by W E Johns
He had given this matter of how to leave the machine considerable thought, for he wanted to be ready for a quick departure should it become necessary; but, on the other hand, he was most anxious not to do anything that might look suspicious. For the same reason he hesitated about switching off the engine, but in the end he did so, realizing that to leave it running would certainly invite comment. Then he jumped down and walked briskly towards the wood as if he knew quite well what it concealed. While he was still some yards away he hallooed loudly.
With an abruptness that startled him, a German officer, a Leutnant, stepped out of the bushes, followed by two or three soldiers, including the one whom he had seen eating his breakfast sausage earlier in the day. Inside the deep shade of the wood he could just make out the grey forms of more soldiers.
The presence of the man whom he had already seen gave him an unexpected opportunity of establishing his bona fides*1, which he was not slow in seizing. ‘Finished your sausage?’ he called, cheerfully.
The soldier grinned and nodded. ‘Jawohl*2,’ he said.
Thirty turned to the officer, but before he could speak the other addressed him. There was a look unpleasantly like suspicion in his eyes.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked, shortly.
‘And why should I not be here?’ demanded Thirty, coolly.
The German looked at the aeroplane, then back at Thirty. ‘You are soon back.’
‘I have to pick somebody up.’
‘Pick somebody up?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have received no such orders.’
‘Well, I did, and that’s all I’m concerned about.’
‘May I remind you that you have not yet given the password?’ returned the officer, stiffly.
Thirty gave it, and the other’s manner relaxed.
‘We have to be careful on this job, you know,’ he explained.
‘You’d be careful if you had my job, I can assure you,’ returned Thirty, with a grin. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me some beer while I’m waiting for my man to arrive? You haven’t seen him, by any chance?’
‘What sort of man is he?’
‘Something like me—a little older. But there, men in British uniforms can’t be so common about these parts that there could be any mistake.’
The officer looked at Thirty with an odd expression on his face. ‘What is his name?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know his real name, and that’s a fact,’ admitted Thirty. ‘We have no names, you know. The one I am to pick up will be called Captain Smithson where we are going.’
The German beckoned. Thirty followed, thinking that he was about to be offered some beer. He was quite unprepared for the shock awaiting him. Inside the wood, sitting on a fallen tree with his chin cupped in the palm of his hand, was Forty.
Thirty’s brain reeled, yet he realized that everything now depended on Forty’s behaviour. If he took his cue, all might yet be well, but if he failed . . .
Forty stared at his brother as though he had been confronted by a ghost. Still staring, he rose slowly to his feet.
Thirty greeted him easily, but with well-affected puzzlement. ‘My dear old boy, what on earth are you doing here like this?’ he asked, speaking, of course, in German. Then, as if he suddenly understood the situation, he whirled round on the German officer and went on swiftly, without giving Forty a chance to speak. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Am I to waste my time here through your blundering clumsiness? This matter is urgent. I am told to pick up a man here; I even ask you about him, yet you stand there like a fool, saying nothing. Well, if there is a row about the delay, you’ll get the blame, not me.’
‘But . . . he’s under arrest.’
‘Under what?’ Thirty shouted the words.
‘Arrest.’
‘You’re mad. This is the man I am to pick up.’
‘Then why didn’t he say so?’
‘Do you suppose we go about shouting our plans to the world? He was quite right to say nothing, but if it had been me, I should. Why don’t you read your orders?’
‘I was told to look out for an escaped prisoner,’ muttered the German, sullenly. ‘I was told nothing about your coming back to pick up another man.’
Thirty snorted with disgust. ‘No wonder things go wrong, when simple orders like these are bungled. All right. Say no more.’ Thirty turned to his brother. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes, quite ready.’
Thirty’s heart glowed with relief. Forty had taken the cue.
But the German had not finished. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were expecting to be picked up?’ he demanded of Forty.
‘Because I wasn’t anxious to be picked up, that’s why,’ growled Forty. ‘I’m about sick of these jobs.’
Thirty regarded him coldly. ‘If that’s how you feel you’d better go and report to headquarters,’ he snapped.
‘You needn’t trouble to do that,’ put in the German. ‘Here is Colonel Thonberg coming now.’
Thirty looked up. Coming down a path through the wood was a typical German of high rank, followed by his staff.
Forty sprang to the Leutnant. ‘Don’t tell him what I said,’ he implored. ‘If you do he’ll have me shot.’ Then, to Thirty, ‘Come on, let’s go before he can ask us why we are dallying here.’ With a furtive glance in the direction of the staff officer he started off towards the machine.
Thirty threw a last word at the Leutnant, who seemed to be at a loss to know what to do. ‘It would be better to say nothing at all,’ he said, tersely; ‘otherwise we may all get in a mess.’
The German nodded curtly.
Thirty waited for no more, but set off at a run towards the Fee, overtaking Forty just before he reached it. ‘Swing the prop,’ he hissed. ‘Jump in when she starts. It’s going to be touch and go.’
Forty did not answer. As Thirty scrambled swiftly into his seat he ran to the propeller, which, in the case of an F.E., is behind the engine. He dragged the big blade round and paused as it picked up the compression. ‘Contact!’ he yelled.
Thirty’s hand was on the contact-switch but he seemed incapable of moving it. His eyes were fixed on the far hedge over which a formation of Albatros Scouts was gliding.
A sudden outcry behind him brought him to his senses. Snatching a glance over his shoulder, he saw the German staff officer, followed by a crowd of soldiers, burst out of the wood.
‘Contact!’ he shouted hoarsely, knowing now that the lives of both of them depended on whether the engine started.
His relief when it did was such that for an instant his senses swam, and for one ghastly moment he thought his overwrought nerves had broken down and that he was going to faint. But the spectacle of Forty tumbling into the gunner’s seat brought him round with a rush.
‘Let her go!’ yelled Forty frantically. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Thirty bit his lip and shoved the throttle open. The engine roared, but the sharp crack of rifle shots could be heard above it. A shot tore through the fabric just above his head; another ripped a long splinter out of the interplane strut near his left arm; yet another smashed against the rudder-bar causing the now racing machine to swerve. Forty, who was standing up ramming a drum of ammunition on the gun, nearly went overboard; only by a desperate clutch at the side of the cockpit did he save himself.
To Thirty, as he pulled the joystick gently backward, the whole thing became a nightmare. His actions as he lifted the machine off the ground were made without thinking; they were purely mechanical. With dispassionate interest he saw the Albatroses fly past him. He became aware that Forty was aiming his gun, and struck him a violent blow to make him desist. He realized, of course, that Forty knew nothing about the yellow signal. To Forty’s stare of anger and amazement he bellowed, ‘Don’t shoot,’ knowing that if he did the German pilots would certainly return the fire.
Forty realized what was intended, even although the reason was something he could
not be expected to understand. In any case, by this time the brightly painted machines had passed on.
Thirty, looking back, saw the leader glide in and land on the field he had just left. The others remained in the air, circling. He knew well enough what would happen, and he thought he had better acquaint Forty with the distasteful truth in case he had not realized it. Beckoning him to come nearer, he bellowed in his ear, ‘They’ll come after us.’
Answered Forty, ‘And they’ll catch us.’
Thirty nodded, and settled himself down for the race to the lines, making no attempt to climb, but keeping the joystick pressed forward so that the machine almost brushed the tops of the trees over which they passed.
Chapter 19
Through Thick and Thin
Thirty knew instinctively that the arrival of the staff officer in the wood had some direct bearing on himself, or Forty, or on both of them. That his mission was urgent was plain from the way he strode down the path. It was obvious, therefore, that half a dozen words with the Leutnant in charge of the vigilance party would be sufficient to reveal the true situation. It was equally obvious that the staff officer could order the Albatros Staffel to pursue them and spare no effort to destroy them. It was unfortunate that the Albatroses had arrived just at the critical moment, but it could not be helped. It was unreasonable, reflected Thirty, to expect the luck to be all on one side. On the whole things had gone as well as he could have hoped.
Forty was leaning out of his cockpit looking back under their tail. He drew himself in, caught Thirty’s eyes, grimaced, and crossed his fingers—a common signal meaning ‘Enemy aircraft’. Then he examined his gun.
Thirty did not trouble to look round. There was no need. Forty’s signal had told him all there was to know. The Albatros Staffel was on their trail. He did not know the maximum speed of the Albatros, but he knew that it was a good deal higher than his own—which meant that the machines behind them would overhaul his own long before he reached the lines. ‘Well, we can’t do more than fight it out,’ he thought, calmly.
It surprised him to discover how calmly he could regard the situation. His eyes were hot from strain, but his nerves were steady. He felt neither excitement nor fear; merely a smouldering hatred of his pursuers, of the enemy in general. They would kill him if they could. Very well, he would kill as many of them as possible before they succeeded in their design. That he and Forty would be killed he felt certain. It was too much to hope that one British machine, a rather slow, unwieldy two-seater at that, could fight a number of fast enemy fighters and survive. He was so sure of what the end would be that it did not worry him, so he was able to regard the immediate future quite dispassionately.
A line of enemy troops on the march on a main road below brought a faint smile to his lips. He was not more than fifty feet above them, so he could see their white faces clearly as they looked up. It was evident that at first they took it for granted that a machine so far over the lines must be one of their own, but when Forty’s gun spat a hail of bullets into their close ranks their disillusionment was ludicrous to behold. A wild panic ensued, every man diving for such cover as offered. One or two, more courageous than the rest, flung up their rifles and fired at the intruder, but their aim was hurried, and if any of the bullets came near him Thirty was unaware of it. They tore on, leaving a scene of carnage and confusion on the white road to mark their passage.
Forty swivelled his gun round until it was pointing backwards and upwards over their top wing. He did not fire. Several times he took aim, swinging the muzzle from side to side as though trying to align it on a moving target. Thirty was only too well aware of the reason for this manoeuvre. The Albatroses were drawing in, creeping steadily into range; but they were old hands; they knew all about the deadly mobile gun in the front seat, and took care not to expose themselves. But this state of affairs did not last long.
Forty began firing short, sharp bursts, first on one side and then on the other. Something crashed into the engine with a violent whang.
Thirty touched his rudder-bar lightly, first with his left foot and then with the right. The movement caused the machine to swing slightly from side to side. He continued doing it, his intention being, of course, to spoil the enemy pilots’ aim. It meant losing a little speed, but it was better than offering a ‘sitting’ target. He was still unable to see the enemy, but he knew perfectly well where they were. They were still behind him, and while they remained there both he and Forty were protected to a considerable extent by the engine. His greatest fear was that a bullet would hit the propeller, which would at once put the machine out of action. Thus crippled, they would have no option but to land and submit tamely to a fate he preferred not to contemplate.
A hail of bullets striking the machine somewhere in the rear made him kick the rudder-bar violently. He shoved the joystick forward viciously until his wheels were almost on the ground, a position of advantage of which he had heard other pilots speak. A machine diving on him from behind would have to be pulled out much sooner than if he was at a greater altitude, the reason being the risk of diving into the ground.
A belt of fir-trees forced him to zoom up again. He knew the trees. They formed one of his landmarks, and his heart sank a little as he realized that they were only half-way home. Another burst of bullets struck the machine like a gigantic cat-o’-nine-tails. He flinched instinctively, and then bit his lip as Forty went down in a heap. But he was up again in an instant, shaking his head to Thirty to show him that he was unhurt. He flung an empty ammunition-drum overboard. There was a jagged hole through the middle of it, and Thirty realized that a bullet had hit it as Forty was taking it off the gun; hence the fall.
A movement on the right caught Thirty’s eyes, and he turned sharply in time to see the shark-like body of an Albatros zoom high in front of him. It roared up in a steep stalling turn, hung for a moment on top of the turn, and then came down like a meteor, orange flame spurting from the twin guns on the engine-cowling.
Forty’s gun swung up to meet it, a new drum in place. The drum starting jerking round as the bullets left the muzzle.
Thirty watched the Albatros. He could see the tracer bullets from Forty’s gun hitting it: they seemed to be going right through the fuselage: but still it came on, guns chattering like castanets. He clenched his teeth. One or the other could not fail to be hit if the enemy pilot did not soon pull out. A dreadful horror swept through him that the German intended ramming him, and he almost flung himself forward on the joystick.
The Albatros did not pull out. Thirty ducked and flung up his left arm to protect his face as the wheels skimmed over his head. It never did pull out. Thirty heard the crash above the roar of his engine as it sped, nose first, into the ground. He saw the flash of light, almost like lightning, as the petrol tank exploded. In a few seconds it was far behind.
Thirty’s eyes came to rest on Forty’s face. It fascinated him. It was white. His eyes blazed. His lips could hardly be seen, so close were they pressed together. They were just a straight line. ‘So this is war,’ he thought. Could it be possible that the man in front of him was the careless laughing boy he knew at school?
But more bullets were hitting the machine. They were coming from both sides now, as well as from above, in spite of his manoeuvring to prevent it. He realized that the machine was being shot to pieces about him; that the end must come at any moment. It was amazing that the machine had hung together as long as it had. For the first time he looked back. The air was full of machines. It seemed that several more had joined his original pursuers. And as he looked at them an emotion he had never before experienced surged through him. He did not stop to wonder what it was. He was conscious only of a sudden overwhelming fury, a blind hatred of the crowd of painted devils who were making a target of him. Well, he would show them.
A wild yell left his lips as he dragged the joystick back into his right thigh, at the same time kicking on full rudder. The machine soared up and round like a rocket, straight
into the thickest of his enemies. What cared he if he collided with them? And collide with them he nearly did. Wings and wheels flashed past his face as, in a vertical bank, he plunged through startled German machines. That there was no collision was due to them, not to Thirty. He let out another yell as Forty tore an empty drum from the gun and hurled it at a machine as it roared past him not more than twenty feet away. Madness seemed to have come upon him. Again he swung the Fee round, and deliberately chased the now turning Albatroses.
What he would have done next had he been alone, or had he been flying with a partner as hot-headed as himself, would be pure conjecture. Probably he would have completely lost his head, and in a berserk rage succeeded in ramming one of the enemy machines—which would have been the end of the affair. As it was, Forty had something to say about this crazy behaviour.
He climbed up on to his seat, not without some risk of falling out of the machine altogether, and struck Thirty a blow on the chest. ‘What do you think you are doing, you lunatic? Get home—home—HOME.’
As he was in front of Thirty the slipstream carried the words back to him. In any case, the expression on Forty’s face brought him to his senses. ‘I’m mad,’ he thought. ‘I must try to get home.’
But it was easier said than done. Again came the nerve-shattering flack-flack-flack of bullets hitting his machine, so in desperation he took the only possible course if they were to escape annihilation: he threw the Fee into a steep bank.
An Albatros swept across his nose, black smoke pouring back from its engine, and the pilot, left arm over his face, raised himself high to escape the fumes. ‘That’s queer,’ mused Thirty in a detached sort of way, for he had no recollection of Forty shooting at it. He saw two other black-crossed machines turning away. The bullets had stopped. He sensed a change. Something was happening, but what was it? He craned his neck this way and that in his anxiety, surveying the atmosphere in all directions to try to find out what it was. Then a Camel flashed across his field of vision and he understood. His heart leapt, and he let out a yell of exultation. Camels! He and Forty were no longer alone. He started to turn to see more of the new-comers, but once more Forty’s furious hammering restored his common sense.