Not that his own side was without aircraft. Spellbound, he had watched several dogfights high in the air above, but he saw that the enemy machines were usually superior in performance to those of his own side, with the result that most of the combats ended in the enemy's favour. How he longed to be seated in one of the cockpits can be better imagined than described, for as far as he could see, in that way, and that way only, lay the mobility that meant freedom. Yet, situated as he was, an aeroplane seemed as unattainable as the moon.
He had learned to recognize one of their own machines, a squat, blunt-nosed fighter, painted blue. He had seen it several times high up ; on one such occasion he had joined in a yell of triumph that arose from his trench when it had sent an Italian Fiat toppling out of the sky, to crash in flames near the river below. But that morning, shortly after dawn, during the height of the enemy's attack, it had appeared low down, and racing along the lines, had sprayed the attacking troops with its machine-guns to such good effect that it had unquestionably been a deciding factor of the battle.
Ginger's interest had been all the more amplified when Fred Summers had told him that the 'Blue Devil'—for by this name the machine was known to the troops—was flown by one Jock McLannock, a wild Scotsman from Glasgow, a pilot of high social position who had abandoned his Highland home to fight in what he considered to be the cause of freedom and justice—a cause for which millions of men since the beginning of time have laid down their lives, usually in vain.
The attack had failed, and the Blue Devil had withdrawn to its distant aerodrome ; the trench had settled down to its usual routine, leaving Ginger to contemplate his position with melancholy forebodings. These were not without justification. He had seen many men killed ; already he had had more than one narrow escape, and it seemed to him that it was only a question of time before a bullet found a billet in his body. It was not so much that he was afraid of dying ; what really upset him was the thought of being killed without Biggles and Algy ever hearing of his fate ; that, and the fact that the letter, obviously of vital importance, could never then be delivered to those who probably even then were anxiously awaiting its arrival.
He did not, of course, abandon hope. On the contrary, he had racked his brains for some way of getting out of the trenches as a first move in the difficult task of making contact with Biggles and Algy, or ascertaining what had become of them.
Vigilant eyes were ever on the watch for deserters, who, so he was told, were shot out of hand, and the expedient of trying to make an escape was fraught with such deadly danger that he dared not risk it. Sooner or later—so Summers had told him—the regiment would be given a rest, either in a camp behind the lines, or in Barcelona, where it had been, in fact, when enemy activity had caused it to be recalled, and Ginger had been caught in the rally.
He thought of asking to be transferred to the Air Force, and would have done so had he been able to explain his position and qualifications to the French sergeant or the Spanish commanding officer; but cautious inquiry had elicited the fact that neither of them spoke English, and as he could speak neither French nor Spanish, the difficulty seemed insur-mountable. The last thing he wanted was to create an impression that he was looking for an excuse to get out of the line, for that would be more likely to make him an object of suspicion. Moreover, it might lead to embarrassing questions as to how he got where he was, which might easily result in investigations that would come to Goudini's notice. So he did nothing, deeming it expedient to wait for a chance that must—so he told himself with more hope than confidence—sooner or later turn up.
It was late in the afternoon when, sitting on a box of ammunition in the bottom of the trench cleaning his rifle, he was aroused from his task by the roar of aircraft overhead.
Looking up, he saw
an enemy two-seater approaching the lines from beyond the river, flying on a meandering course which suggested that it was engaged either on photography or reconnaissance. But, although the pilot was obviously unaware of it, he was not alone in the air. Roaring down in an almost vertical dive from a sky now soft with sunset hues came a single-seater; and it did not need Summers's shout to tell Ginger that it was the Blue Devil.
Thrilling with excitement, Ginger sprang to his feet to watch the combat that was imminent, for if such affairs aroused the enthusiasm of his comrades—and they certainly did—how much greater was the effect on him, an airman!
The pilot of the two-seater, and his gunner, were both guilty of gross carelessness. To Ginger's professional eyes there was no doubt whatever about that. Or it may have been that they were overconfident. Be that as it may, they were both caught napping, and the nimble scout got in a long burst of fire, which struck the larger machine, and from which it never fully recovered. It lurched, swerving as it did so, but almost as quickly recovered and turned, nose down, for the safety of its own lines.
But the fighting pilot had no intention of allowing it to escape. His dive had carried him down below the two-seater; but now, with the tremendous speed gained by the dive to add to the power of his engine, he whirled round and, guns chattering, zoomed up like a rocket under the tail of his victim.
The nose of the two-seater jerked up convulsively, an almost certain sign that the pilot had been hit. But still the machine did not fall. The engine cut out, and it settled down in a steep glide, its nose still pointing towards home.
It was clear to Ginger that the gunner in the two-seater did not lack courage, for he could see him swinging his gun this way and that as he strove frantically to bring it to bear on the Blue Devil, who was now pouring in burst after burst of fire from different angles, at a speed that gave the two-seater gunner little opportunity of getting a sight on him.
The larger machine was now clearly in a bad way; its glide had steepened into a dive, and its course had become so erratic that it seemed only a question of seconds before it went into a spin from which it certainly would not recover. And the pilot of the Blue Devil might well have let it go at that. But prudence plays little part in air fighting, and the Scotsman was clearly determined to finish what he had so well started. He had climbed above his victim, and now he rushed in to deliver what was no doubt intended to be the coup de grdce.
But now it was his turn to be guilty of an indiscretion—either that, or he under-estimated the valour of the gunner in the two-seater. Instead of remaining in the larger machine's `blind spot', he allowed his dive to carry him up until he was almost alongside his quarry, thus giving the gunner an opportunity he was not slow to seize.
Staggering to his feet, he dragged his gun round, and poured a withering blast of fire at his blue persecutor. At such a range he could hardly miss.
The wild exultant yells of triumph that had followed the combat from the trench in which Ginger stood fell to a breathless hush.
`Blimey I' gasped Summers, 'he 's got 'it. Not 'arf 'e aint.'
Ginger did not answer. With parted lips he was watching the Blue Devil, now the only machine in the sky, for immediately following the gunner's last brilliant effort the two-seater had gone into a spin from which it did not recover until it crashed just beyond the river. A curious silence hung on the air, for the Blue Devil's engine had stopped. With stationary propeller, the machine was gliding back from the enemy lines, over which the fight had carried it, towards its own. It was, in fact, heading for the section of trenches held by the International Brigade.
`Maybe he'll be all right, after all,' exclaimed Summers, nervously.
Ginger shook his head. 'He'll never do it,' he said confidently. 'He 's due for a crack up, anyway, when he comes down on the rocks. Even if he isn't hit I'm afraid he 's going to be knocked about when he strikes the carpet.'
The further the crippled machine glided the
more clear it became that Ginger's estimate had been correct. The Blue Devil could not reach the front line trench. The pilot did his best—as he was bound to do in the circumstances—holding the machine in a steady, shallow glide, regar
dless of the rattle of musketry that followed it from the enemy trenches.
`Yes! He'll do it!' yelled Summers, dancing in his excitement. 'Come on, mate, come on!'
`He'll be at least fifty yards short,' replied Ginger calmly.
`Then he'll be potted before he can get in here,' declared Summers.
Ginger knew what he meant. The place where the Blue Devil would crash in another instant was in full view of the enemy trenches, and the artillery beyond them, so the machine and its pilot would be subject to a fire from which only a miracle could help them to escape.
The Blue Devil struck the sun-drenched rocks with a crash like a falling tree. Under the impact the landing-gear was torn off, but not before it had sent the fuselage bounding high into the air. For a moment it hung in space, wallowing like a fish out of water, and then came down on a wing-tip with another crash that ripped the wing off at its roots.
The rest settled down with a splintering of three-ply. Then there was silence.
Ginger, rushing to a loophole in the parapet, saw that the crash lay about forty yards only from the
place where he stood. Risking a sniper's bullet, he watched to see if the pilot was able to disentangle himself, but there was no sign of movement.
`You'll get a bullet through yer nob if yer stand there much longer,' warned Summers.
Ginger twisted away from the loophole, his brain in a whirl. 'He's trapped in the wreckage,' he cried hoarsely. 'I know he was all right coming down because I saw him moving; his head was over the side looking to see where he was going.'
`What abort it ? Yer can't do nothin'.'
Ì tell you he's only trapped,' cried Ginger again. As if in confirmation, a faint hail came from where the crashed machine lay.
A ripple of excited conversation buzzed along the trench, but nobody did anything.
Ginger felt a wave of anger and indignation sweep through him, and the sound of rifle fire from the enemy trenches moved him to a sort of madness. Wild-eyed, he looked about him for an instrument that might be of service. The only thing he could see was the bayonet on his rifle. In an instant he had snatched it off and was scrambling up the parapet.
"Ere, what's the idea ?' jerked out Summers in a startled voice.
Ginger did not answer. He flung himself over the parapet of sandbags, and staggering to his feet, ran like a hare towards the crash. There was no thought in his mind that he was performing a brave
action; in fact, he hardly knew what he was doing. The action had been spontaneous. An airman, and as such, a comrade, was exposed to peril. It seemed, therefore, only a natural thing that he should do his best to rescue him. That this might in the end turn to his own advantage was the last thought in his mind, nor did it remotely occur to him that the incident might be the answer to his prayers.
With bullets whistling past his ears, or screaming off the rocks around his feet, he reached his objective, and saw at once that his suspicions were correct. The pilot was not only conscious, but was making strenuous efforts to free himself. What prevented this was a flying wire dragged taut across his chest, holding him in his seat. He rolled his eyes questioningly when Ginger arrived on the scene.
`Losh, mon, take care! Yell get shot.'
The advice fell on heedless ears. Ginger hacked on the wire with frantic energy. Even if he had been prepared to take care, it was not easy to see how this was to be done. 'Keep your hands clear or the wires may cut them,' he admonished the struggling pilot.
Scotland for ever!' shouted the pilot of the Blue Devil.
Scotland yourself; I'm English,' shouted Ginger, and with that he struck the wire such a tremendous blow that not only did the bayonet sever it but it came within an inch of taking the pilot's
hand off. To complicate matters, at that moment a bullet hit the blade, striking it out of his hand with such force that his wrist was numbed, and he pitched clean over the fuselage on to the rocks on the other side. Half dazed, he was picking himself up when a hand seized him by the collar and dragged him with scant regard for bruises into a near by shell-hole.
In the bottom of this haven of refuge rescuer and rescued stared at each other. 'You asked for what you got,' snorted Ginger. 'You must have been daft to give that fellow such an easy shot.'
The Scotsman blinked. 'Are ye telling me how to fly, ye little whipper-snapper ?' he roared.
Ì am. But don't shout so loud,' returned Ginger. `Let's get into the trench.' He started crawling up the side of the shell-hole, but the Scotsman dragged him back.
`Wait, mon! It's you that's daft. Listen.'
Ginger paused. Bullets were ripping through the machine. A shell sailed over and burst not far away, sending such a shower of broken rock into the air that the two occupants of the hole ducked and covered their heads with their hands.
`We'd do better to stay where we are until the fireworks are over,' announced the Scotsman. 'Ye haven't a drink on ye, I expect ?'
Ginger shook his head as he crawled back to the bottom of the shell-hole. 'You're right,'
he agreed. `We'll wait until it's dark. It won't be long.'
The Scotsman took a paper packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and lighting one, sent a cloud of smoke into the air as he made himself as comfortable as the place would permit. 'This matter of me making a fool o' mysel'. Ye're an expert, na doot ?'
Ginger ignored the sarcasm in the other's voice. `No,' he said. 'But I watched the fight, and while I know that it's easy to sit on the carpet and criticize what somebody is doing upstairs, it seemed to me that you made a bloomer.'
`Ye're richt, laddie,' admitted the Scotsman. `But what d'ye know about fichting in the air
?' Ì've done a little,' Ginger told him.
`Ye mean—ye're a pilot ?'
Ì am.'
`Then what are ye doing in the trenches ?'
For the first time in two days a thrill of hope shot into Ginger's heart as he saw to what possibilities the chance meeting might lead. Ì only arrived in the trenches by accident,'
he declared. I want to fly.'
`Ye're not pitching me a tale ?' asked the Scotsman suspiciously.
Ì've flown pretty nearly everything from single-seater fighters to multi-engined transports and flying-boats,' returned Ginger. 'I'm not bragging. I'm just telling you. I shouldn't say that if it weren't true because you could soon prove me a liar by leading me up to a machine.'
`Yet I find it a wee bit hard to believe, ye ken. Ye look sich a kid.'
`So I may do, but I've been flying for years,' protested Ginger, warming up to his subject as he saw a chance of realizing his ambition. 'There's hardly a country that I haven't flown over—and I've done some war flying. Give me a 'plane with a gun on it and I'll soon show you whether or not I can use it.' Ginger was tempted to tell McLannock about Biggles and Algy, but he felt that it might lead to dangerous ground. Naturally, he did not wish to divulge too much now; there would be time for more after he had seen the result of his preliminary overtures.
Weel, if that's true, I can find a job for ye doon in my flight,' answered the Scotsman.
`The easiest way to settle all doubt would be for you to lend me a machine—wouldn't it ?
' suggested Ginger earnestly. 'If I couldn't fly, I should be a fool to kill myself by trying, shouldn't I ?'
Ày, that's richt enough,' admitted McLannock. `But how did ye come to be shoved in the trenches ?'
Ìt was all an accident,' replied Ginger quickly and truthfully. Ìt's a long story. Somehow I managed to get shoved into the International Brigade, and found myself up here in the line before I knew what was happening. That wasn't my wish, you may be sure. My trouble is, I can't speak Spanish, so I can't do anything about it. I shouldn't like my sergeant to think I was trying to swing the lead out of the line.'
`No, that's true. Weel, if we can get out o' here
I'll hae something to say aboot it. We're short o' machines, but shorter still of pilots, so if ye fly like the way ye charged across
to me when I crashed, then losh, mon, I'll reckon the crash on the credit side of the book.'
Ginger, his heart pounding with a new hope, looked at the sky. It was now dark, except where nervous sentries were firing star shells. The firing, too, had died away, except for an occasional fitful splutter of a machine-gun. 'I think we could get into the trench now,'
he suggested.
McLannock got stiffly on to his knees and peered cautiously over the rim of the shell-hole.
Àre you hurt?' asked Ginger quickly.
Ìt's nothin' but a wee bit of a bruise here and there,' was the casual reply. 'I think it's safe to move now, but we'll need to let the fellers in your trench know it's us, or maybe they'll pump some lead at us.'
`Let me go first,' replied Ginger. 'I've got a pal in the trench who will know my voice.'
And with that he began crawling quickly towards the trench.
At a distance of about fifteen yards from it he cupped his hands round his mouth and called, ' Fred—hi ! Fred!'
A second or two later he saw the little cockney crawling to meet him.
`Strewth! I fort you was scuppered,' said Summers hoarsely.
`We're all right,' Ginger told him. lock's here with me. Go and tell the troops not to fire.'
Summers retraced his steps, and in a little while Ginger heard him calling that it was all right to proceed, so running forward, he jumped down into the trench, McLannock following closely behind him.
They found quite a crowd waiting for them, including the French sergeant and the Spanish commanding officer, with whom the Scotsman at once entered into conversation, with much pointing in the direction of Ginger, who, in the meanwhile,was the subject of much congratulation. Even the French sergeant amazed—not to say embarrassed —him by patting him on the back.
18 Biggles In Spain Page 7