by W E Johns
With Rip still close behind, Thirty crossed the coast-line and began closely scrutinizing, the ground for an aerodrome. He also watched the air, hoping to see other machines carrying the red, white, and blue markings*2, for, if he followed one of these, he hoped it would lead him to an aerodrome; but although it was a fine day the atmosphere appeared deserted.
For another twenty minutes he flew on, now following a south-westerly course, which from memory—since he had no map—he felt sure would take him well behind the trenches and parallel with them. Then he glanced behind to make sure that Rip was following. What he saw seemed to stop his heart beating. So astounded was he that for several seconds he could only stare—and stare; then his heart appeared to burst into action again like a racing engine. Stretching for miles behind them was a ragged line of small, black, wind-torn clouds. Even as he watched there came a flash of orange flame perilously close to Rip’s machine, followed an instant later by a bubble of black smoke which coiled and twisted as it grew swiftly larger. He ran his tongue over his lips which had turned dry. ‘Great heavens!’ he muttered in something like a panic, ‘we’re being archied*3. The Germans are shooting at us.’
Before he could force his stunned faculties into action, there was a streak of flame not a dozen feet from his wing-tip, and something struck his machine with a vicious whang that made it quiver like a frightened horse. His reaction was purely instinctive; he flung the joystick over away from the shell-burst, but, forgetting to apply the necessary rudder, he skidded wildly across the sky. Another flash blazed in front of him and he careered through the smoke. The pungent fumes bit into his lungs and made him cough.
With his brain whirling, Thirty looked for Rip, and saw him steering an erratic course about a hundred yards away. ‘We must be on the wrong side of the lines*4,’ he thought feverishly, but for the life of him he could not work out which direction he ought to take. Indeed, for a moment or two he could not think of anything; his power to reason seemed suddenly to have deserted him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, however, when he saw that the archie bursts no longer followed him; they had faded away as swiftly as they had appeared. It did not occur to him that there might be a reason for this, but he was soon to discover his error of judgement. Turning, he joined Rip, who was circling as though he was lost, and, after having attracted his attention, swung his machine round to the south, realizing at last that he must have crossed the coast-line too far north.
At that moment his only sensation was one of thankfulness that he had escaped the horrible archie, but his relief was short-lived, for within a minute he became conscious of a peculiar sound above the noise of his engine. It was a harsh, intermittent rattle, as though part of his engine had worked loose and was vibrating inside the cowling. But when, an instant later, something struck his machine like a whip-lash, he jumped violently and looked hastily around. He was just in time to see an orange-painted, shark-like body whirl past him. Down and down it went, its wings flashing as the sun caught them; then it soared upward again in a beautiful curve until its nose was pointing directly at him. At three points round the gleaming propeller there appeared tiny, jabbing spurts of flame.
Thirty could only watch, like a bird fascinated by a snake. ‘He’s shooting at me,’ he thought—but still he did nothing. He became aware of numerous dark-coloured lines, like thick pencil lines, around him; they all seemed to start from the nose of the other machine. Vaguely he remembered Nigel once telling him something about special bullets called ‘tracers*5’. And it was while he was still wondering at this new phenomenon that something else caught his eyes. A drab-coloured speck, tiny, but growing swiftly larger, was falling out of the sky like a stone directed towards the enemy machine—for he had no delusions as to the nationality of the orange-coloured aircraft. Down—down—down it came, straight towards the German scout until it seemed to Thirty that a collision was inevitable. He recognized it for a Camel like his own. Fascinated, he could only watch. The rest seemed to happen with the deliberation of a slow-motion film. He saw the small brown object that was the German pilot’s head turn suddenly; instantly the orange machine spun on its axis; then it jerked upwards; a tongue of flame burst from the engine and licked hungrily along the side of the fuselage. The nose dropped. A wing sagged, and the machine began to spin, then a sheet of flame enveloped it and it plunged earthward, leaving a great plume of oily black smoke behind it.
Thirty tried to swallow something that seemed to be stuck in his throat. He felt sick. In a daze he looked round for Rip, and was startled to see two Camels, not one, close beside him. The pilot of the leading one pushed up his goggles, grinned broadly, and then raised both hands, thumbs pointing upward. ‘Thumbs up,’ thought Thirty. ‘He must be the fellow who shot down that German!’
With a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach he realized that but for the new-comer it would have been he, not the German pilot, who lay in a heap of smoking wreckage on the ground. ‘How did he do it, I wonder?’ he mused. ‘I shall never be able to fly a machine like that as long as I live.’
He was still occupied with these disturbing thoughts when he saw the Camel’s nose tilt downward. He switched his glance to Rip, and then back at the strange Camel—or rather, the place where it had been, for it was no longer there. Pushing up his goggles he gazed around unbelievingly. Where had it gone? It took him a full minute to find it, far below and still going down. Then he saw the reason. At the corner of a large field, close to a straggling clump of trees, was a line of unmistakable buildings—hangars.
In a moment he was gliding down towards them. Twice he circled the aerodrome to make sure of the direction of the wind; then he glided low over the boundary hedge and landed, taxying straight on as soon as he was safely down to allow Rip plenty of room to come in.
With mixed thoughts he taxied up to the sheds, where the pilot of the machine which had saved him was standing lighting a cigarette. On the tarmac he switched off, jumped down, and walked slowly towards his saviour. ‘Thanks,’ he said nervously.
‘What was the matter—guns jammed?’ was the casual question that greeted him.
‘Guns?’ Thirty blinked, feeling foolish. It gave him another shock to realize that he had not even thought of shooting back when he had been attacked. What a hope he had of ever becoming a fighting pilot like Nigel! Despondently he confessed the truth. ‘I’m sorry,’ he blurted, ‘but we’ve never been in France before; we have just come straight from England.’
The war pilot laughed, throwing open the collar of his oil-stained tunic. ‘Ah, well, you’ll learn,’ he said. ‘We’re all hopeless at first, but I must say you were lucky to get here. I was just making my last turn before coming home when I spotted that marigold-tinted skunk plastering you. Well, he’ll do no more plastering. Where were you bound for, anyway?’
‘What squadron is this?’ returned Thirty evasively.
‘Two-six-six.’
‘Why, that’s the squadron we were making for,’ declared Thirty, not untruthfully, since any squadron would have suited him.
‘Good! We can do with some new fellows. The Boche*6 are keeping things lively, and I have some gaps in my own flight. My name’s Bigglesworth—Biggles for short. I may need you to confirm my combat report, but first of all you’d better go and sign on. There’s the orderly room*7 over there. Cheerio, see you later.’
Thirty turned to Rip. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get it over. Our luck’s been grand so far; it won’t let us down now.’
Feeling more confident than he had been since their wild escapade started, Thirty walked briskly towards the hutment which ‘Biggles’ had said was the orderly room. He knocked on the door and entered, with Rip close behind him. A little, sandy-haired man, with a terrible scar on the side of his jaw, was sitting at a paper-littered desk. He looked up as they entered. ‘What cheer?’ he said lightly.
‘Lieutenants Fortymore and Ripley reporting for duty, sir,’ said Thirty smartly.
‘Fortymore
?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You needn’t sir me—I’m only the Recording Officer*8; have you got a brother out here?’
‘I had—he’s missing.’
The Recording Officer rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Bad luck,’ he said quietly. ‘Glad to meet you, Fortymore. Your brother was a stout fellow. If you shape anything like him we shall be glad to have you. Got your movement orders?’
‘No. At least, we weren’t given any papers to bring here,’ answered Thirty truthfully.
‘Never mind; I expect they’ve gone adrift somewhere. How did you get here?’
‘We flew over.’
‘The dickens you did. I heard a rumour that they were going to send new fellows over that way—much more sensible than boat and train. Just a minute, the C.O. will probably want a word with you.’ The Recording Officer disappeared into an inner room, but was back in a moment. ‘Come in and meet Major Mullen, the C.O.’ he said.
Thirty and Rip followed the Recording Officer into the C.O.’s office. To Thirty’s surprise, a curly haired young man who could not have been a day more than twenty-five rose to meet them, a smile of welcome on his rather careworn face. ‘Hello, chaps; welcome to two-six-six,’ he said cheerfully, holding out his hand. ‘I’ve been screaming for some new fellows for a fortnight. Know anything about flying?’
‘Not very much, I’m afraid, sir.’
The C.O. laughed outright. ‘That’s frank, anyway,’ he replied. ‘Too many fellows come out here overconfident, and that’s a mistake they seldom live long enough to discover. There is only one place where you can learn war-flying, and that’s in France. Forget all you’ve been taught at home and start afresh. I believe in giving fellows a fair chance, so you won’t go near the lines until I’ve passed you out. Put in all the flying time and target practice you can for the next ten days, then I’ll see how you shape. You’d better go to—let me see.’ The major turned and studied a chart that hung on the wall behind his desk. Thirty saw that it was a list of names, many of which, however, had been scored out. ‘You’d like to keep together, you two, I suppose?’ inquired the C.O.
‘If it can be arranged, sir.’
‘Nothing easier. You can both go to B flight. Captain Bigglesworth will be your skipper. He’ll take care of you, for he’s as stout a pilot as there is in France; do what he tells you and don’t ever let him down. If you do,’—the C.O.’s eyes glinted ominously—‘I’ll shoot you myself. I must get on now. Go and find Bigglesworth. I think I saw him come in a minute or two ago. Make yourselves at home; you’ll find we’re a happy family here. Goodbye for the present.’
‘By gosh! That’s a bit of luck,’ said Thirty excitedly when they were outside again. ‘Bigglesworth was the chap who saved us just now. I liked him from the moment I set eyes on him. Let’s go and find him.’
‘There he goes now, walking towards the sheds,’ exclaimed Rip. ‘Let’s catch him up.’
Breathless, they overtook the flight-commander just as he reached the hangars. He heard them coming and turned to wait for them. ‘What’s the hurry—going home again?’ he inquired brightly.
‘We’ve been posted to your flight, sir,’ replied Thirty enthusiastically.
The flight-commander regarded them thoughtfully for a moment without speaking. ‘Don’t call me sir,’ he said at last. ‘Ceremony doesn’t cut any ice out here—and you’ll soon understand why. How long has the C.O. given you to learn to fly and shoot straight?’
‘Ten days.’
‘Fine! Then let’s sit down and have a chat about things in general. By the way, what are your names?’
‘I’m Fortymore and this is Ripley. Thirty and Rip for short.’
‘Why Thirty?’
‘Because my brother was Forty.’
‘Not Forty of eighty-four squadron?’
‘That’s right. He’s—missing.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Bad show. I’ve met him once or twice, and he struck me as being an exceptionally good scout. Ah well, that’s the luck of the game. Pull some chocks over and let’s sit down; there’s no sense in standing when you can sit.’
Squatting on the low wooden chocks in the warm sunshine by the hangar wall, the flight-commander lit a cigarette and regarded the glowing end pensively.
Thirty looked at him curiously, finding it difficult to believe that his flight-commander had killed several men in mortal combat, for he was not much older than himself. Slight in build, his features were as delicate as those of a girl, as were his hands, which fidgeted continually with the throat fastening of his tunic. His deep-set hazel eyes were never still, yet held a quality of humour that seemed out of place in a pale face upon which the strain of war, and the sight of sudden death, had already graven little lines.
He flicked the ash off his cigarette with a little nervous movement, and then looked thoughtfully at the two boys.
‘Now I’m not going to give you a lecture,’ he began, in a soft, well-modulated voice. ‘I’m going to tell you a few things for your own good. Nobody told me; I had to find ’em out for myself, which means that I must have been very, very, lucky. In the ordinary way you might last a week; with luck you might even last a fortnight; if you pay attention to what I’m going to tell you, and survive the initial difficulties, there is just a chance that you might last until the end of the war. The more you know, the better chance you have of knocking down a Hun or two before you get knocked down yourself. That’s what you’re here for. First of all, until you know your way around, don’t cross the lines under ten thousand feet, and even then stay within striking distance of home until you are able to take on anybody with a fair chance of getting away with it. If you are flying in formation don’t leave it on any account—never mind what you see. It may be a Hun underneath—well, leave him alone; as like as not it will be a decoy to get you down so that you will be easy meat for the fellows who will be waiting upstairs. If you see anything suspicious, or something you don’t understand, make for home as if the devil himself was after you. Always keep your eyes skinned. The air is stiff with Huns all hoping to get the Iron Cross, and it’s new-comers to the game who give them their chance. Never stop looking for one instant—particularly in the direction of the sun; at first you’ll see nothing, but in a week or two there won’t be a machine in the sky that you won’t spot. It’s a knack that comes with practice. Don’t worry about archie; its bark is worse than its bite and it seldom hits anybody. Keep away from balloons*9, and watch ahead for balloon cables if you have to come home low down. More than one fellow has hit one—and aeroplanes don’t like it. Remember, it’s no use shooting at a Hun outside three hundred feet; it’s a waste of ammunition—apart from which it tells the Hun, if he is an old hand, that you’re green. Keep away from clouds; nasty people lurk in them waiting for careless people to come along. If you are meeting a Hun head-on, don’t turn; it isn’t done; make him turn; that’s how we keep their tails down. Finally, if you are attacked by a Hun and things look grim, don’t try to get away. Go for him as though you’d made up your mind to ram him; it’s your only chance; it will give him the idea that you mean business, even if you don’t, and the odds are he’ll clear off and leave you alone. Put in every minute you can at target practice. It’s no use being able to fly if you can’t shoot straight. It’s better to be a rotten pilot and a good shot than the other way about. If there’s anything you don’t understand, about your machine or anything else, don’t be afraid to ask me. That sounds rather a lot to remember, but it isn’t much, really; in a week or two you’ll be doing all these things instinctively, without having to think. Presently I’ll take you up and show you the lines, and the best landmarks. Meanwhile, I’ve got to go and have a word with the flight-sergeant about my kite*10; she’s flying a bit right wing low. Go and get yourselves fixed up with quarters.’
A horrible thought struck Thirty. ‘Gosh! We haven’t any kit,’ he muttered.
‘What do you mean—you haven’t any
kit?’
‘Well, you see, we flew over, so we couldn’t bring any with us.’
‘It will come up on a tender, I expect.’
‘Possibly,’ answered Thirty non-committally, catching Rip’s eye. ‘Meanwhile we have nothing to go on with.’
‘No matter. You can get some small kit from Roddy, the mess secretary, and I can probably dig out an old suit or two of pyjamas. They may be a bit oily because on summer dawn patrols I sometimes fly in them—but that needn’t worry you.’ The flight-commander stood up. ‘See you later,’ he said, and disappeared inside the hangar.
Neither of the boys spoke for a little while. Then Rip regarded Thirty with a half-alarmed, half-amused expression on his face. ‘Well, we’ve done it,’ he observed in a tense whisper. ‘We are actually in France, in a fighting squadron. This time yesterday we were at school. Jove! This is the greatest thrill of my life.’
‘In a week or so, if our luck holds, I may get a chance to fly to Berglaken,’ replied Thirty, in a voice that shook a little. ‘That will be the greatest adventure of my life.’
Chapter 4
Into the Blue
For ten days, under the watchful tuition of their flight-commander, Thirty and Rip practised assiduously the tactics of war-flying, upon which—so they were assured—their lives would depend immediately they crossed the lines into enemy country. This consisted chiefly of gunnery, both with camera-guns*1 and shooting with live ammunition at a target set in a field not far from the aerodrome. The target in the first instance consisted of two old aeroplane wings lying flat on the grass, but when they reached the stage when they could hit it fairly frequently, Captain Bigglesworth—or Biggles as he was known to every one in the squadron—gave them a much more difficult mark to hit; nothing more than an old petrol can. This they were taught to shoot at from various angles, not the least difficult being a direct ‘stall’ immediately above it, which was one of Biggles’s own specialities in the matter of attack.