Biggles of the Fighter Squadron

by W E Johns

  Chapter 8

  The Thought Reader

  The summer sun blazed down in all its glory from a sky of cloudless blue. Biggles, his head resting on his hands, lay flat on his back in a patch of deep, sweet-scented grass in a quiet corner of the aerodrome, and stared lazily at a lark trilling gaily far above.

  The warmth, the drowsy hum of insects, and the smell of the clean earth were balm to his tired body. For since the disaster which had robbed his squadron of two-thirds of its machines he had been doing three patrols a day. New Camel planes had now arrived, however, and at the commanding officer's suggestion he was taking things quietly for a few days.

  The war seemed far away. Even the mutter of guns along the Line had died down to an occasional fitful salvo. France was not such a bad place, after all, he decided, as he glanced at his watch, and then settled himself again in the grass, his eyes on the deep-blue sky.

  A little frown puckered his brow as he heard the soft swish of footsteps approaching through the grass, but he did not move. The footsteps stopped close behind him.

  'You taking up star-gazing?' said a voice. It was Algy's.

  'I should be if there were any to gaze at. You ought to know, at your age, that they only come out at night,' replied Biggles coldly.

  'You'll go boss-eyed staring up that way,' warned Algy. 'Do you expect to see something, or are you just looking into the future?'

  'That's it,' agreed Biggles.

  'What's it?' asked Algy.

  'I'm looking into the future. I can tell you just what you'll see up there in exactly three and a half minutes' time.'

  'You're telling me!' sneered Algy. 'You mean a nice blue sky!'

  'And something else,' replied Biggles seriously. 'I've been doing a bit of amateur astrology lately, and I'm getting pretty good at it. I can work things out by deduction. My middle name ought to have been Sherlock—Sherlock Holmes, you know, the famous detective!'

  'Well, do your stuff,' invited Algy. 'What are you deducing now?'

  Biggles yawned, and said:

  'In one minute you'll see a Rumpler* plane come beetling along from the south-east at about ten thousand feet. Our people will archie him, but they won't hit him. When he gets over that clump of poplars away to the right, he'll make one complete turn, and then streak for home, nose down, on a different course from the one he came by.'

  * German two-seater biplane used for general duties as well as fighting.

  'This sun has given you softening of the brain,' declared Algy. 'What makes you think that, anyway?'

  'I don't have to think—I know!' replied Biggles. 'I've got what is known as second sight. It's a gift that – '

  'Come, come, Bigglesworth,' broke in another voice. 'You can't get away with that!'

  Biggles raised himself on his elbow, and found himself looking into the smiling face of Colonel Raymond, of Wing Headquarters.

  'Sorry, sir!' he gasped, struggling to get to his feet. 'I thought Algy was by himself.'

  'All right—lie still, don't let me disturb you. I was just looking around—Hark!'

  A faint drone became audible high overhead, and three pairs of eyes turned upwards to a tiny black speck heading up from the south-east. Although small, it could be recognised as a German aeroplane, a Rum-pier.

  Whoof! Whoof! Whoof!

  Three little fleecy white clouds blossomed out some distance behind it as the British archie—anti-aircraft— gunners took up the chase.

  Biggles glanced at the others out of the corner of his eye, and their expressions brought a quick twitch of amusement to the corners of his lips. His smile broadened as the Rumpler held on its way until it was almost exactly above the group of poplars to which he had referred. Then, very deliberately, it made a complete circle and raced back, nose down, towards the Lines on a different course.

  'Not a bad forecast for an amateur!' observed Biggles calmly.

  'Pretty good!' admitted Algy reluctantly. 'Maybe you know why he's flying in that direction now?'

  'I do,' replied Biggles. 'It's a matter of simple deduction. He's going that way because if he followed his own course back he'd just about bump into Mahoney's flight coming in from patrol. He knows all about that, and as he doesn't fancy his chance with them he's steering wide of them.'

  The enemy Rumpler was almost out of sight now, and the drone of its engine was gradually drowned by others rapidly approaching. Following the course by which the Rumpler pilot had crossed the Lines came three British Camel planes, straight towards the aerodrome.

  'I told you my middle name ought to have been Sherlock!' grinned Biggles.

  'Good show, Bigglesworth!' said the colonel. 'I must say that was very neat. Tell us how you knew all this.'

  'Oh, sir!' replied Biggles reprovingly. 'Fancy asking a conjurer to show you how he does his tricks! It isn't done.'

  'But I'm very interested,' protested the colonel.

  'So am I, to tell you the truth, sir!' Biggles replied. 'You know as much as I do now, but I figure it out this way. The average German hasn't very much imagination, and he works to a timetable, like a clock. I've been over here for the last two days at this time, and on both occasions that Rumpler has turned up and done exactly the same thing.

  'Well, when I put my ear to the ground a little bird tells me that what a Hun does twice he'll do three times —and he'll keep on doing it until someone stops him. Maybe I shall have to stop him.

  'If you ask me why he comes over here you've got me. I don't know. But I should say he comes over to look at something. He doesn't just come over on an ordinary reconnaissance. He's sent to look at something which he can see from that position where he turned over the poplars.

  'Having seen it, he beetles off home. I may be wrong, but even my gross intelligence tells me he doesn't come over here just for fun. I must confess I'm getting a bit curious. What Huns can see I ought to be able to see.'

  'That's what I was thinking,' agreed the colonel. 'The Huns seem to be seeing quite a lot of this sector, too, of late. A week ago an artillery brigade took up a position in the sunken road at Earles. They were well camouflaged and could not have been seen from above, yet they were shelled out of existence the same night. That wasn't guesswork.

  'We had to have some guns somewhere, so a couple of days ago we brought up a heavy naval gun, and sank it in a gun-pit behind that strip of wood on the Amiens road. It was perfectly concealed against aerial observation, yet by twelve noon the Boche artillery were raking that particular area and blew it to pieces. That wasn't guesswork, either.

  'Then some ammunition lorries parked behind the walls of the ruined farm at Bertaple—the same thing happened to them. Now you know what I mean when I say that the Boche has been looking pretty closely at this sector.'

  'Someone's been busy, that's certain,' agreed Biggles.

  'I wish you'd have a look round,' the colonel went on. 'I don't know what to tell you to look for—if I did, there would be no need for you to go. You'll have to put two and two together, and you're pretty good at that!'

  'Don't make me blush in front of Algy, sir!' protested Biggles, grinning. 'Right-ho, I'll beetle around right away and see if I can see what the gentleman in the Rumpler saw!'

  Half an hour later, Biggles was in the air flying over exactly the same course as that taken by the Boche machine, and as he flew he subjected the ground below to a searching scrutiny. Reaching the spot where the Rumpler had turned, he redoubled his efforts, studying the landscape road by road and field by field.

  There was a singular lack of activity. Here and there he saw small camps where British battalions from the trenches were resting. He picked out a wrecked windmill, minus its arms, an overturned lorry, and a dispatch-rider tearing along a road in a cloud of dust.

  One or two small shell-torn villages came within his range of vision, and a farm labourer harvesting his corn, piling the sheaves into shocks, regardless of the nearness of the firing-line.

  Shell-holes, both old and new,
could be seen dotted about the landscape, but he could not see a single mark likely to be of interest to, or which might be taken as a signal for, the enemy. He saw the place where the artillery brigade had been shelled, and he turned away, feeling depressed.

  For an hour or more he continued his quest, but without noting anything of interest. And then, in not too good a humour, he returned to the aerodrome.

  Colonel Raymond was talking to Major Mullen when he landed.

  'Well, Sherlock,' called the colonel, 'what's the latest?'

  'Nothing doing, sir,' replied Biggles shortly. 'But I haven't given up hope. I hope to pass the time of day with that Rumpler pilot to-morrow, anyway!'

  The following morning he was in the air in ample time to intercept the Boche machine. In fact, he had deliberately allowed himself a wide margin of time in order to make a further survey of the ground which appeared to be the object of the enemy plane's daily visit, and towards which he now headed his Camel. Reaching it, he gave a grunt of annoyance as his probing eyes searched the earth below. Everything was just the same—the same lonely farm labourer was still harvesting his corn.

  Flying lower, he saw, farther on, a large body of British troops —a brigade, he judged it to be—lying fairly well concealed along the edge of a wood, no doubt awaiting their turn to move up to the trenches.

  He wondered vaguely whether the prying eyes in the Rumpler would see them, but he decided not, both from the fact that the machine would be too high up and would hardly be likely to venture so far over the British Line.

  He glanced at the watch on his instrument board and saw that he still had a quarter of an hour to wait for the Rumpler, assuming it came at the same time as before.

  'Well, I might as well be getting plenty of height,' he mused, as he tilted the nose of the Camel upwards, glancing down for a final survey of the ground as he did so.

  His eye fell on the labourer, still working at his harvest. It seemed to Biggles that he was working unnecessarily fast, and a frown lined his brow as he looked around the sky to see if there were any signs of an impending storm to account for the man's haste. But the sky was an unbroken blue canopy from horizon to horizon.

  He looked back at the man on the ground, and, leaning over the side of the cockpit to see better, he stared at the field and the position of the shocks of corn with a puzzled expression on his face.

  It struck him that, in spite of the man's haste in moving the corn, the shocks were as numerous as they had been the previous day. They only seemed to have moved their positions, and they now formed a curious pattern, quite different from the usual orderly rows.

  'So that's your game, is it?' Biggles muttered, after a quick intake of breath, as he realised the significance of what he saw. His eyes followed a long line of sheaves pointing in the direction of the concealed infantry, and a number of isolated shocks which probably indicated the distance they were away, and so disclosed their position to the German aerial observer!

  Biggles' brain raced swiftly. What should he do? There were several courses open to him. He might proceed with his original plan and shoot down the Rumpler. That would at least prevent the information from reaching the German gunners.

  But suppose he failed? Suppose the Boche shot him down? He did not anticipate such a catastrophe, nor did he think it likely, but it was a possibility.

  His engine might be damaged, when he would be forced to land, in which case there was nothing to prevent the Rumpler from reaching home. He might have engine trouble and have to force-land, anyway, and he shuddered to think of the consequences, for he had not the slightest doubt but that the British infantry would be annihilated by the guns of the German artillery.

  Another plan would be to return to the aerodrome, ring up Colonel Raymond at Wing Headquarters, and tell him what he had discovered. The colonel could then send a message to the brigade warning them to shift their position before the bombardment started.

  'No,' he decided, 'that won't do.' It would take too long. It would allow the Boche plane ample time to return home and start the enemy gunners on their deadly work before the message could reach the brigade.

  The only really sure plan seemed to be to land and destroy the tell-tale signal before the Boche plane came over. If he could do that quickly he might still have time to get off again and get the Rumpler when it arrived.

  'Yes,' he thought, 'that's the safest way!' There was still ten minutes to go before the Rumpler was due to appear on the scene.

  Having made up his mind, he sideslipped steeply towards the ground near to where the supposed peasant was at work. The fact that he was unarmed did not worry him. After all, there was no reason to suppose that the spy would suspect he had been discovered—his method of conveying information to the enemy was so simple and so natural that nothing but a fluke or uncanny perception could detect it.

  It was improbable that a roving scout pilot would even pass over the field so far behind the Lines, much less suspect the sinister scheme. But the improbable had happened, and Biggles, as he swooped earthwards, could not help admiring the ingenuity of the plan.

  He did not risk a landing on the stubble of the cornfield, but dropped lightly to earth on a pasture a short distance away. Climbing from the cockpit, he threw his heavy flying coat across the lower wing and started off at a steady trot towards the cornfield. As he neared it he slowed down to a walk in order not to alarm the spy, and made for a gate leading into the field.

  He saw the supposed labourer, dressed in the typical blue garb of a French peasant, still carrying the sheaves of corn, and he smiled grimly at his thoroughness. For the labourer did not so much as glance up when a distant deep-toned hum announced the approach of his confederate, the Rumpler.

  He saw Biggles coming towards him and waved gaily.

  'Bonjour, m'sieur le capitain*!' he cried, smiling, and the pilot was too far away to see the curious gleam in his eyes.

  * French: Good day, Captain

  'Bonjour, m'sieur? echoed Biggles, still advancing. He was still about twenty yards away when he saw the peasant's hand move quickly to his pocket, and then up.

  Before he even suspected the other's purpose, a deafening roar filled Biggles' ears, and the world seemed to blow up in a sheet of crimson and orange flame that slowly turned to purple and then to black.

  As he pitched forward limply on to his face, Biggles knew that the spy had shot him!

  Biggles' first conscious realisation as he opened his eyes was a shocking headache. He tried to raise his arm to his head to feel the extent of the damage done by the spy's bullet, but his arm seemed to be pinned to his side. It was dark, too, and an overwhelming smell of fresh straw filled his nostrils, seeming to suffocate him.

  He saw some narrow strips of daylight in the darkness, and it took him several minutes of concentrated thought to realise that he was buried under a pile of corn sheaves.

  With a mighty effort that seemed to burst his aching head, he flung the sheaves aside and rolled out into the open, blinking like an owl in the dazzling sunlight.

  He struggled to his feet, and, swaying dizzily, looked about him. Apparently he was at the very spot where he had fallen; everything was precisely the same except that the spy was nowhere in sight.

  It seemed as if the spy had just flung the sheaves of corn over the pilot's unconscious body to conceal it from any casual passers-by, and then had made his escape.

  Biggles wondered how long he had been unconscious, for he had no means of knowing; his watch was on the instrument board of the Camel. From the position of the sun, however, he decided that it could not have been very long, but ample for the Rumpler pilot to read the message and return. At least, the machine was nowhere in sight, and he could not hear the sound of its engine. He tried to think, raising his hand to his aching head and looking aghast at his red-stained fingers when he took it away.

  Suddenly he remembered the infantry, and with a shock he recalled the perilous position in which they must now be placed
. He must get in touch with the brigade, was the thought that hammered through his brain. The inevitable artillery bombardment had not yet started, and he might still be in time to save them!

  The sudden splutter of a motor-car engine made him swing round, and he was just in time to see a rather dilapidated old Renault car with the spy at the wheel, disappearing out of the yard of the small farmhouse a short distance away, to which the cornfield evidently belonged.

  At the same time a thick column of smoke began to rise from the farm itself, and he guessed that the spy had set fire to the place to destroy any incriminating documents or clues he might have left behind in his hurried departure.

  Biggles' lips set in a straight line, and his eyes narrowed.

  'You aren't getting away with that!' he snarled, and started off at a swaying run towards the place where he had left his Camel, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw it was still there.

  He paused for an instant at a ditch to soak his handkerchief and bind it round the place on the side of his head where the spy's bullet had grazed it.

  'If I ever get a closer one than that it will be the last!' he muttered grimly, as he realised what a close shave he had had. Indeed, the spy must have thought he had killed him, he reflected, or he would not have left him to tell the tale.

  He climbed into the cockpit, and, after a swerving run, somehow managed to get the machine off the ground and headed towards the road down which the spy had disappeared.

  He saw the car presently, and the long cloud of dust hanging in the air behind it, and he flung the Camel at it viciously, knowing that he had no time to lose.

  He knew he ought to go straight to the infantry brigade and sound the warning, but his blood was up and he could not bear to think the spy might escape to continue his dangerous work elsewhere.

  In any case, he thought, as he tore down the road just above the column of dust, the Rumpler pilot could scarcely have reached home yet, for the fact that he — Biggles —had caught the spy in the act of escaping indicated that he had not been unconscious for more than a few minutes.

  His lips parted in a mirthless smile as he saw the fugitive look back over his shoulder at the pursuing demon on his trail, and the car leaped forward as the spy strove to escape by increasing his speed.