Thirty did not trouble to look round. There was no need. Forty's signal had told him all there was to know. The Albatros Staffel was on their trail. He did not know the maximum speed of the Albatros, but he knew that it was a good deal higher than his own—which meant that the machines behind them would overhaul his own long before he reached the lines. 'Well, we can't do more than fight it out,' he thought, calmly.
It surprised him to discover how calmly he could regard the situation. His eyes were hot from strain, but his nerves were steady. He felt neither excitement nor fear; merely a smouldering hatred of his pursuers, of the enemy in general. They would kill him if they could. Very well, he would kill as many of them as possible before they succeeded in their design. That he and Forty would be killed he felt certain. It was too much to hope that one British machine, a rather slow, unwieldy two-seater at that, could fight a number of fast enemy fighters and survive. He was so sure of what the end would be that it did not worry him, so he was able to regard the immediate future quite dispassionately.
A line of enemy troops on the march on a main road below brought a faint smile to his lips. He was not more than fifty feet above them, so he could see their white faces clearly as they looked up. It was evident that at first they took it for granted that a machine so far over the lines must be one of their own, but when Forty's gun spat a hail of bullets into their close ranks their disillusionment was ludicrous to behold. A wild panic ensued, every man diving for such cover as offered. One or two, more courageous than the rest, flung up their rifles and fired at the intruder, but their aim was hurried, and if any of the bullets came near him Thirty was unaware of it. They tore on, leaving a scene of carnage and confusion on the white road to mark their passage.
Forty swivelled his gun round until it was pointing backwards and upwards over their top wing. He did
not fire. Several times he took aim, swinging the muzzle from side to side as though trying to align it on a moving target. Thirty was only too well aware of the reason for this manoeuvre. The Albatroses were drawing in, creeping steadily into range; but they were old hands; they knew all about the deadly mobile gun in the front seat, and took care not to expose themselves. But this state of affairs did not last long.
Forty began firing short, sharp bursts, first on one side and then on the other. Something crashed into the engine with a violent whang.
Thirty touched his rudder-bar lightly, first with his left foot and then with the right. The movement caused the machine to swing slightly from side to side. He continued doing it, his intention being, of course, to spoil the enemy pilots' aim. It meant losing a little speed, but it was better than offering a 'sitting' target. He was still unable to see the enemy, but he knew perfectly well where they were. They were still behind him, and while they remained there both he and Forty were protected to a considerable extent by the engine. His greatest fear was that a bullet would hit the propeller, which would at once put the machine out of action. Thus crippled, they would have no option but to land and submit tamely to a fate he preferred not to contemplate.
A hail of bullets striking the machine somewhere in the rear made him kick the rudder-bar violently. He shoved the joystick forward viciously until his wheels were almost on the ground, a position of advantage of which he had heard other pilots speak. A machine diving on him from behind would have to be pulled
out much sooner than if he was at a greater altitude, the reason being the risk of diving into the ground.
A belt of fir-trees forced him to zoom up again. He knew the trees. They formed one of his landmarks, and his heart sank a little as he realized that they were only half-way home. Another burst of bullets struck the machine like a gigantic cat-o'-nine-tails. He flinched instinctively, and then bit his lip as Forty went down in a heap. But he was up again in an instant, shaking his head to Thirty to show him that he was unhurt. He flung an empty ammunition-drum overboard. There was a jagged hole through the middle of it, and Thirty realized that a bullet had hit it as Forty was taking it off the gun; hence the fall.
A movement on the right caught Thirty's eyes, and he turned sharply in time to see the shark-like body of an Albatros zoom high in front of him. It roared up in a steep stalling turn, hung for a moment on top of the turn, and then came down like a meteor, orange flame spurting from the twin guns on the engine-cowling.
Forty's gun swung up to meet it, a new drum in place. The drum starting jerking round as the bullets left the muzzle.
Thirty watched the Albatros. He could see the tracer bullets from Forty's gun hitting it: they seemed to be going right through the fuselage: but still it came on, guns chattering like castanets. He clenched his teeth. One or the other could not fail to be hit if the enemy pilot did not soon pull out. A dreadful horror swept through him that the German intended ramming him, and he almost flung himself forward on the joystick.
The Albatros did not pull out. Thirty ducked and flung up his left arm to protect his face as the wheels
skimmed over his head. It never did pull out. Thirty heard the crash above the roar of his engine as it sped, nose first, into the ground. He saw the flash of light, almost like lightning, as the petrol tank exploded. In a few seconds it was far behind.
Thirty's eyes came to rest on Forty's face. It fascinated him. It was white. His eyes blazed. His lips could hardly be seen, so close were they pressed together. They were just a straight line. 'So this is war,' he thought. Could it be possible that the man in front of him was the careless laughing boy he knew at school?
But more bullets were hitting the machine. They were coming from both sides now, as well as from above, in spite of his manoeuvring to prevent it. He realized that the machine was being shot to pieces about him; that the end must come at any moment. It was amazing that the machine had hung together as long as it had. For the first time he looked back. The air was full of machines. It seemed that several more had joined his original pursuers. And as he looked at them an emotion he had never before experienced surged through him. He did not stop to wonder what it was. He was conscious only of a sudden overwhelming fury, a blind hatred of the crowd of painted devils who were making a target of him. Well, he would show them.
A wild yell left his lips as he dragged the joystick back into his right thigh, at the same time kicking on full rudder. The machine soared up and round like a rocket, straight into the thickest of his enemies. What cared he if he collided with them? And collide with them he nearly did. Wings and wheels flashed past his face as, in a vertical bank, he plunged through startled
German machines. That there was no collision was due to them, not to Thirty. He let out another yell as Forty tore an empty drum from the gun and hurled it at a machine as it roared past him not more than twenty feet away. Madness seemed to have come upon him. Again he swung the Fee round, and deliberately chased the now turning Albatroses.
What he would have done next had he been alone, or had he been flying with a partner as hot-headed as himself, would be pure conjecture. Probably he would have completely lost his head, and in a berserk rage succeeded in ramming one of the enemy machines—
which would have been the end of the affair. As it was, Forty had something to say about this crazy behaviour.
He climbed up on to his seat, not without some risk of falling out of the machine altogether, and struck Thirty a blow on the chest. 'What do you think you are doing, you lunatic? Get home—home—HOME.'
As he was in front of Thirty the slipstream carried the words back to him. In any case, the expression on Forty's face brought him to his senses. 'I'm mad,' he thought. 'I must try to get home.'
But it was easier said than done. Again came the nerve-shattering flack-flack-flack of bullets hitting his machine, so in desperation he took the only possible course if they were to escape annihilation: he threw the Fee into a steep bank.
An Albatros swept across his nose, black smoke pouring back from its engine, and the pilot, left arm over his face, raised himself high to escap
e the fumes. 'That's queer,'
mused Thirty in a detached sort of way, for he had no recollection of Forty shooting at it.
He saw two other black-crossed machines turning away. The bullets had stopped. He sensed a change. Something was happening, but what was it? He craned his neck this way and that in his anxiety, surveying the atmosphere in all directions to try to find out what it was. Then a Camel flashed across his field of vision and he understood. His heart leapt, and he let out a yell of exultation. Camels! He and Forty were no longer alone. He started to turn to see more of the new-comers, but once more Forty's furious hammering restored his common sense.
`Get home, you fool,' shouted Forty.
Realizing the wisdom of his brother's advice, Thirty turned towards the lines, and putting his nose down raced for safety. He saw nothing of the dog-fight that raged at the spot where the Camels had joined issue, but he could well imagine what was going on.
Several times he saw an odd Camel near him, and presently recognized it as Rip's machine. He also saw an Albatros some distance away; it paid not the slightest attention to him, having more pressing matters to engage its attention.
Not until they were nearly to the lines did he become aware of Biggles's Camel, recognizable by its pennants, flying just above him. Another joined it; several more were in the near distance, all heading for the lines. Long, winding communication trenches appeared below, then shell-holes in ever increasing numbers, and he knew that a few more minutes would see them safely home. Nevertheless, a burst of archie just in front of him warned him that he was not yet out of danger, for he was flying very low. Still, he knew that it would be even more risky to lose speed by climbing for height, so in order to spoil the gunners' aim he started
zigzagging, a manoeuvre he kept up until the tangle of barbed wire and debris underneath told him that he was crossing the ghastly area of no-man's-land. Forty emptied what ammunition he had left into the enemy trenches as they raced across the lines to safety.
They were across. Thirty could hardly believe it. It did not seem possible. And then, with the relaxation of nerves that followed the knowledge that they were safe, came the inevitable reaction— a feeling of intense depression and utter weariness. All the strength in his body seemed to run down his legs and then disappear, leaving them weak and trembling. He could have cried—easily. He wanted to go to sleep at once. If only he could sleep! Never before had he wanted to go to sleep as he did now. It seemed the most desirable thing on earth, and only by a great effort of will did he keep himself awake.
He saw the aerodrome just in front of him. It appeared to float towards him, mistily. It did not look real. Nothing seemed real. The whole thing was a dream. Of course it was, he thought drowsily. He was dreaming. Presently he would awake and find himself back at school . . . how very pleasant that would be . . .
`Steady—what are you doing?' yelled Forty.
Thirty started convulsively, realizing with a shock that he had nearly fallen asleep at the joystick. He struck his knees violently with his clenched fists to wake himself up; then, bracing his sagging muscles, he throttled back and started toglide in. The aerodrome seemed to rush up towards him, and he drew the stick back, only to push it forward again as the machine staggered drunkenly on the brink of a stall. A horrible feeling came over him that he was going to crash. The
earth was sinking away under him now, and automatically he eased the stick forward to overtake it. Instantly his wheels struck it with a crash; the machine bounced high, came down with another violent bump, and finally settled down in the worst landing he had ever made in his life. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything. Still, he taxied up to the sheds before he switched off. Not until then did he sink back with a deep sigh that was something more than mere relief. He sat quite still. He did not want to get out. He only wanted to sit where he was and enjoy the silence .. . the peace .. .
Forty struck him a friendly blow on the arm. 'Come on, old boy,' he said, breezily. Then, with anxiety rising in his voice, 'You're not hit, are you?'
`No,' murmured Thirty, with a foolish smile. 'Just tired. I was just . . . sort of . . . getting my breath.' Nevertheless, he allowed Forty to help him down to the ground. He shook himself and made an effort to pull himself together when he saw Biggles hurrying towards them.
`Good show, kid,' he said, cheerfully, slapping Thirty on the back. 'I should say that is the best bit of individual work that has been done since this perishing war started, and I've seen some pretty stout efforts, too.' Then, with a change of voice, he asked, 'What are you going to do about Forsyth?'
Thirty blinked. The words seemed to act on him like an electric shock. 'Forsyth! My gosh! Yes . . . I'd forgotten all about him,' he gasped. 'Where is he?'
Ìn the Flight Office, I expect. At least, I hope so. I left him there with Flight-Sergeant Smyth.'
`But why did you leave him? You said . . . '
`1 know,' muttered Biggles. 'But to tell you the truth, I got jolly worried after you had gone. It seemed to me that you were bound to run into trouble. I couldn't just sit still and do nothing, so I collected everybody I could find and came across to see what was going on.'
`Good thing you did,' declared Forty. 'We should never have got home otherwise, that's certain. We were properly up against it. Thirty went completely off his head when the Huns caught us—barging about the sky as if he was flying a tank instead of an aeroplane.
Who's this fellow Forsyth you're talking about? What's he done?'
`You ought to know,' answered Biggles quietly. 'I'll tell you all about it presently—it's a long story. Come and meet him. I expect he'll still be in the office with Smyth.'
They all made their way slowly towards the building. Just outside the hangar they waited for Algy to join them, after which they all went on again.
As they approached the Flight Office Biggles went on in front. With his hand on the door-knob he turned to Thirty. 'What are you going to do about him?' he asked.
`You know what I promised,' replied Thirty in a low voice.
`But you can't do that now.'
`Why not?'
`Think.'
Thirty struggled to understand what Biggles meant. Then the truth burst upon him.
Òf course!' he cried. 'The signal is no more use.' Èxactly. Any one flying that machine of yours over
the lines now would have a pretty thin time. I'll war-rant every machine within fifty miles is looking for it.'
Thirty's face fell. 'What on earth are we going to do about it? I must live up to my promise.'
`We shall have to tell Forsyth what has happened, that's all,' declared Biggles. With that he opened the door.
For what might have been a matter of three seconds he stood still, staring into the room.
The others, realizing that something was wrong, crowded behind him and pushed him into the room. 'What do you think about that?' he said in a hard voice.
There was no need for him to add an explanation to his question. On the floor, just raising himself on his elbow and looking dazed, was Flight-Sergeant Smyth. There was an ugly swelling between his eyes. The window, which opened on to the side of the hangar, was pushed right back. Of the German there was no sign.
`He's gone,' snapped Biggles. 'The skunk has broken his parole.'
`No!' cried Algy. 'Technically he was within his rights. He gave you his parole—you personally—not Smyth.'
`Technicalities my foot!' snarled Biggles. 'Morally he should have waited. Let's see if we can—' He broke off as the deep-throated roar of a Beardmore engine suddenly shattered the quiet of the aerodrome.
Biggles said nothing. With a sweep of his arm he thrust Algy aside and dashed through the hangar to the aerodrome. Reaching it, he pulled up dead and threw up his hands helplessly. 'There he goes,' he said.
`Hi! What do you think you are going to do?' he went on quickly, as Thirty started running forward.
Ì thought perhaps in a Camel I could —'
&nb
sp; `Could what? The only way you could stop him would be to shoot him down, and you can't very well do that. You said you would let him go. Well, he's gone. Let him go. His blood is on his own head—not ours.'
Bang! Bang! Bang! The anti-aircraft gun on the far side of the aerodrome suddenly opened up.
Whoof! Whoof! Whoof! Like a distant echo came the explosion of the bursting shells.
Three puffs of white smoke appeared in the sky.
`What are they shooting at?' cried Biggles in a bewildered voice. Not unnaturally, he was still watching the Fee in which the German had escaped. Already it was half a mile away, making for the lines, but there was no archie smoke near it.
`Look!' ejaculated Algy sharply, and pointed.
Simultaneously the air was filled with noise as three Albatroses, which must have been gliding at a great height overhead with their engines throttled back, plunged down in a steep power dive in the wake of the F.E.
A cry of horror broke from Thirty's lips, but nothing was said.
Breathlessly, the watchers on the tarmac waited for the end. But it was decreed that they should not see it. The F.E. grew dim, and then disappeared from sight in the summer haze that hung over the distant landscape. The three German machines plunged into it too, and a moment later were swallowed up. From far away, so far that they could only just hear it, came the mutter
of a machine-gun. The drone of the engine died away.
Silence fell. High up in the blue a lark began to warble.
`They've got him,' muttered Thirty in a dull voice.
`Not necessarily,' returned Biggles, quietly. 'If he was quick he might have got down.'
Ìf I thought he was killed—'
`Why worry? What he did he did himself. You've nothing to blame yourself for.'
Ì can't help feeling—'
Biggles put his hand on Thirty's shoulder. 'I think you've forgotten something,' he said quietly.
`What?'
`This is war. We are all in it. His turn to-day; ours, maybe, to-morrow. In war there is neither forgiveness nor compassion. We're—'
17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight Page 15