by W E Johns
The sky to the east was now turning to pale lavender, and Thirty looked around anxiously for the Camels, for he knew that he must be nearing Berglaken; already he could see the pine-covered hills ahead, with drifts of pale grey morning mist lying in the valleys. His hand moved to the throttle, and simultaneously a Camel appeared at his starboard wing-tip with a suddenness that made him catch his breath. He stared at it unbelievingly, for a moment before he could have sworn that he was alone in the sky. He had no idea of where it had come from, and a wave of depression ran over him as he realized that it might so easily have been a Boche plane. ‘My goodness! I’ve certainly got a lot to learn yet,’ he thought gloomily. He was not surprised to see a second Camel swim into view on the other side of him; it was rather like a goldfish floating in a bowl. Looking at it closely he was somewhat concerned to see Algy’s mouth opening and shutting as though he were gasping for breath; Algy looked across at him, and raised his left hand in a gesture that was something between a salute and a wave. With a mild shock Thirty understood the facial contortions: Algy was singing. Then, suddenly, his mouth closed, and he pointed. Following the direction Thirty saw that Biggles’s Camel was sinking into the void, and he knew that he had cut his engine. Swiftly he retarded his throttle and, as the roar of the engine died away, pushed the joystick forward. The Bristol’s blunt nose sagged, and the machine began to lose height.
As he glided down Thirty studied the ground; it all looked strange and mysterious, and at first he could recognize nothing; but as he continued to stare he picked up his first landmark—two small lakes connected by a narrow canal that gave the whole thing the appearance of a dumb-bell—he remembered it perfectly, for he had fished in the lakes many times. Once having got his bearings he was able to pick up other features he knew—a narrow road which wound through the wooded hills, ruins of a once noble schloss*3, and a brook. He knew, therefore, just where to look for the proposed landing-place, and smiled his relief to see that it was still there; he did not, of course, expect to find that it had gone, but it gave him a queer thrill to see that it was unchanged, that it was exactly as he had visualized it. The hut, however, he could not see, for the valley in which it stood was still enveloped with ground-mist.
Carefully, flying no faster than was necessary in order to reduce noise to a minimum, Thirty nosed down towards the landing-ground. The needle of his altimeter crept back, and the panorama began to assume a more normal appearance. It all looked very peaceful. As far as he could see there was not a single vehicle on the one road that threaded its way across it; this did not surprise him, for, apart from the very early hour, the district was a lonely one, because the hills made it unsuitable for agricultural purposes.
Slowly the Bristol sank towards the green turf, Thirty tense in his seat, knowing how much depended on a good landing. A blunder resulting in a broken under-carriage would see him and Rip stranded in the heart of the enemy’s country, with a likelihood of their being shot as spies if they were captured. Apart from which, the discovery of a British machine by one of the charcoal-burners who lived in the hills would be all that was necessary to start a hue and cry, so that far from rescuing Forty, if he were in the hut, they would only make his hiding-place untenable.
But Thirty’s fears were soon set at rest; the Bristol bumped, swayed a little over the uneven ground, and then trundled to a standstill almost in the shadow of the firs that flanked the open space on which he had landed.
With a musical hum of wind in their wires the two Camels came in together. Neither Biggles nor Algy blipped his engine; they both allowed their machine to run to a stop wherever they would, although in neither case were they far away.
Thirty and Rip had already jumped out and, in accordance with the plan, as soon as Biggles’s machine was on the ground they ran across to it and helped him to drag it as far into the trees as was possible, where it was left with its nose pointing in the direction of the open heath, ready for a quick take-off should it become necessary. Algy had joined them, and all four now handled the other two machines in the same way. Not until the three machines stood in line did they pause from their activities.
‘Listen!’ said Biggles quietly.
They all stood still for two or three minutes, but the only sounds were the chirping of birds in the trees, and the babble of an unseen brook somewhere near at hand.
‘Good!’ said Biggles at last, satisfied that all was well. ‘I think we’ve pulled off the first part as well as could be expected; we couldn’t have made less noise. Now for the hut. Have your automatics ready, but remember, no shooting unless we run into armed men. Peasants, or labourers, or whoever live in these woods, are not likely to attack us; if they see us they’ll be more scared than we shall be; but if we are unlucky enough to run into any Boche troops, why, then, shoot out and shoot to kill. They will, for we are just as much at war here as if we were in the trenches. Rip, you’ll stay here. You remember what you are to do?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Stand by and keep guard and be ready for a quick start-up. If I hear shouting, or if you shoot, I am to start up the Bristol and take station by the prop*4, of your machine ready to swing it. If the machines are discovered I am to fire three quick shots.’
‘Right,’ said Biggles. ‘Let’s go. Lead the way, Thirty.’
Chapter 7
Neck or Nothing
Closely followed by Biggles and Algy, Thirty struck off at as fast a pace as was compatible with caution along the base of the hills, but before he had gone very far he turned sharply to the right into a deep valley, through which gurgled a brook, with dense fir-clad banks on either side rising to a height of two or three hundred feet.
‘It’s rough going,’ he warned the others. ‘Our best plan is to follow the brook. There is no path.’
Biggles nodded without speaking, and they went on.
As Thirty had said, the going was rough, and it was clear that the only living creatures that normally moved in the valley were the rabbits whose burrows were everywhere, and the speckled trout that darted for cover under the overhanging banks as the airmen splashed along the boulder-strewn bed of the stream.
‘I used to come here after these fish,’ explained Thirty.
‘You’re after something more important than fish now,’ Biggles told him. ‘Watch your step amongst these rocks; a twisted ankle wouldn’t make things any easier.’
Nothing more was said for perhaps ten minutes, by which time they had climbed a spur of rock that barred further progress along the brook. Lying on the top, Thirty parted the heather that sprouted out of every cranny, and pointed.
‘There’s the hut,’ he said in a voice that had an oddly dramatic ring behind it.
Keeping under cover, the others crept forward and looked over Thirty’s shoulders.
They saw a valley very much like the one through which they had just come, except that it was not quite so rough and the banks were not so steep. The hut, a small, square, dilapidated building, rested a little way up the hill-side, making a pleasing feature in what was a very pretty piece of scenery.
‘Well, if looks are anything to go by, it’s deserted,’ decided Biggles, referring, of course, to the hut.
‘Even if he is there, it is not unlikely he is out at this hour of the morning,’ Thirty pointed out.
‘Then we’ll push along and set all doubt at rest,’ declared Biggles. ‘Once we get to the hut we shall soon find out if any one has been living in it.’
He half rose, preparatory to moving on, but instantly dropped flat again as a sound floated down the valley.
‘What was that?’ jerked out Algy.
‘Sounded like some one shouting—calling a dog,’ whispered Thirty, the colour going from his face.
‘A gamekeeper, perhaps,’ suggested Biggles. ‘Do they have gamekeepers here, Thirty?’
‘Yes; there are wild boars in the forest, and they mark them down for hunting.’
Further specul
ation was cut short by the arrival on the scene of a party of new-comers, and the mystery of the call was explained. On the face of it, it looked as if the attempt at rescue had come to an abrupt end, for the party consisted of six men. In front, with a hound dragging on its lead, was a green-coated game warden, a feather curling jauntily from his cap and a brass hunting horn swinging at his side.
But it was not the mere sight of the gamekeeper that caused the last vestige of colour to drain from Thirty’s face, leaving it a chalky grey; it was those who followed close behind him—five German soldiers with an unter offizier*1—judging by his manner—at their head. They wore the regulation grey uniforms, and, with the exception of the unter offizier, who wore a pickelhaube, the well-known coal-scuttle steel helmets. Down the hill-side they came, scrambling round a shoulder of rock in such a way that their objective was at once obvious. It was the hut.
‘And to think we got so near,’ moaned Thirty in a voice of anguish; ‘and after all this time, to arrive just five minutes too late.’
‘All right, don’t lose your head,’ replied Biggles, evenly. ‘You ought to be dancing for joy.’
‘Dancing for—Why?’
‘Don’t you realize what that little party means? It means the most important thing of all. Your brother is still alive—at least, that’s how it looks to me. The gamekeeper must have spotted him and fetched the troops. Don’t worry. The game is still ours if we keep cool. We know they are there—but they don’t know we are. That’s our trump card. Now let us see if we can play it. This way—quickly.’
Without a glance behind to see if the others were following, Biggles was off down the hill-side to get round the obstacle that lay across their path, jumping nimbly from rock to rock and ducking under the drooping branches of the sombre firs that often stood in his path. His automatic was in his hand.
The others followed. Up the opposite bank they clambered, pulling themselves up by any hand-hold that offered, until they were in a thick belt of trees, running over a sloping bed composed of generations of fir needles on which their feet made no noise. Under cover of the trees they ran on until they were, as near as they could judge, opposite the hut, where Biggles slowed down and crept forward. The others followed at his heels, and were just in time to see the second act of the drama that was being enacted in the sylvan scene.
Another actor had appeared. Moving cautiously from tree to tree, and from rock to rock, he was coming down a water-worn gully towards the hut. He wore no coat. His shirt and breeches were in rags. A tangle of long unkempt hair covered his head, and merged into a scrubby growth of beard on his cheeks and chin. He carried a small furry creature in his hands. His position was such that he could not see the other party, any more than the Germans could see him. Each oblivious to the other’s presence, they were converging on the same spot—the ramshackle hut.
‘It’s him!’ Biggles hissed the two vital words.
‘How do you know?’ breathed Thirty. ‘I don’t recognize him.’
‘Look at his field-boots. Boots like that are only cut in England.’
‘Then I’m going to save him,’ said Thirty in a strangled voice, and leaping forward, opened his mouth to shout.
With a panther-like bound Biggles sprang at him and bore him to the ground, his hand over his mouth. ‘Quiet, you idiot,’ he grated savagely. ‘Do you want to get us all killed. We can’t take on rifles with automatics at this range.’ He released his grip and got up.
Thirty, crestfallen, and looking near to tears, did the same. ‘This is a case of more haste less speed,’ muttered Biggles. ‘We can do nothing but watch—for the moment.’
Resuming their look-out positions they were in time to see the third act of the grim play that was in progress. Forty—assuming it was Forty—suddenly scrambled up the side of the gully so that he stood in a position where the hut was in plain view. Unfortunately for him, in his ascent a loose stone had become dislodged and went crashing down to the bottom of the gully, taking several others with it.
At the noise, the members of the enemy party crouched low in the gorse and heather with which the more open parts of the hill-side were covered. Forty also remained motionless for a few moments, but as nothing happened he continued his journey, now running swiftly across the open area towards the hut, unaware of the many eyes that were watching him. Reaching the hut, he disappeared from view.
Instantly the five German soldiers sprang to their feet, and, spreading out fanwise, converged swiftly on the hut. As they neared it, however, they slowed down, drawing closer to each other. Presently all five of them stood together outside the door.
With parted lips and staring eyes, his heart pounding furiously against his ribs, Thirty watched what he knew would be the next move.
The unter offizier made a signal to his men; their rifles covered door and window. Then, with his own rifle ready for instant action he pushed the door open and disappeared from sight. His voice barked an order, clearly heard by the airmen. The soldiers hurried forward. They, too, disappeared into the hut, and once more the hill-side was deserted.
‘This is our cue,’ snapped Biggles. ‘It’s now or never. Come on.’
Sliding, jumping, and sometimes falling, they tore down the hill-side. Through the brook at the bottom and up the other side towards the hut they sped, panting under the strain of their exertions until they were within a dozen yards of their objective, when Biggles flung up his hand in a signal to halt. Thirty, his automatic clutched in his right hand, brushed the perspiration from his eyes with the other, and waited for the next move. It was not long in coming.
Crouching low, with the stealth of an Indian on the war-path, Biggles made his way to the rear of the hut, where he sank on to his right knee and beckoned the others to join him. From inside the hut came the harsh voice of the unter offizier, answered occasionally by a softer tone.
‘We shall have to wait until they come out,’ breathed Biggles. ‘Jump out when I do and be ready to shoot like lightning. If they drop their rifles and put their hands up, all right, but any move by one of them to raise his rifle, let him have it. It’s the only way. It’s either they or we for it, and they won’t hesitate to shoot us. Ssh! here they come.’
The airmen, placed as they were on the far side of the hut from the door, could not, of course, see the others; they could only guess what was happening by the sound of their voices and movements. They heard the door creak back on its hinges, the shuffle of footsteps and the soft thud of the butts of the Germans’ rifles as they were rested on the ground.
Thirty could see Biggles bracing his muscles for the spring that would reveal their presence, so he was at his heels when, with the lithe agility of a panther, and his pistol held out in front of him, Biggles darted into the open.
‘Hände hoch*2!’ he snapped.
There was a moment or two of utter silence; a curious silence; a hush that was charged with expectancy, like the lull between a flash of lightning and the crash of thunder. The Germans stood still, in the positions in which the shock of surprise had found them, staring wide-eyed at the three automatics that menaced them. Then, like a film that breaks and is continued, movement was restored.
With a low snarl the unter offizier jerked up his rifle, but almost as soon as the movement began Biggles’s pistol roared. The movement ceased, and the look of hate on the unter offizier’s face turned to wonder. Then his legs seemed to fold up under him and he crashed to the ground like a wet overcoat falling from a peg.
Simultaneously with this, another of the Germans moved his rifle, but he desisted as Thirty’s automatic jerked round to him. Another leapt backwards to the side of the hut so swiftly that he was out of sight when Algy’s bullet ripped a splinter from the corner of the building.
‘Get him,’ ejaculated Biggles, and then countermanded the order as the man was heard to be crashing down the hill-side. ‘All right, let him go,’ muttered Biggles, whose automatic had never wavered from the others. He stepped forward, an
d, one after the other, took the rifles out of their hands and threw them in a heap on the ground. ‘Gehen*3!’ he told them, pointing in the direction from which they had come.
The Germans, pale-faced, backed away for a few yards, and then turning, they walked hurriedly away, breaking into a run as soon as they were out of effective range.
Turning, Biggles flashed a quick glance at the bearded man in the tattered clothes who, during all this time, had not moved. He appeared to be even more dazed than the Germans at the swift sequence of events. Biggles spoke briskly. ‘Are you Fortymore?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come on, then. We’ll leave the handshakes until afterwards if you don’t mind. Let’s get out of this. We’ve some way to go, and things will be pretty hot here presently.’
Without waiting for the other to reply he started off at a dog-trot down the valley. The others followed. But before they had taken a dozen steps two things happened at once. The bellow of an aero engine sent the birds wheeling into the air, and somewhere not far away a rifle cracked. The bullet struck a piece of rock just in front of Biggles and richocheted, screaming, into the air.
‘It’s the Hun who bolted,’ yelled Biggles. ‘Run for it.’
Twice more the rifle cracked, the report reverberating from hill to hill, but either the German was a bad shot, or the running, crouching figures were too difficult a target, for the shots, like the first one, struck harmlessly against the hill-side.