by W E Johns
‘Yes, I shall have to,’ confessed Thirty miserably, and thereupon described the events from the time the Head had broken the sad news about his brother up to the time he and Rip arrived at the squadron.
Biggles’s eyes grew round with wonder as he listened. ‘Well, I never heard anything quite like that before,’ he observed, as Thirty concluded his story. ‘You two fellows certainly have got a cheek. But let me get this clear. Am I to understand that your real purpose in rushing out here is in the hope that you might, by some crazy scheme, rescue your brother—assuming that he is still alive?’
‘That was the idea,’ admitted Thirty firmly.
Biggles looked at Algy helplessly for a moment or two; then the expression gradually gave way to one of thoughtfulness. ‘On the face of it, this seems to be the daftest, most hair-brained show I have ever heard suggested, and I’ve heard some fool plans expounded since I came out here. And yet . . . I don’t know. Sometimes these crazy schemes come off. Tell me more about this idea of your brother’s for rescuing prisoners.’
Thirty complied, going into the matter with some detail.
Biggles nodded when he had finished. ‘I seem to have heard something about this,’ he said quietly. ‘Somebody may have spoken about it in the mess.’
‘The most important thing is, what are you going to do about us?’ murmured Thirty nervously.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘What do you suppose I’m going to do? What can I do? If I did my duty I should call the guard and put you both under arrest; and you had better understand that if I fail to do that I become an accessory after the fact—as they say in police courts—liable to pretty severe punishment myself.’
‘Well—are you going to do that?’
Biggles smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There is a war on, and to my way of thinking that excuses a lot of indiscretions. Frankly, the part that concerns me most is this: if either of you two get killed I shall feel responsible. Really, you know, you are not old enough to be out here.’
‘Fellows no older than us have come out. Captain Rhys-Davids was Captain of Eton*1 when he—’
‘Yes, that’s all very well,’ demurred Biggles. ‘There’s no getting away from it, it’s all a pretty kettle of fish. I’m dashed if I know what to do, and that’s a fact. And this business about your brother. You are in my flight; do you suppose I can just sit back and do nothing, knowing that you are only waiting for an opportunity to tear off to somewhere in the middle of Germany with two of my machines? After what happened just now I don’t doubt your courage, but, frankly, I doubt your ability to get away with such a show. If you two went off I think it is extremely unlikely that we should ever see you again.’
‘You needn’t know anything about it,’ suggested Thirty hopefully.
‘But I do know.’ Biggles turned to Algy. ‘I can’t help feeling that there may be something in this rescue idea,’ he said seriously. ‘I am not necessarily thinking about Thirty’s brother; if the thing were properly organized there seems to be no reason why we shouldn’t get quite a lot of fellows back. I’ve met several escaped prisoners, and they all say the same thing; it isn’t anything like so difficult to get out of the actual prison camp as it is to get across the frontier.’
‘That’s right,’ put in Thirty eagerly.
Biggles stroked his chin thoughtfully, staring at the wooden floor. Algy caught Thirty’s eye and winked.
Biggles looked up. ‘How far away from here is this place where you think your brother might be?’
‘Just over a hundred miles.’
‘That’s the deuce of a long way. Few people, even old hands, care to go more than ten or twelve miles into enemy country. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s easy enough to get there; it’s the getting back that takes some doing. I doubt if anybody has ever been a hundred miles over.’
‘It’s that very fact that makes it possible,’ declared Thirty. ‘The enemy will hardly expect to find us there.’
Biggles laughed aloud. ‘Upon my life! You certainly know all the answers,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m bound to admit that there is something in what you say. Let us try to work the thing out. First of all, it wouldn’t be much use your going in a single-seater like a Camel—I mean, you wouldn’t be able to bring your brother back even if you found him. You’d need a two-seater.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Thirty.
‘Where did you reckon you were going to get one from?’
‘Well, I . . . I don’t exactly know. I had an idea I might borrow one from a two-seater squadron.’
‘Great Scott! You’ve already taken two machines that don’t belong to you. If you’re going to punctuate your tour of service in France by going round pinching other fellows’ machines, you’re likely to become highly unpopular. But let us waive that for a moment. Let us assume that we can get a two-seater—a Bristol Fighter*2, for instance; that would be the ideal machine because it can be thrown about like a scout. Suppose a two-seater went over—but wait a minute. I don’t like the idea of a two-seater going over so far alone. It would be a prey for every Hun in the sky. An escort would be bound to brighten the chances of success. But even so . . . of course, if the job was done under cover of darkness it would be easier. If it were done in broad daylight thousands of people would spot the machines, and any attempt to land would instantly be telephoned to the Hun staffels*3, who, if they didn’t catch the machines on the ground, would cut them off on the way home.’
‘Machines—how many?’ queried Algy.
‘Well, I was thinking of a two-seater and escort,’ continued Biggles. ‘They could take off about an hour before dawn so as to arrive at the objective at the first streak of daylight. It need only be light enough to see to land. I, personally, don’t relish the idea of trying to put a Camel down in the dark on a strange landing-ground. In the dark nobody would see the machines on the outward journey; they could climb up to, say, sixteen or eighteen thousand feet, and throttle back the moment it began to get light. If they did that, they might get down without being spotted. The biggest risk seems to be the delay on the ground. It isn’t like having a definite appointment with somebody who we know is there; we should have to go and look for Thirty’s brother.’
The use of the word ‘we’ did not escape Thirty’s notice, and his eyes brightened at what it inferred.
‘You say the only place where we could land is the best part of a mile from the hut?’ Biggles asked him.
‘Yes, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that Forty would be in the hut; he might keep a look-out and run to the landing-ground when he saw us.’
‘It doesn’t follow that your brother is there at all, if it comes to that,’ Biggles reminded him seriously. ‘You should not overlook that point. I’m not trying to throw cold water on your hopes, but I think it would be foolish to buoy yourself up with illusions which may not materialize.’
‘I haven’t overlooked it, but all the same I shall feel happier when I’ve been over to this place, whether I find Forty or not. I’m sure that his letter meant that he wanted me to go if ever he was reported missing, and if I managed to get to France in the R.F.C. Until I’ve been I shan’t feel that I’ve done my—er—’
‘Duty,’ suggested Algy.
‘Not exactly duty. If I go I shall have the consolation of knowing that I have done all I can.’
‘Yes, I quite see how you feel about it,’ said Biggles, softly. ‘I should feel the same way about it myself.’
‘Am I to understand that you are not going to have us arrested, then?’
‘I’m going to forget that I ever saw that newspaper cutting.’
‘And you won’t stop me from trying to get to Berglaken?’
‘I’m not going to let you try to get there alone, if that’s what you mean. My common sense tells me that you are so new to the game that you’d stand a much better chance of success if some one of experience went with you—a couple of fellows like—er—me and Algy.’
Thirty’s eyes g
lowed his thanks. Suddenly they moistened. ‘It’s awfully decent of you—to do—this for me,’ he murmured huskily.
‘Rot!’ interrupted Biggles tersely. ‘If you want to know the truth, my feeling in this matter is that you’ve put up such a good show getting out here as you did that I should be the last one to send you back to school. I’ll help you to find your brother, if he is still alive. On consideration, the scheme is not so hair-brained as it appeared at first sight, due chiefly to the fact, as you have said, that the enemy will hardly expect a British formation so far over their own country. Anyway, the whole thing is a brand new idea, and it is the new idea that gets away with it. I fancy the whole thing will boil down to a matter of perfect timing; I mean, getting there without being seen. Let me think about it for a few hours. There is the matter of the two-seater to be arranged also. I’ll slip over to the pool at Amiens and see if I can fix it. We’ll have another discussion tonight in my room after dinner. You can wash out now. After lunch you’d both better start practising forced landings. I shall have to make out my report now, or the C.O. will wonder what I’m up to.’
Chapter 6
The Great Adventure
Two days after the events narrated in the previous chapter Thirty and Rip picked up their flying kit and made their way towards the hangars.
It was dark, although a nearly full moon cast an eerie light over the sombre landscape, for the hour was three o’clock in the morning. Silence, broken only by the distant mutter of guns, and the sinister pour-vous, pour-vous of a Mercedes motor as a German bomber droned on an unknown mission, hung over the deserted aerodrome. Only these sounds, and an occasional flash of greenish light from the direction of the lines, where anxious sentries were keeping watch by the aid of star-shells*1, told of the unceasing struggle that was being waged only a few miles away.
Neither of the boys spoke. Thirty was almost overcome by the profound importance of the occasion. He had passed the stage of being excited. Every nerve in his body felt like a steel spring, coiled, tense, straining for relief. For him a dream, an almost unbelievable dream, was coming true; he was going to keep a tryst, a sacred tryst, a vague assignation with some one who meant more to him than any one else in the world, yet who might not be alive. It is hardly to be wondered at that, as he walked towards the silent, camouflaged hangars, looking enormous in the half light, he was obsessed by a feeling of unreality. Everything was as dim, as nebulous, as a barely remembered memory—the sheds, the ghostly silhouettes of the machines standing in front of them, the flying kit he carried—even himself. Little wonder that he was in no mood for speech.
The plan of operations, as finally decided upon by Biggles, was this.
Three machines were to take part in the rescue flight, a Bristol Fighter and two Camels. The two scouts were to be flown by Biggles and Algy, since they would be better able than the others to put up a vigorous resistance should the formation be attacked on the return journey; moreover, as they had had more experience they would be better qualified to land them in circumstances that would certainly be difficult. Thirty and Rip were to go in the Bristol, Thirty to act as pilot and Rip as gunner. Biggles had pointed out that although the Bristol was only a two-seater, Thirty and Rip were so slight in build and weight that they did not together weigh much more than one fully-grown man; the machine, carrying no bombs, would therefore be able to carry a third person if necessity arose—as, naturally, they all hoped it would. Two persons in the rear cockpit would, of course, be a tight fit, but Biggles decided that as it was possible it would be better than taking an extra machine.
Thirty had a shrewd suspicion that the real reason for this arrangement was the doubt in Biggles’s mind as to the likelihood of there being a passenger to bring back. And in this he was right. In his heart Biggles could not help but feel that they would come back empty-handed. Had they been certain that Forty was alive the whole thing would have been different; so it would have been had they merely to pick up a waiting passenger from a distant objective. But the chances were that Forty was dead. Without saying anything to Thirty, Biggles had made inquiries at Forty’s squadron, and had learned—to regard the matter in its most optimistic light—that there was no reason to suppose that Forty was still alive.
The three machines were to take off at two-minute intervals and fly a compass course at a pre-arranged speed and altitude to the destination. There was no question of flying in formation; the darkness made that impossible. But by pursuing the same course at the same speed, at different heights so that there would be no possibility of collision, they ought to arrive over the objective at break of dawn within sight of each other. They would then take up formation, and, cutting their engines, glide down and land. After that, everything would depend upon circumstances. ‘Anything might happen,’ as Biggles put it, tersely, and, no doubt, correctly.
When Thirty and Rip reached the tarmac neither Biggles nor Algy had arrived. They were, in fact, a few minutes early. Biggles’s mechanic, Sergeant Smyth, was there, with two or three ack-emmas. Thirty, restless with impatience, passed the time by putting on his flying kit, and a few moments later Biggles and Algy arrived.
‘Everything ready, Sergeant?’ asked Biggles.
‘All ready, sir,’ was the crisp response.
‘Good! Then you may as well start up, Sergeant. We are five minutes in front of schedule; still, so much the better, that will give us plenty of time to warm up.’ Biggles turned to Thirty and Rip. ‘On a show like this,’ he said quietly, ‘everything depends upon carrying out orders to the letter. Any departure from a fixed plan—except, of course, through circumstances beyond control—means increased risks for others. You are absolutely clear about everything? If not, now is the time to speak.’
‘Everything is quite clear,’ declared Thirty. ‘Do you mind my asking if the C.O. knows what we are doing? I saw you talking to him last evening.’
‘I asked permission to go out on a special mission, and he gave it, imagining no doubt, that as a flight-commander I had a sense of responsibility. If he knew just what we proposed doing he would jump up in the air so high that he would hit his head on the ceiling. I’ve taken Mahoney into my confidence; he’ll explain to the C.O. what we tried to do—if we don’t come back. And I may as well say this. The best thing that could happen—apart from your brother—is that we make a success of this show. Afterwards it would be unlikely that headquarters would send you back home. These shows are always the same. Succeed—and you get a decoration, a pretty little cross. Fail—and you might as well get another sort of cross—a wooden one. Frankly, I think your only chance of being allowed to stay out here—getting a commission in the field—is to put up a good show. Well, I think that’s all.’ Biggles looked at his luminous wrist watch. ‘Time’s up; let’s get away,’ he announced, crisply.
Biggles and Algy walked towards their respective machines for they had all been standing near the Bristol. Thirty looked at Rip. Then, moved by some impulse, he held out his hand. ‘“Thick and thin”, old boy,’ he said in a low voice.
‘“Thick and thin”,’ echoed Rip softly, and in another moment they were climbing into their seats.
The engines had already been started and warmed up by the mechanics, so there was no delay. The Bristol was to be the first to take off. A glance behind to make sure that Rip was ready, and Thirty’s left hand closed over the throttle. The roar of the engine shattered the silence. The Bristol surged forward with ever-increasing speed; a few slight bumps and it was in the air, climbing slowly towards the lines.
At two thousand feet, still climbing, Thirty touched his rudder-bar and swung the snub nose round to its allotted course; then he settled himself back for the long flight ahead. But he was not to remain undisturbed for long. A few minutes later the white beam of a searchlight stabbed the sky, flashing its question with the ‘letter of the night’ in the Morse code. The letter was B, one long flash followed by three short ones. Rip, in the back seat, was ready. His signal pistol ro
ared, and the ‘colour of the night’, red changing to blue, soared like a meteor through the starry sky*2.
The questing beam disappeared with the peculiar suddenness of its kind, and the Bristol roared on, unmolested by the waiting archies.
A few moments later, however, another beam flashed, this time from some distance ahead. Another joined it, and another, the three wedges of white light ‘scissoring’ in a criss-cross pattern as they tried to get the night-bird in their grip. They gave Thirty the impression of giant forceps, trying to close on him and crush him to death.
A number of dull crimson sparks some distance away attracted his attention, and he looked at them curiously; but when, shortly afterwards, a vivid orange flash lacerated the indigo sky not far away, and he heard the dull whoof of an explosion, he knew that the sparks were bursting archie shells in a new guise. He perceived quickly that those which burst at a distance were crimson, while those that were nearer were various shades of red from scarlet to orange. Few shots came near him, however; presently the waving searchlight beams were left behind and he bored into the eastern sky with more confidence.
Knowing that they were either over Germany or very near to it, Thirty looked down with fresh curiosity, but he could see little. He appeared to be flying across the top of an immense bowl, the bottom of which was submerged in vague blue-black shadows. A broad river which he knew must be the Rhine coiled like a piece of silver tape across the mysterious depths. Here and there a spark of yellow light, from the window of an isolated dwelling, glowed in the darkness. That was all. With frequent glances at his compass to check his course, he flew on, conscious of a strange sense of power. Below were thousands of human beings, each one an enemy, yet not one could stop him, he thought.
He looked at his watch and saw that he had been in the air for fifty minutes. The sky ahead had begun to pale, and the stars to lose their brilliance, and he knew that dawn was not far off. He stared about him, hoping to see the two Camels, but the light was as yet too dim for him to see any distance and there was no sign of them in his proximity. The Bristol was alone in a lonely world of its own. Twisting his body in the small space available, he looked back at Rip, thinking, perhaps, to restore their mutual confidence by a nod, or a signal. But Rip was looking back over the Bristol’s tail; with his left hand resting on the gun mounting, and his right hand on the edge of the cockpit, he stood motionless; he might have been a dummy, so still did he stand.