprinting towards him, so he seized the opportunity of looking at what was happening in the air.
Less than a mile away were five enemy scouts, noses down and tails high.
The two Camels had turned to meet them, and even as Thirty watched, the enemy formation split up for individual action. From the way they flew he knew that the pilots were old hands, and his heart went cold with anxiety. However, he could do nothing about it; he could not even watch what happened. With the roar of racing engines and the chatter of machine-guns in his ears, he watched Rip help the major into the cockpit. Such was his haste that he fell in head first.
Thirty waited no longer. His man was aboard, and the Bristol swung round for a down-wind take-off. There was no time to taxi to the far side of the field to get into the wind.
Tail up, he was speeding down the wind when an Albatros struck the ground in a sheet of flame immediately in front of him. Instinctively he kicked the rudder-bar, and as quickly gave himself up for lost as the Bristol's wing touched the grass in the frightful swerve that resulted.
Fortunately the herbage was sparse or the plane must have gone over. As it was, the machine righted itself and raced on towards the hedge. But it was still on the ground.
Thirty was well aware of the danger of a down-wind take-off at any time, but now, with a numbing horror inside him, he remembered that the Bristol had three passengers instead of the two for which it was designed. The hedge seemed to float towards him. His hand tightened on the joystick and the Bristol reluctantly unstuck, only to touch the ground again a few yards farther on. Had the wheels encountered the slightest obstruction at that moment the Bristol would have turned several somersaults before spreading the fragments of itself all over the field. Fortunately for its occupants the ground was clear.
Thirty saw the hedge immediately in front of him. He did the only thing left to do. With his lips pressed together in a straight line, slowly but firmly he pulled the joystick back.
Lurching like a drunken man, the Bristol rose. There was a whip-like swish as its wheels ripped through the thin twigs on the top of the hedge, nearly pulling the machine into the ground on the other side. Then the whirling propeller lifted the nose and the machine rose slowly into the air.
Thirty dared not look behind. He dared not look anywhere but straight in front of him, for his nerves were at breaking-point from shock and the machine demanded all his attention. Twice he flinched as Rip's
gun spoke, and once he caught a momentary glimpse of a red-nosed scout in his reflector.
Not until he was at a thousand feet and on a course for home did he risk a brief inspection of the atmosphere. But he could see little—only a small group of zooming and banking machines far behind him. Thirty did not attempt to climb higher. Speed, he knew, was the only chance, so he put his nose down and began the method of travel known to pilots as hedge-hopping, regarding dispassionately the stampeding cattle, or even human beings, over which he passed.
A quarter of an hour later he became aware of four Camels just above him, and he recognized Mahoney's flight. He did not see where they came from. Nor did he care particularly. He was only conscious of a feeling of great satisfaction.
Just before they reached the lines he discovered that the Camels had disappeared as mysteriously as they had arrived. Not until an hour later did he learn that they had turned off to meet an enemy formation that was diving on to the lone Bristol.
Approaching the lines, he had an unpleasant five minutes as an archie on the ground opened up on him. For the first time he actually saw the faces of the gunners as they stared up at him. A balloon cable gave him a severe fright, for he had forgotten that there were such things and he nearly flew into it. Of the hundreds of shots that he knew were fired at him as he roared low across the trenches, only one hit his machine; he saw the hole a minute or two later, through his wing, near the fuselage.
On no previous flight had Thirty felt so completely exhausted as he did when the Bristol finally ran to a
halt near to where the mechanics were waiting for him. They ran by the wing-tips until he was on the tarmac, when he switched off and dropped wearily to the ground.
Pushing up his goggles, he turned a pair of red-rimmed eyes to the major, who had followed Rip to the ground. 'I hope you enjoyed your flip,' he said coldly, and turned his face to the east so that he could watch for the others to return.
A few minutes later he heard the drone of the Camel's Bentley engines. Five came in in a ragged formation. Biggles, Algy, and Mahoney were among them. Mahoney had lost a man.
Biggles came across to where Thirty was waiting. `Where's your passenger?' he asked.
Thirty looked round in surprise. 'Well, I'm dashed!' he said. 'He's gone.'
`Nice polite sort of cove,' grinned Algy. 'Oh, forget him. Let's go and get a bit of lunch. I reckon we've earned it.'
Chapter 13
Disaster
At eight o'clock the following morning Major Raymond arrived at the aerodrome.
Biggles saw his Crossley tender coming up the track that led to the officers' mess, where the members of the rescue flight who were not doing a show that morning were making a leisurely breakfast.
`Here comes Raymond,' Biggles told the others. 'Feeling in a prophetic mood, I'm prepared to wager that he is coming to see us.'
Biggles was correct. Two minutes later Major Raymond came into the dining-room. "
Morning,' he said briefly. 'I saw the C.O. outside; he told me you were in here. Mind if I join you in a cup of coffee? I was on the move early.'
Biggles pulled out a chair as Algy operated the coffeepot.
For a moment or two nobody spoke. The major stirred his coffee thoughtfully.
'Well?' murmured Biggles.
'Well—what?' returned the
major.
Biggles smiled. 'Am I right in assuming that you haven't come all the way from Wing Headquarters just to wish us good morning?'
'You are,' answered the major.
'Bad news?'
'In a way, yes; but nothing to do with you.'
Thirty breathed again. For one horrible moment he had thought that something had happened to Forty.
Ì've got a very sticky job for somebody,' continued the major. 'In fact, it's so sticky that I hardly like to ask anybody to do it, much less order him—not that there is any question of ordering. It's essentially a job for a volunteer.'
`Bad as that, eh?'
`Worse—if anything.'
Ìf we knew what it was we could tell you if it was in our line,' murmured Biggles.
`Quite. That's why I've come here. The dickens of it is, I've got no right to tell you what I shall have to tell you. You know without my telling you that the one thing that really matters in espionage is secrecy. If one of my agents happened to walk in here at this minute he wouldn't recognize me.'
`Must you tell us—this secret?'
Ìt wouldn't be fair to ask you to do the job without telling you the precise facts.'
Biggles shrugged his shoulders slightly. 'You know best, sir.'
The major leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. 'If any one here even mentions one word of what I am going to say he might be responsible for the death of thousands of our troops.'
Biggles looked grave. 'I'd rather not know anything about it,' he muttered in a worried tone.
The major made a gesture of helplessness. 'I must tell you,' he said again, as if he hated the idea. 'Listen. You know the village of Belville-sur-Somme? It's on the other side of the lines now; the Huns took it from us in their big push last autumn.'
Ì know it,' Biggles nodded. 'Our artillery has knocked the village about, but by a curious fluke the church tower hasn't been touched.'
`That is not a fluke.'
`No?'
`No. Knowing that we should lose the village, some alterations were made in that church tower last year. It's a square tower, you remember. One wall of it is hollow. We've a man stationed in it.'
Biggles's eyes opened wide, but he said nothing. `Yes,' continued the major; 'he sits up there all day,
in the centre of the enemy's position—telling us everything. Or rather, he did tell us until yesterday.' Àh! They've got him?'
`No. We laid an underground telegraph. The transmitter at his end has gone wrong; a part has burnt out. He needs a spare.'
Ànd somebody has got to take it to him?' put in Biggles evenly.
`Precisely.'
`Have you lost touch with him?'
Òf course. We lost touch the moment his instrument broke down.'
`Then how did you know it had broken down?' `He had a pigeon—just one, for emergency.' `Pity; he should have had more.'
`No. They would have cooed, and perhaps given him away. A cooing pigeon has been the death signal for more than one agent.'
`The job's urgent?'
Èvery hour's delay is costing us men. Having had the man there, we are blind without him.'
`This sounds like a one-man job,' observed Biggles gravely.
`Yes.'
`How will the one who goes be able to identify the chap at the other end?'
Èasily. He's the village padre—a priest—Father Dupont. The difficulty will be to get to him without being questioned. If you went and were questioned—well, it would be all over, since I believe I am right in saying that you do not speak German fluently?'
Ì do,' declared Thirty. 'I've lived in Germany.'
`By Jove! I didn't know that,' said the major tersely.
Ì'll go,' offered Thirty. 'I stand the best chance of anybody of getting through.'
Biggles looked at him with serious, thoughtful eyes. `No one can deny that,' he said slowly. 'You know what will happen if you're—'
Ìf I'm caught? Of course. It can't be helped. Some one will have to take the risk.'
`That's the only way of looking at it,' murmured the major.
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small oblong package. 'Here's the thing,' he said, passing it to Thirty. 'There is no need for me to say any more. We shall soon know if our man gets it. Whatever happens, don't give him away. I'll leave the rest to you.
Good luck.' The major rose and held out his hand to Thirty. Then, without another word, he went.
Ìt looks to me as if we started more than we bargained for when we started this rescue business,' observed Biggles, sadly. 'How are you proposing to handle this, Thirty?'
Ì think the safest plan would be to go over at night; there would be less chance of being seen in the dark. I'll land at aerodrome C, which I reckon is only a few. miles behind Belville, taking an old macintosh with me to cover up my uniform. If Rip comes with me he can fly the machine home as soon as he has put me on the ground—unless he cares to wait. Maybe it would be better to go, and come back the next morning early; or if I'm not back, the next day.'
Ì'll wait,' declared Rip firmly.
Biggles shook his head. 'I don't like it,' he muttered.
Ì can't say that I'm enthusiastic about it myself, but we couldn't very well refuse to go,' admitted Thirty. `When are you going?' asked Algy.
`Might as well go to-night,' answered Thirty. 'You heard what Major Raymond said about urgency.'
'And you'll wait for him, Rip?' questioned Biggles. `Yes.'
Ìt's a fair step from aerodrome C to Belville,' Biggles pointed out. 'I think you'd better compromise. Give him, say, four hours. If he isn't back by then, come home, and then we'll all go over every morning until we do get him. All sorts of contingencies might arise. He may be delayed. Somebody might come along while you are waiting. But there is this about it—we all know where he is and what he is doing; provided he doesn't run into trouble, it would only be a question of time before we picked him up. It's difficult to work to a fixed time. What do you think, Thirty?'
Ì agree. Let Rip wait for a time by all means, so long as everything is quiet. But it might suit me better if I knew that if I was hung up he'd go home.'
`Then there seems to be nothing else to discuss,' said Biggles, getting up from the table. '
Let's go and have
a look over the Bristol. You might take a packet of food to hide in the hedge. By the way, if any one else turns up—prisoners, I mean—they'll have to wait until this show is finished. We can't do half a dozen things at once.'
After that they went up to the sheds and spent the remainder of the day doing such jobs as were likely to be useful, occasionally discussing minor details of the mission. Twilight fell while they were at dinner, and as soon as the meal was over Thirty and Rip collected their kit and, accompanied by Biggles and Algy, who came to see them off, made their way slowly to the sheds. All the pilots of 266 squadron were home, and their machines put away for the night. Only the dark-painted Bristol stood on the tarmac. They hung about until it got properly dark, when Thirty made preparations for departure.
Ì ought to be doing this job, you know,' Biggles told him, with a worried frown.
`You'd probably do the flying part better than I shall, but what you'd gain by that you'd lose by not being able to speak German sufficiently well to pass for a native,' returned Thirty. 'You ready, Rip?'
The small parcel of food was put into the rear cockpit, and Thirty and Rip climbed into their seats.
`You know the colour of the night?' asked Biggles.
`Yes.'
`Cheerio, then. Remember, if anything goes wrong, don't leave aerodrome C. That's where we will look for you.'
Rip nodded, waved his hand, and switched on, for Algy was waiting by the propeller.
The engine started. Algy pulled the chocks away and the machine moved forward into the darkness. A moment later it was in the air, heading for its objective.
Thirty climbed fairly high before crossing the lines, for he
was particularly anxious to avoid the searchlights. It seemed to him that there were more than usual, and they flashed in a peculiar way. Then he saw the reason. Lightning was flashing across the sky in several places, and he experienced a pang of uneasiness; a thunderstorm was something he had not taken into his calculations, but it did not occur to him to turn back. Which is not to say that he would not have done so had he known that less than twenty miles away huts were being uprooted and hangars blown flat by the violence of the tempest. He eased the stick forward a little and raced on, aware that his compass was behaving oddly, although he was not altogether surprised, for he was well aware of the influence a magnetic storm can have on delicate instruments.
Thirty reckoned that he was still about ten miles from aerodrome C when the first spot of rain lashed his face. The sky had turned black, with no sign of a star; there were no more searchlights, but at frequent intervals the heavens were lacerated by vivid flashes of lightning, which showed up the earth clearly, enabling him more than once to identify a landmark. He was worried, but still it did not occur to him to return with his mission unfulfilled. A prolonged flash showed him the landing-field, so he throttled back and glided down towards it, more than a little thankful that the storm had not yet broken; indeed, he had begun to hope that it would pass over.
He was now very low, straining his eyes down into the gloom below, holding the machine off as long as he
dared, hoping for another flash of lightning to show him the way in. Instead, the storm broke. In an instant he was fighting his way through blinding rain.
He ought to have turned back. He knew that he was taking a terrible risk, but an obstinate streak in him made him persist in his landing. He could just see the ground and the black shadows which he knew were trees. Passing between two trees, he flattened out, confident that he was down safely. Just as the wheels touched, the lightning flashed and the world was flooded with a brilliant blue light.
17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight Page 10