by W E Johns
But the last day of the period of waiting had come and gone, and two hours before dawn the following morning the members of the rescue flight were assembled on the tarmac having a final word before making their first raid into enemy territory.
‘We proceed straight to aerodrome A,’ Biggles was saying. ‘If there is no indication that any one is waiting on the ground we come straight back. It would be asking for trouble to go on to aerodrome B in broad daylight. If we see a piece of paper on the field, you go down and land, Thirty. As soon as you are down, taxi up to the northern boundary, where Rip will jump down and dump the food parcel in the hedge; afterwards returning at the double to the machine. That’s all—except that if no one shows up you take straight off again. Obviously, if any one is there he’ll be on the look-out; if he isn’t, well, it’s his own fault. We daren’t risk waiting. Any one any questions to ask?’
Receiving no answer, Biggles turned to his machine. ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get away.’
In a few minutes the formation, comprising, as before, two Camels and a Bristol Fighter, were climbing towards the lines and their distant objective. Having already flown over the ground, and as visibility was good, they were able to ignore their compasses and fly by landmarks, an almost full moon—which Biggles had taken into consideration when making his plans—making the major physical features of the ground underneath as clear as though it were daylight.
There was the usual business of signalling to the British searchlight and archie batteries, and dodging those on the German side, and then the three machines roared on through the deserted hostile sky, the two Camels marking the Bristol by the glow of its exhaust*1.
As a matter of detail the sky was not altogether deserted, as Thirty, to his alarm, presently discovered when a vague shape loomed up suddenly in front of him. It was so entirely unexpected that he stared at it for a full second, wondering what it could be. Then, instinctively, he kicked his rudder-bar, and swerved wildly, just as the approaching object zoomed upward. For a split second he had a glimpse of undercarriage wheels and spreading wings from which protruded a blunt-nosed nacelle; above it rose the bulky, leather-clad figure of the observer, clinging to his gun as he stared at the machine with which his own had so nearly collided.
Thirty recognized the type for a British F.E.*2 night-bomber, which must have been returning from an unknown mission; it awakened him to the knowledge that other machines were pursuing their sinister purposes through the war-skies of central Europe, and he resolved to profit by experience and keep a sharp look-out in the future.
He passed over a harp-shaped wood, and it told him that he was about half-way to his objective. Soon afterwards the stars began to fade, and the moon to lose its brilliancy, as the horizon ahead of him began slowly to pale to the soft misty grey that heralds the approach of the true dawn. Although Thirty wore silk gloves under his fur-lined leather gauntlets his hands were cold, so he beat them in turn on his knees to restore some warmth to them; he also took a piece of chocolate from the pigeon-hole in his dashboard, and munched it with satisfaction. Looking round, he discovered that he could see the Camels clearly, for, now that the darkness had turned to a dim twilight, they had closed up and were flying at his wing-tips. Rip was leaning on his Scarf ring*3.
Thirty examined the surrounding sky, above and below, but as far as he could discover there was not another machine in sight. He glanced at his watch and noted the time. ‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Another ten minutes and we shall be there.’
As before, it was Biggles who gave the signal to lose height; and they had a lot to lose, for they had been flying at fourteen thousand feet. He surged up alongside the Bristol, and having succeeded in catching Thirty’s eye, pointed downward. A moment afterwards his Camel began to sink earthward like a plate going to the bottom of a pool, the illusion of direct drop being caused by the apparent absence of forward speed due to the great height at which they were flying.
Thirty followed, every nerve alert now that the time for action had come. He stared hard at the landing-ground, or rather the place where he knew it to be, for it was still some distance ahead; he could see nothing on the ground clearly, for, as not infrequently happens, a sort of slight haze had developed and spread like a veil across the still twilight landscape.
On and on they glided, moving almost silently through the still air which, after the rarefied atmosphere above, seemed to have an almost fluid density. Still keeping together, the three machines dropped slowly through the belt of mist, and, suddenly, from just over a thousand feet, everything on the ground was plain to see.
Thirty saw at once that they had come down almost immediately over the landing-ground, and he examined it expectantly, looking for the paper signal that would mean that some one was there; or, conversely, the absence of it that would make a landing unnecessary.
From such a low height a piece of white paper could hardly be overlooked. It was there; Thirty saw it at once, a tiny white mark on the grass not far from the hedge on the northern side of the field. But the paper was not the only thing that Thirty saw: a movement a little to one side attracted his attention, and he focused his eyes on it with misgivings, and then dismay.
It was not at first easy to see what was happening. Certainly something was going on, but the parties to it were broken up into a number of separate units, although they seemed to be working to a common end. The scene, as a whole, was confused, but as he stared at it Thirty slowly realized that a hunt, or a pursuit, was in progress; it was concentrated on a wood, or rather a long belt of trees, which bounded the eastern and part of the northern sides of the unofficial landing-ground.
Down the southern extremity of this wood a man in civilian clothes was running with two dogs of the bloodhound type; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the two hounds were running with a man, for judging by the way he hung back on their leads he was clearly having difficulty in restraining them. Behind this trio, some ten or twelve grey-uniformed soldiers were strung out in twos and threes, all running in the same direction; that is to say, they were following the hounds. On the northern side of the wood, in the open area facing it, a number of soldiers were posted at intervals, like sentries, their rifles at the ready. From time to time small groups of soldiers burst out of the trees and then disappeared again within them. In the near distance still more soldiers were hurrying towards the scene, including a number of mounted men who were riding at a gallop. Several cars were racing down a road about a mile away.
From their actions, and their upturned faces, Thirty knew that the appearance of the aircraft had not passed unobserved. He also had reason to suspect that some of the troops were shooting at them, although none of the bullets struck his machine. More than one of the men pointed upwards, slowing down in their stride as if undecided what action to take.
Thirty observed all this in one long penetrating look, which occupied much less time than it takes to tell. And the knowledge burst upon him that if these soldiers were pursuing somebody, and it was clear that they were, it could hardly be a coincidence that the pursuit was heading towards the landing-ground—had almost reached it, in fact.
This completely unexpected situation, which was something for which no allowance had been made, threw his brain into a whirl. What ought he to do? What would Biggles expect him to do?
His decision, not unnaturally, was to open his engine and remove himself from such a dangerous vicinity with all possible speed. He did, in fact, open his throttle, but simultaneously Biggles’s machine roared down past him, heading for the wood, with Biggles gesticulating violently towards the landing-ground. Algy was at Biggles’s wing-tip. Thirty saw the tracer streaming from their guns; saw some of the men on the ground dive for the cover of the trees. One fell. Close behind him Rip’s gun started its harsh rattle. And still he could not make up his mind what to do. What had Biggles meant?
He looked again at the landing-ground, and caught his breath as the dark figure of a man b
urst from the bushes near the wood, and, ducking low, raced down the hedge. For some distance he ran as only a hunted man will run. Then he swerved out into the field and flung up both arms with a gesture of appeal that was unmistakable.
By this time Thirty had cut his engine and was going down in a steep side-slip; the gun behind him had stopped. A lightning glance over his shoulder showed him that Rip had seen the solitary man. Rip saw Thirty turn, and, bending over, he yelled in his ear, ‘He’s the chap they’re after; we must get him.’
Thirty moistened his lips and flattened out for the landing, by no means certain of the direction of the wind. There could not be much or he would have noticed it, he thought desperately. He would have to risk it.
A bullet smashing against his engine-cowling brought forcibly to his notice the fact that he was running other risks besides a bad landing, but he set his teeth and endeavoured to remain cool in circumstances which were calculated to upset even the steadiest pilot, doing his best to touch his wheels in such a position that the Bristol would finish its run near the fugitive, who was now darting this way and that in an attempt to anticipate the stopping-place of the machine.
In the circumstances Thirty’s effort was a creditable one; he kept his line fairly well, but he knew from the behaviour of the machine that he was slightly crosswind, and he flinched as the undercarriage groaned a protest.
The Bristol never entirely stopped. The moment it began to slow down the fugitive raced madly towards it, with Rip yelling encouragement. Above the noises made by these operations came the irregular crackle of musketry, the persistent taca-taca-taca-taca of machine-guns from overhead, and the crash of exploding bombs.
Thirty, risking an upward glance, saw the two Camels circling and swooping low over the edge of the wood, like a pair of plovers when a dog approaches their nest. Their manoeuvring told him that Biggles and Algy were using their twenty-pound Cooper bombs, of which each carried eight, as well as their machine-guns in an attempt to hold up the pursuit. He had no time to dwell on the spectacle; grey-coated figures burst through the hedge, and bullets cut up the turf round the feet of the running fugitive who by this time had nearly reached the machine.
‘Come on!’ yelled Rip, although it was obvious that the man for whom they were waiting was making every effort.
Thirty, left hand ready on the throttle, felt a wave of compassion surge through him. The filthy mud-stained clothes, the ashen face, staring dark-rimmed eyes, and parted lips told their own story of dreadful ordeal. For the rest, he was a middle-aged man, with dark hair and heavy features. It was clear from his gasping breaths and distorted features that he was near the end of his endurance.
He got one foot into the fuselage stirrup and grabbed the edge of Rip’s cockpit, but he had not the strength left to pull himself up. Rip grabbed him under the arms and dragged him in head first.
The engine roared as Thirty opened the throttle, using joystick and rudder-bar to drag the machine round to face the open field again, but even so it took some seconds to get into position for a safe take-off.
It was a frantic moment in which Thirty acted more from impulse and habit than by lucid thought, for bullets were now hitting the machine, ripping through woodwork and fabric with the terrifying force of deadly power such missiles have.
The Bristol ran forward, its speed increasing at every instant. The tail lifted. Thirty sat rigid in his seat, eyes fixed on the mark he had chosen on the far side of the field to help to keep him straight. The wheels bumped once or twice, and then the machine was off, swerving from side to side as he kicked the rudder-bar to spoil the aim of the Germans who he knew without looking were still shooting at him.
Not until the machine was at a thousand feet, sweeping round in a wide, gently climbing turn, did he dare to look around. A glance behind showed Rip standing in his cockpit emptying his drum of ammunition into the wood. The Camels had broken off and were following him, rapidly overtaking him by reason of their superior speed. ‘Phew! Thank goodness,’ he muttered to himself, hardly daring to believe that they had escaped without a casualty.
The Camels drew level with him and he settled down for the return journey, scanning the sky ahead with no small anxiety. But his fears proved groundless. Once he saw a small formation of enemy scouts in the distance heading towards the lines, but either the leader did not see them or he was disinclined to fight, for he made no move towards them; he also saw an enemy two-seater, several thousand feet above them, apparently returning from a reconnaissance flight over the trenches. That was all, and he breathed his satisfaction when, without having fired a shot himself, and escorted by Mahoney’s flight which had come to meet them, they roared across the wilderness of no-man’s-land into their own territory.
Biggles was down first, closely followed by Algy. Standing beside their machines they waited for Thirty to land and taxi in, and then hurried over to him.
‘Good show,’ called Biggles cheerfully, as Thirty climbed down. ‘Where’s the passenger?’
Rip dismounted, followed by the man they had picked up. They all waited for him to speak, but ‘Thanks’ was all he said and then started to walk towards the aerodrome buildings.
Algy stared at Biggles blankly. ‘By gosh! Not exactly what you might call bubbling over with gratitude, is he?’
Biggles, with a curious expression on his face, hurried after the ex-fugitive. ‘Hi, just a minute,’ he said curtly. ‘Who are you?’
A ghost of a smile flitted across the man’s pallid face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Sorry, but—er—I don’t happen to have a name,’ he said quietly.
‘Then you’d better find one,’ Biggles told him shortly. ‘We like to know our friends.’
‘I must refer you to headquarters—somebody should be here to meet me. Ah! Here comes Major Raymond.’
Biggles pushed back his flying-helmet and received the major with a suspicious frown. ‘What’s going on, sir?’ he asked.
‘It’s all right, Bigglesworth,’ the major assured him quietly.
‘I’m not so sure that it is, sir,’ Biggles flung back belligerently. ‘Who is this fellow?’
‘He is one of our men.’
‘One of your men? You mean he’s a sp—agent?’
The major nodded.
‘But—how did he know where to come to be picked up?’
‘I told him.’
‘You told him?’
‘Yes.’
‘But how . . . ?’
‘Carrier pigeon*4.’
Biggles flushed. Then his face paled. ‘Then, if you’ll permit me to express an opinion, sir, I don’t think that’s good enough,’ he said angrily. ‘Nothing was said about this in our plans. If we’re caught now it will be a firing party for us*5.’
‘I’m sorry, Bigglesworth, but the exigencies of war made it imperative that we should get this man out of Germany immediately. And while not depreciating the good job of work you have done, may I remind you that he has taken bigger risks than you have—of facing a firing party? And to settle any grievance you may think you have, it may be some small comfort to you to know that, in bringing this fellow out, you four have done more good for our side to-day than any four men in the British army. I shall see that it is not overlooked. I’ll talk to you later. That’s all.’ The major raised his hand in salute and, with his companion, walked quickly towards the squadron office.
Biggles took a cigarette from his case and tapped it on the back of his hand. ‘The trouble with this perishing war is that you never know what you’re doing,’ he said bitterly. ‘Come on, we might as well go and get some food.’
Chapter 12
Cutting It Fine
The business of the spy, or rather, the manner in which the rescue flight had been used by Intelligence Headquarters while being kept in ignorance of the facts, rankled with Biggles for the remainder of the day, and he was only mollified when, that evening, Major Raymond came over to the squadron and gave his assurance tha
t it should not happen again. He did not say that the rescue flight could not be used for Intelligence purposes, but he promised that when this happened the members of the flight should be informed.
In the quiet of his room Biggles talked to Thirty and Rip. ‘You see, you fellows are not even officers. Really, you are civilians under arms, and if you were caught you’d have your backs against a brick wall inside twelve hours. I know, of course, that the Germans do not know you are civilians; but supposing you were captured and sent to a prison camp, and then some time later the truth leaked out, in the English newspapers, for instance, which are seen in Germany; well, they’d just shoot you out of hand, and you couldn’t blame them for it. That’s why I object to this being kept in the dark as to Raymond’s real scheme. And make no mistake; sooner or later the Boche is bound to get wind of what is going on.’
Nothing more was said, in fact there was little to say, so they continued their operations as planned. They heard no more of the man they had brought out of Germany.
During the next few days they visited each of the picking-up points, and without particular incident rescued five British officers, one of whom was an infantry colonel of importance. After this they took three days’ rest, but on their next trip everything seemed to go wrong from the beginning.
One of the officers whom they had rescued, a cavalry captain, had told them that he had reason to suppose that another officer would shortly succeed in getting out of the same prison camp; and if he did, in fact, succeed in getting out, he would be certain to make for the landing-ground—which happened to be aerodrome C—where he, the cavalry captain, had been picked up.
This was the first occasion on which the rescue flight had gone over with good reason to suppose that an escaped prisoner would be waiting to be picked up. Actually, they were not due at aerodrome C for another three days, but in the circumstances they decided to make a special flight, although, as parcels of food had by now been hidden in the northern hedge of each landing-ground, they did not think that the man would suffer any great hardships while he was waiting—beyond, of course, a good deal of anxiety.