by W E Johns
A sequence of unforeseen, although quite natural, events made them late. As they were crossing the lines the Bristol’s oil-pressure suddenly went wrong, and Thirty had no alternative but to return. Ten minutes sufficed to put it right, so Biggles, after a moment’s hesitation, decided to carry on. On the next attempt a close burst of archie hurtled a piece of shrapnel into Algy’s engine, and after signalling that he could not go on he turned and glided towards home. Thirty did not see him go, and was only aware of what had happened when Biggles came close and signalled to him to go on.
Twenty minutes later the two machines were attacked by three Pfalz Scouts*1; the attack was only half-hearted, rather suggesting that the three enemy scout pilots were beginnners; still, a fight ensued, and this delayed the two rescue planes still further. As soon as they saw that they were outmatched, the three Germans broke off the fight by diving for the ground, where, in the circumstances, Biggles did not pursue them, although it looked as if they would provide him with two or three easy victories.
With one thing and another it was broad daylight by the time the two machines reached their objective, and both Biggles and Thirty, although unaware that they were thinking alike, were hoping that it would not be necessary to land. But, surely enough, a piece of paper blowing about in a corner of the field told them that their man was waiting.
Then, to his surprise and consternation, Thirty, as he landed, saw two men break cover, from different places, and stand waiting for him. He guessed at once what had happened. Two prisoners, each unaware of the other’s presence, had arrived at the landing-ground. He had wondered vaguely once or twice what would happen in such an emergency, but no definite rule had been laid down, so it was with considerable misgiving that he taxied towards the point on which they were converging. He saw that both wore ragged British uniforms, one an ordinary infantry field-service tunic and the other an R.F.C. double-breasted tunic. He also noticed that the flying officer was limping. Standing up in the cockpit, he spoke to them together. ‘I can’t take you both,’ he called.
An altercation immediately ensued, and from it these facts emerged. The infantry officer was a guards major; he wore the ribbon of the D.S.O.*2 on his tunic. The R.F.C. officer, a second-lieutenant, had not yet been taken prisoner. He was the pilot of an F.E. bomber which had been shot down on a raid only a few hours previously. His observer had been killed outright by the archie burst that caused their downfall; he, the pilot, had been wounded in the leg by the same burst. He knew nothing of the rescue flight. By the merest fluke he had been hiding in a ditch, in order to try to get back through the lines, but seeing two British machines he had, not unnaturally, exposed himself.
Thirty made up his mind quickly. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I shall have to take this chap first,’ he told the major. ‘He’s wounded, and needs medical attention.’
‘But I’ve been here for two days,’ expostulated the guards officer, a heavily built, florid-faced man with an upturned moustache. Something in his manner annoyed Thirty.
‘I can’t help that, sir,’ he said evenly. ‘With a wounded officer in question I am surprised that you do not agree with me.’
‘I have reasons for getting back,’ snapped the major, making as if he would climb into the machine.
Major or no major, this was more than Thirty was prepared to stand. ‘I don’t doubt that,’ he replied curtly. ‘So have we all. Stand away, please.’
The guards officer glared. ‘You’ll obey my orders,’ he exclaimed wrathfully, and started climbing on to the wing.
Thirty whipped his Very pistol out of its pocket and levelled it. His face was pale, and there was a curious glitter in his eyes. ‘If you don’t get off that wing, I’ll shoot you,’ he snapped, in a voice that was as cold and brittle as ice. ‘I’ll show you who is in command here.’
The major stepped back. ‘You’d threaten me?’ he gasped incredulously. ‘I’ll have you put under close arrest the moment I get back.’
‘It will be some time before you are in a position to do that if you go on talking in that strain,’ Thirty told him. Then, to the R.F.C. officer, ‘In you get. Give him a hand, Rip.’
The major burst into a stream of profanity, but Thirty cut him short. ‘Stand clear, please,’ he shouted. ‘I can’t stay here arguing.’
The major suddenly changed his tune. ‘Will you come back for me?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘To-morrow morning at dawn.’
‘But they’ll retake me before then,’ declared the major desperately. ‘The fellows in the camp won’t be able to keep my disappearance a secret for more than a day or two at the most, and then they’ll have the dogs on my track. I mustn’t be retaken. You see—I—killed a sentry to get out.’
Thirty, hand on the throttle, stared. ‘Great heavens!’ he breathed. ‘All right,’ he said crisply. ‘Get back in the ditch. I’ll be back in two hours—unless I’m shot down on the way.’
Biggles was roaring low overhead. Thirty glanced up, realizing that he would be at a loss to understand the delay. He waited no longer. The Bristol’s propeller took on an added sheen as he opened the throttle, and the waving grass flattened under the tearing slipstream. A minute later his wheels, still spinning, had left the ground, and he had taken up position beside Biggles, the two machines rising and falling lightly in the slight bumps caused by the freshening breeze.
They flew low all the way to the lines, hoping in this way to escape observation by the enemy scouts who, by this time, would certainly be on the move. They saw Mahoney’s flight in the distance, no doubt looking for them higher up, but Mahoney did not see them. Knowing that he was well able to take care of himself Thirty did not worry much on that account, and shortly afterwards he was on the aerodrome, running to meet Biggles.
‘What happened?’ asked Biggles, tersely.
‘Awful mess. There were two of them; a guards major and one of our chaps who has been hit in the leg. I brought him first.’
‘Quite right.’
‘The major was savage about it. He has threatened to put me under arrest when he gets back.’
‘Then let him find his own way back,’ replied Biggles promptly.
‘I can’t do that; I’ve promised to fetch him.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘I know—but he got a promise out of me. I think he’s got the wind up because he killed a sentry getting out of jail.’
Biggles started. ‘By gosh! That’s bad,’ he muttered. ‘They’ll hang him for that if they get him. Looks as if we shall have to try to fetch him.’ He swung round on his heel. ‘Hi! Smyth!’ he shouted to the flight-sergeant. ‘Fill up both machines and make it snappy.’
‘You needn’t come, Biggles,’ began Thirty, but Biggles cut him short.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he snapped. ‘You can’t go over there alone. Here’s Mahoney coming in, cursing like a trooper, I bet, because we gave him the slip. He’ll come part of the way with us. We’ve just time for a coffee while they’re filling up.’
They ran down to the mess, burnt their mouths with hot coffee, and then hurried back to the sheds, where they explained to the indignant Mahoney what had happened. ‘You fill up and then come to meet us,’ Biggles told him, as he clambered up into his tiny cockpit. ‘Come on, Thirty, let’s get it over. Keep your eyes open and your gun ready, Rip. Is your machine all right now, Algy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you coming with us?’
‘I’m not likely to stay behind.’
‘Fine. Let’s get along, then.’
The sun was high in the sky as the three machines took off and headed straight for their objective. And for a time it looked as if they might reach it without being molested, for the only hostile aircraft they saw was a two-seater that made off when the pilot saw them coming.
They were within five
miles of the landing-ground when Rip struck Thirty on the shoulder.
Thirty looked round. Rip pointed. Following the outstretched hand Thirty saw a number of tiny specks far behind them. There were five or six, he was not sure which, so far away were they and so close together did they fly.
Rip leaned over, and cupping his hands round his mouth, yelled in Thirty’s ear, ‘They’re following us.’
Thirty nodded to show that he understood. He saw Biggles and Algy both look round, and then at each other. Biggles’s Camel surged forward until it was just in front of, and not more than ten feet away from, the Bristol’s port wing-tip, with Biggles making unmistakable signs to Thirty that he was to go on.
Without another glance behind, Thirty put his nose down and dived for the landing-field, which he could now see in the distance. He knew that everything now was a matter of time. If he could get down and pick up his passenger before they were overtaken there was a chance that he might fight his way home, but if the enemy scouts caught him first it would be hopeless to attempt to land.
Reaching the field he turned into the wind and then side-slipped down steeply, and in spite of the desperate situation a faint smile crept over his face as he saw the guards officer standing out in the field as if he owned it. Wondering subconsciously whether the officer was a brave man or a fool, Thirty flattened out and landed. Possibly it was due to his haste, but, for the first time, he made a bad landing. Or he may have touched a rut, or a molehill. He never knew. But he held his breath as the Bristol bounced like a rubber ball, and he waited for the shock of it to come down again, fully expecting the undercarriage to crumple. Normally, in such circumstances he would have opened up his engine and gone round again, but now there was no time for such a proceeding.
Bump . . . bump . . . bump. The undercarriage creaked as the Bristol finally settled on the ground in a manner that would have disgraced a pupil at a flying training school, but it stood the strain, and Thirty, gasping his relief, pushed up his goggles.
There was no need for him to taxi up to his passenger, for the major was less than a hundred yards away and sprinting towards him, so he seized the opportunity of looking at what was happening in the air.
Less than a mile away were five enemy scouts, noses down and tails high.
The two Camels had turned to meet them, and even as Thirty watched, the enemy formation split up for individual action. From the way they flew he knew that the pilots were old hands, and his heart went cold with anxiety. However, he could do nothing about it; he could not even watch what happened. With the roar of racing engines and the chatter of machine-guns in his ears, he watched Rip help the major into the cockpit. Such was his haste that he fell in head first.
Thirty waited no longer. His man was aboard, and the Bristol swung round for a down-wind take-off. There was no time to taxi to the far side of the field to get into the wind.
Tail up, he was speeding down the wind when an Albatros struck the ground in a sheet of flame immediately in front of him. Instinctively he kicked the rudder-bar, and as quickly gave himself up for lost as the Bristol’s wing touched the grass in the frightful swerve that resulted. Fortunately the herbage was sparse or the plane must have gone over. As it was, the machine righted itself and raced on towards the hedge. But it was still on the ground.
Thirty was well aware of the danger of a down-wind take-off at any time, but now, with a numbing horror inside him, he remembered that the Bristol had three passengers instead of the two for which it was designed. The hedge seemed to float towards him. His hand tightened on the joystick and the Bristol reluctantly unstuck, only to touch the ground again a few yards farther on. Had the wheels encountered the slightest obstruction at that moment the Bristol would have turned several somersaults before spreading the fragments of itself all over the field. Fortunately for its occupants the ground was clear.
Thirty saw the hedge immediately in front of him. He did the only thing left to do. With his lips pressed together in a straight line, slowly but firmly he pulled the joystick back. Lurching like a drunken man, the Bristol rose. There was a whip-like swish as its wheels ripped through the thin twigs on the top of the hedge, nearly pulling the machine into the ground on the other side. Then the whirling propeller lifted the nose and the machine rose slowly into the air.
Thirty dared not look behind. He dared not look anywhere but straight in front of him, for his nerves were at breaking-point from shock and the machine demanded all his attention. Twice he flinched as Rip’s gun spoke, and once he caught a momentary glimpse of a red-nosed scout in his reflector.
Not until he was at a thousand feet and on a course for home did he risk a brief inspection of the atmosphere. But he could see little—only a small group of zooming and banking machines far behind him. Thirty did not attempt to climb higher. Speed, he knew, was the only chance, so he put his nose down and began the method of travel known to pilots as hedge-hopping, regarding dispassionately the stampeding cattle, or even human beings, over which he passed.
A quarter of an hour later he became aware of four Camels just above him, and he recognized Mahoney’s flight. He did not see where they came from. Nor did he care particularly. He was only conscious of a feeling of great satisfaction.
Just before they reached the lines he discovered that the Camels had disappeared as mysteriously as they had arrived. Not until an hour later did he learn that they had turned off to meet an enemy formation that was diving on to the lone Bristol.
Approaching the lines, he had an unpleasant five minutes as an archie on the ground opened up on him. For the first time he actually saw the faces of the gunners as they stared up at him. A balloon cable gave him a severe fright, for he had forgotten that there were such things and he nearly flew into it. Of the hundreds of shots that he knew were fired at him as he roared low across the trenches, only one hit his machine; he saw the hole a minute or two later, through his wing, near the fuselage.
On no previous flight had Thirty felt so completely exhausted as he did when the Bristol finally ran to a halt near to where the mechanics were waiting for him. They ran by the wing-tips until he was on the tarmac, when he switched off and dropped wearily to the ground.
Pushing up his goggles, he turned a pair of red-rimmed eyes to the major, who had followed Rip to the ground. ‘I hope you enjoyed your flip,’ he said coldly, and turned his face to the east so that he could watch for the others to return.
A few minutes later he heard the drone of the Camel’s Bentley engines. Five came in in a ragged formation. Biggles, Algy, and Mahoney were among them. Mahoney had lost a man.
Biggles came across to where Thirty was waiting. ‘Where’s your passenger?’ he asked.
Thirty looked round in surprise. ‘Well, I’m dashed!’ he said. ‘He’s gone.’
‘Nice polite sort of cove,’ grinned Algy. ‘Oh, forget him. Let’s go and get a bit of lunch. I reckon we’ve earned it.’
Chapter 13
Disaster
At eight o’clock the following morning Major Raymond arrived at the aerodrome. Biggles saw his Crossley tender coming up the track that led to the officers’ mess, where the members of the rescue flight who were not doing a show that morning were making a leisurely breakfast.
‘Here comes Raymond,’ Biggles told the others. ‘Feeling in a prophetic mood, I’m prepared to wager that he is coming to see us.’
Biggles was correct. Two minutes later Major Raymond came into the dining-room. ‘’Morning,’ he said briefly. ‘I saw the C.O. outside; he told me you were in here. Mind if I join you in a cup of coffee? I was on the move early.’
Biggles pulled out a chair as Algy operated the coffee-pot.
For a moment or two nobody spoke. The major stirred his coffee thoughtfully.
‘Well?’ murmured Biggles.
‘Well—what?’ returned the major.
Biggles smiled. ‘Am I right in assuming that you haven’t come all the way from Wing Headquarters just to wish us good mo
rning?’
‘You are,’ answered the major.
‘Bad news?’
‘In a way, yes; but nothing to do with you.’
Thirty breathed again. For one horrible moment he had thought that something had happened to Forty.
‘I’ve got a very sticky job for somebody,’ continued the major. ‘In fact, it’s so sticky that I hardly like to ask anybody to do it, much less order him—not that there is any question of ordering. It’s essentially a job for a volunteer.’
‘Bad as that, eh?’
‘Worse—if anything.’
‘If we knew what it was we could tell you if it was in our line,’ murmured Biggles.
‘Quite. That’s why I’ve come here. The dickens of it is, I’ve got no right to tell you what I shall have to tell you. You know without my telling you that the one thing that really matters in espionage is secrecy. If one of my agents happened to walk in here at this minute he wouldn’t recognize me.’
‘Must you tell us—this secret?’
‘It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to do the job without telling you the precise facts.’
Biggles shrugged his shoulders slightly. ‘You know best, sir.’
The major leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘If any one here even mentions one word of what I am going to say he might be responsible for the death of thousands of our troops.’
Biggles looked grave. ‘I’d rather not know anything about it,’ he muttered in a worried tone.
The major made a gesture of helplessness. ‘I must tell you,’ he said again, as if he hated the idea. ‘Listen. You know the village of Belville-sur-Somme? It’s on the other side of the lines now; the Huns took it from us in their big push last autumn.’
‘I know it,’ Biggles nodded. ‘Our artillery has knocked the village about, but by a curious fluke the church tower hasn’t been touched.’
‘That is not a fluke.’