by W E Johns
To his surprise, it was a female voice that answered him. ‘We catch queer fish in the river these days,’ it said.
‘Queer fish?’ At first Thirty did not understand. Then, looking down, he saw to his horror and dismay that the remains of his blouse had disappeared, leaving his uniform exposed. With a wild idea of jumping back into the river, he began scrambling to his feet, but a firm hand forced him back.
‘Ssh,’ hissed the woman. ‘Lie still; we are nearly at the bridge.’
Thirty flopped back as a heavy piece of material smelling of tar was flung over him, thanking his lucky star that the woman was either French or, possibly, Belgian*2.
He had little time for reflection, however. A few seconds later a curt challenge came out of the darkness. The barge drifted on sluggishly, while a conversation ensued with the sentry. Silence fell. The barge floated on. Thirty lay still.
Some minutes later his covering was removed.
The woman chuckled. ‘I fooled those pig-dog Prussians,’ she said vindictively. ‘If you’re the man they’re looking for you’re lucky I came along. Where are you going?’
‘That doesn’t matter, does it?’ returned Thirty, evasively. ‘Where are we now?’
‘On the canal.’
That told Thirty nothing. He stood up. A quarter of a mile away a few scattered lights gave him the position of Belville. The aftermath of the storm had passed; the sky was clearing, and a swift examination of the stars that were visible told him that the barge was moving northward. ‘I must get ashore,’ he said. ‘I’m going in the wrong direction.’
‘Any direction will be the wrong one, I should think, if you walk about in those clothes,’ observed the woman meaningly.
‘Are you here alone?’ asked Thirty suddenly, wondering why the woman’s husband had not appeared.
‘My husband is at the war,’ replied the woman, simply. ‘Do you need clothes? If so, I have some.’
‘A blouse, perhaps, or a big coat.’
‘Wait.’
The woman was back in a few moments with an assortment of musty clothes.
Thirty selected an ancient oilskin coat, and put it on. ‘Thank you, Madame,’ he said quietly. ‘You may have done more than you know for France.’ He held out his hand. ‘And now, if you will guide the barge a little nearer to the bank . . .’ Thirty indicated which one.
The woman put her weight against the rudder until the unwieldy vessel was within jumping distance of the bank. Thirty took a running jump and landed safely. ‘Adieu, Madame,’ he called softly.
‘Bon voyage, M’sieur*3,’ came the reply, and the barge with its patriotic captain glided away into the darkness.
Thirty struck off across country in the direction of the road he knew, and after an unpleasant journey lasting more than half an hour, during which time he fell into more than one ditch, he reached it. To his relief it was deserted, and with the satisfaction in his heart of a job well done he set off at a trot for the landing-ground, anxious to reassure Rip, who he knew would be worried on his account.
He met two cars, but their headlights gave him ample warning of their approach, and he crouched in the hedge until they had passed.
He judged that it was not far short of daylight by the time he reached the rendezvous, but the old adage of the darkest hour coming before dawn appeared to be true in this case, and visibility was restricted to a few yards. He scrambled over the hedge of the actual landing-field, and then broke into a run alongside it, making for the place where he expected to find Rip, a relaxation of caution he was speedily to regret. Rounding a sharp corner, he came face to face with a man who was standing there. His height alone told him that it was not Rip. Before Thirty could collect his wits, the man had sprung upon him and hurled him to the ground.
Thirty fought like a wild cat. In the soaking turf and the darkness there was no question of technique. It was catch-as-catch-can, exercised to the limit. He fought only to escape, but his opponent seemed equally determined that he should not. Over and over they rolled, using hands, arms, legs, and teeth, sometimes crashing into the hedge, and at other times rolling over and over on the rain-sodden grass.
The end came with a curious suddenness. There was a swift beat of running footsteps.
‘Is that you, Thirty?’ came Rip’s voice, crisp and hard.
Thirty managed to gasp a strangled ‘Yes’, for his adversary had an arm hooked round his throat. To his utter amazement the man answered, too.
‘What’s that?’ he jerked out in a startled voice, in perfect English. He sprang to his feet.
‘What the deuce . . . !’ cried Thirty, jumping up.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Rip, in such puzzled tones that Thirty almost smiled.
‘Yes—what’s going on?’ cried the stranger, in a voice which showed that his amazement was as genuine as Rip’s.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Thirty. ‘Who are you?’
‘Well, since we seem to be wearing the same uniform, I may as well tell you,’ was the quiet answer. ‘Captain Forsyth, Ninth Buffs. That’s me. And I reckon we’re here for the same reason.’
At last Thirty understood. He saw that in the struggle his oilskin had been nearly torn off his back, so that his tunic could be seen. ‘You’ve come here hoping to be picked up?’ he said.
‘You bet I have. So have you, haven’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good! Now we all know where we are. Got a gasper?’
‘No. I wouldn’t permit smoking if I had.’
‘What do you mean—you wouldn’t permit?’
‘I happen to be part of the organization that is running this rescue show,’ retorted Thirty. ‘How did you know about it?’
‘Fellow named Smithson told me—stout fella, Smithson.’
‘You’ve seen him—lately?’ Thirty’s voice was tense with excitement, for Smithson was the name Forty had adopted for his enterprise.
‘Of course—else how could he tell me?’
‘Where?’
‘In the Gefangenlager*4.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Right as rain.’
‘Grand!’
The other hesitated a moment. ‘Why are you so pleased about it?’
‘Because he happens to be my brother.’
‘Ah! I see. But the chief point is, how long do you reckon we shall have to wait here?’
‘I don’t know. Our plans have become slightly unstuck. I hope somebody will come over at dawn to pick us up, but whether or not there will be enough machines for all of us is more than I can say.’
‘Well, if we can’t all get in, you two had better go first, since you seem to have prior claims. I’ll take my turn.’
‘That’s very decent of you,’ declared Thirty. ‘It is beginning to get light, I think, so we shall soon know.’
While they had been talking a rosy flush had been stealing upward from the eastern horizon. Thirty nodded towards it. ‘Red morning, airman’s warning,’ he misquoted, little dreaming how apt his words were to prove.
Chapter 16
‘Captain Forsyth of the Buffs’
The minutes passed, the sky growing brighter, but still there came no comforting drone of aero-engines from the west. A lark appeared, trilling its way upward into the blue above the slight ground-mist that steamed from the wet earth.
Thirty got up from the bank on which they had, by common consent, decided to sit. ‘I’m getting peckish,’ he announced. ‘I hid a bag of grub in this hedge a day or two ago, along there near the corner of the wood. I’ll go and retrieve it. There is no need for us to starve. I’ll come straight back if I hear a machine coming.’
With that he began to stroll quickly along the side of the hedge towards the wood, keeping a sharp look-out, although at such an early hour he did not expect to see any one. So quiet was everything, and so little need did there seem for vigilance, that his thoughts were miles away when, rounding a tall growth of bracken near the f
ringe of the wood, he came face to face with a German soldier.
The German had leaned his rifle against a stump, and was eating bread and sausage from a paper bag with the aid of a clasp-knife. He looked up as Thirty appeared. Over a distance of perhaps five or six yards their eyes met.
The effect on Thirty was of a violent electric shock. So utterly unprepared was he for anything of the sort that his brain was struck into a condition of paralysis. The muscles of his face froze into rigid lines as he stared.
The German, after a passing glance, went on casually eating his sausage.
‘I’m mad,’ was Thirty’s first thought. ‘I’m seeing things.’
The German looked up again, groped in his bag and produced another sausage. ‘Have some?’ he invited him.
Thirty found enough strength to shake his head. ‘Danke*,’ he mumbled mechanically. His lips merely formed the word. Inwardly he was saying, ‘No, he’s mad, not me.’ His eyes wandered on along the hedge. Twenty yards away another German began humming softly as he cleaned out his pipe with a stalk of grass. He nodded pleasantly when he saw Thirty looking at him.
‘They cannot both be mad,’ Thirty told himself desperately, swallowing something in his throat. ‘What the . . . ?’
With his brain still reeling, he turned and began slowly to retrace his steps. In such a chaotic mental condition was he that he even looked down at the front of his uniform to see if in some miraculous way it had turned from khaki to grey. He saw that it was still khaki, and the discovery did nothing to elucidate the incredible incident. An uncomfortable sensation in the back made him look over his shoulder. Surely the Germans had realized their mistake by this time, and would be taking aim at him, he thought. But the bracken now hid them from view.
The sensation of unreality that he had experienced when he first found himself in France again swept over him, but he increased his pace and soon arrived back at the spot where he had left the others. They were still sitting on the bank, chatting.
Rip looked at Thirty’s hands. ‘Didn’t you find the grub?’ he questioned, in a disappointed voice.
‘No,’ answered Thirty, grimly, ‘I didn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Unless I’m crazy, there are Boche soldiers along there in that wood.’
Rip sprang to his feet. ‘What!’
Thirty shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘There are soldiers along there.’
‘But—did they see you?’
‘Yes.’
Rip’s face revealed his alarm.
‘It’s all right,’ said Thirty in a peculiar voice, ‘they are quite harmless.’
Rip stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’ he muttered.
‘He’s pulling our legs,’ smiled Forsyth.
‘This is no time for fool tricks like that,’ returned Thirty angrily. ‘I tell you I saw two Huns along there—eating their breakfast.’
‘Then it looks as if we’re sunk,’ declared Rip hopelessly. ‘They’ll get Biggles if he tries to land.’
‘I shall light a fire and stop him; that was the arrangement,’ retorted Thirty, bitterly.
Forsyth scrambled to his feet. ‘Where did you say these Germans were?’
‘Along there by the wood. What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to have a look at them.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’
‘I’ll—’
‘Hark!’ broke in Thirty, tensely.
From far away, rising and falling on the now gently stirring air, came the low, vibrant hum of aero-engines. ‘That’s Biggles,’ declared Thirty. ‘That’s a Beardmore engine, I’ll swear. He must have got hold of a Fee. I’ll light a fire.’
Forsyth ran a few paces along the hedge. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked gruffly. ‘There isn’t a soul in sight.’
‘Have you got a match?’ asked Thirty, wildly.
‘No.’
‘Have you, Rip?’
‘They’re soaking wet.’
Thirty threw up his hands helplessly.
‘Where are those Boches?’ asked Forsyth. ‘If there were any about we should see them moving now.’
Thirty ran to where he was standing and stared along the hedge and the edge of the wood. As Forsyth had said, there was nobody in sight.
‘I give it up,’ muttered Thirty. ‘I could have sworn I saw Germans sitting—’
‘Nerves,’ broke in Forsyth. ‘I’ve had that happen to me more than once. Fellows in the trenches are always shooting at Huns that don’t exist.’
‘You may be right,’ returned Thirty, now seriously beginning to wonder if he had been a victim of a hallucination.
There was no further time for conversation. From out of the western sky appeared four machines, two Camels and two dark-painted Fees. As they watched, Biggles’s Camel, distinguishable by its wing-pennants, roared down low over the landing-ground, then zoomed up again.
Thirty ran into the open, waving furiously.
Instantly the propellers of the two Fees slowed down, and they began to glide in to land.
Thirty danced from one foot to the other in his excitement, glancing from time to time in the direction of the wood, for there was not the slightest doubt in his mind that if there were Germans there, their shots would reveal them. They could hardly remain passive while British aeroplanes landed within a hundred paces of them.
The first of the two Fees touched its wheels, bumped a little, and then ran to a standstill. The front cockpit was empty. Thirty dashed up to it. The pilot, his goggles pushed up, was grinning at him. He was a stranger to Thirty, but it was no time for introductions.
‘There are three of us,’ yelled Thirty. ‘What shall we do?’
The pilot grimaced. ‘I think I can manage two, but it will be a tight fit,’ he replied. ‘Grimsdon, my partner, will take the other. Hurry up.’
Thirty saw that Rip had run across to the other Fee, which had now landed. The two Camels were circling overhead.
‘Get a move on,’ shouted the pilot irritably.
‘We’d better get in here,’ Thirty told Forsyth, who was standing beside him. Then he yelled to Rip to get into the other machine, with whose pilot he was now carrying on a conversation.
‘Get in first, Forsyth. I’ll sit on your lap,’ muttered Thirty.
Forsyth swung himself up into the nacelle cockpit. Thirty followed, and squeezed himself on his lap. ‘Off you go,’ he shouted to the pilot, after satisfying himself that Rip had got into the other machine.
The take-off in the heavily loaded machine was a hair-raising affair. It was not so much the weight that mattered, because a machine that was designed to carry a 230-lb. bomb in addition to its observer, and other equipment, made light of Thirty’s nine stone; but the weight was too far forward for the centre of gravity, with the result that the tail swung high and the nose nearly went into the ground, for which the pilot, unaccustomed to such unusual loading, could hardly be blamed. However, after an unpleasant swerve or two and an exceptionally long run, the machine staggered into the air, and after that there was no danger. A Camel soared up alongside, and Thirty found himself looking into Algy’s smiling face.
They saw no enemy aircraft during the journey to the lines, in which they may have been fortunate, for, closely packed as Thirty was with Forsyth, it would have been impossible to manipulate the Lewis gun with which the cockpit was equipped. However, this may have been due as much to Biggles’s foresight as to pure luck, for the presence of Mahoney, who met them with six Camels some distance over the lines, no doubt did much to keep the air clear.
Thirty had no recollection of the last part of the trip. In spite of his efforts to prevent it, he dozed, the inevitable result of sheer weariness and nervous exhaustion after all he had been through during the night.
He came to with a start as the machine landed, and as soon as it came to a standstill he lost no time in vacating his cramped seat. The other Fee landed. Biggles and Algy walked over, and presen
tly they all forgathered on the tarmac.
‘I rather expected that Raymond would be here,’ observed Biggles, looking round.
‘Do you mind if we go down to the mess and have some breakfast?’ asked one of the Fee pilots. ‘If there’s nothing else we can do—’
‘By all means,’ replied Biggles. ‘Thanks, chaps, for your help. We shall be along ourselves presently.’ He turned to Thirty as the two night-flying pilots strolled away in the direction of the officers’ mess. ‘How did you get on?’ he asked eagerly.
‘I delivered the goods,’ Thirty told him, with a faint smile.
‘Good show!’
‘By the way, meet Forsyth,’ continued Thirty. ‘I found him waiting on the landing-ground for a lift home.’
Biggles shook hands with the infantry officer.
‘I was mighty relieved to see you turn up,’ Thirty told Biggles. ‘You guessed we were in a mess, evidently.’
‘I didn’t exactly guess,’ returned Biggles, lighting a cigarette and flicking the match away. ‘When that frightful storm blew up as soon as you’d gone I reckoned you’d be lucky to weather it. Not only that, I was pretty certain that if nothing went wrong you’d get off the ground before daylight. I waited here until it was daylight, and when there was no sign of you I thought we’d better come and have a look at things. We couldn’t do any harm, anyway. The first thing I saw when we arrived was your burnt-out machine. That’s all there was to it.’
‘Where did the Fees come from?’
‘From 100 Squadron. I tried to get a Bristol, but couldn’t, so I rang up Shorty Grimsdon, of one hundred, and asked him to oblige, which, being a good scout, he did. But what are we standing here for? Let’s go and sit down in the office. I’d say let’s go down to the mess, but we’d better stick around for a minute or two in case Raymond turns up. I should have thought he would be here by now.’
‘I’ll go and ring him up, I think, and tell him everything is O.K.,’ suggested Thirty, in a peculiar tone of voice.
‘Yes, I should,’ replied Biggles. ‘By the way, are you all right?’
‘Yes—why?’
‘I thought you were looking a bit odd.’