by W E Johns
He was out of the cockpit at once, and, with his eye on the farm, ran like a deer towards the turkey, which still appeared to be watching the proceedings with the greatest interest.
It stood quite still until he was not more than ten yards away, but still on the wrong side of the hedge, and it was only when he began to surmount this obstacle that the turkey’s interest began to take the form of mild alarm.
“Tch—tch!” clucked Biggles gently, holding out his hand and strewing the snow with imaginary grains of corn. But the bird was not so easily deluded. It began to sidestep away, wearing that air of offended dignity that only a turkey can adopt; and, seeing that it was likely to take real fright at any moment, Biggles made a desperate leap.
But the turkey was ready: it sprang nimbly to one side, at the same time emitting a shrill gobble of alarm. Biggles landed on all fours in the sodden grass.
“I ought to have brought my gun for you,” he raged, “and then I’d give you something to gobble about, you scraggy-necked —”
His voice died away as he gazed in stupefied astonishment at a man who had appeared at the door of the nearest poultry house—which, judging by the fork he held, he had been in the act of cleaning.
If Biggles was surprised, it was clear that the man was even more surprised, and for ten seconds they stared at each other speechlessly. Biggles was the first to recover his presence of mind, although he hesitated as to what course to pursue.
Remembering that he was in occupied Belgian territory, it struck him that the man looked more like a Belgian than an enemy.
“Are you German?” Biggles asked sharply, in French.
“No, Belgian,” replied the other quickly. “You are English, is it not?” he added quickly, glancing apprehensively towards the farmhouse.
The action was not lost on Biggles. “Are there Germans in the house?” he asked tersely.
“Yes, the Boches are living in my house!” The Belgian spat viciously.
Biggles thought swiftly. If there were Germans in the house they would be soldiers, and, of course, armed.
At any moment one of them might look out of a window and see him.
“Why have you come here?” the Belgian went on, in a nervous whisper.
Biggles pointed to the turkey. “For that,” he answered.
The Belgian looked at him in amazement. He looked at the bird, and then back at Biggles. Then he shook his head. “That is impossible,” he said. “I am about to kill it, for it has been kept back for the German officers in the village.”
“Will they pay you for it?” asked Biggles quickly.
“No.”
“Then I will. How much?”
The Belgian looked startled. “It is not possible!” he exclaimed again.
“Isn’t it?” Biggles cast a sidelong glance at the turkey, which, reassured by the presence of the owner, whom it knew, was strutting majestically up and down within three yards of them. He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out some loose franc notes, “Here, take this!” he said, and leapt on to the bird.
This time there was no mistake, and he clutched it in both arms. He seized the flapping wings and held them together with his left hand, taking a firm grip of the neck with his right.
“Come on, kill it!” he called to the Belgian. “I can’t!”
There was a sudden shout from the direction of the house and, looking up, he saw to his horror that a soldier in grey uniform was standing on the doorstep watching him. Again the call of alarm rang out and a dozen or more German troops—some half-dressed, others fully clad and carrying rifles—poured out.
For a moment they stood rooted in astonishment. Then, in a straggling line, they charged down into the paddock.
Biggles waited for no more. Ducking under the outstretched arm of the farmer, who made a half-hearted attempt to stop him, he scrambled over the hedge into the field where he had left the machine. His foot caught in a briar, and he sprawled headlong; but the bird, which he had no intention of relinquishing, broke his fall, and he was up again at once.
Dishevelled, and panting with excitement, he sped towards the Camel. Fortunately, the impact of Biggles’ ten stone weight as he fell seemed to have stunned the bird, or winded it; at any rate, it remained fairly passive during the dash to the machine.
As he ran, Biggles was wondering what he was going to do with the bird when he got to the machine, and blamed himself for overlooking this very vital question. With time he could have tied it up, but with the Germans howling like a pack of hounds in full cry less than a hundred yards away, there was no time for that.
He did the only thing possible. He slung the bird into the cockpit, and still holding it with his right hand climbed in after it. It was obvious at once that there was no room for both of them, for the cockpit of a Camel is small, and the turkey is a large bird.
At least, there was no room on the floor of the cockpit without jamming the control-stick one way or the other, which certainly would not do. The Camel was not fitted for side-by-side seating, so in sheer desperation he plonked the bird on to the seat and sat on it. He felt sorry for the bird, but there was no alternative, and he mentally promised it respite as soon as they got clear of the ground.
A rifle cracked perilously near, and another, so without waiting to make any fine adjustments, he shoved the throttle open and sped across the snow. It did not take him long to realise that he had bitten off rather more than he could chew, for the turkey was not only a large bird but a very strong one.
Whether it was simply recovering from the effects of the fall, or whether it was startled by the roar of the three hundred horse-power in the Camel’s Bentley rotary engine, is neither here nor there; but the fact remains that no sooner had he started to take off than the bird gave a convulsive jerk that nearly threw him on the centre-section. “Sit still, you fool,” he rasped. “Do you want to kill us both?” In sheer desperation he pulled the machine off the ground and steered a crazy course into the sky.
He breathed a sigh of relief as his wheels lifted, for he had fully expected his undercarriage to buckle at any moment under the unusual strain. The danger of the troops being past, he attempted to adjust himself and his passenger into positions more conducive to safety and comfort.
He groped for his belt, but quickly discovered that its length, while suitably adapted for a single person, was not long enough to meet round him in his elevated position. So he abandoned it, and keeping under the clouds, made for home, hoping that he would not find it necessary to fly in any position other than on even keel.
His head was, of course, sticking well up above the windscreen, and the icy slipstream of the propeller smote his face with hurricane force. He tried to crouch forward, but the turkey, relieved of part of his weight, seized the opportunity thus presented to make a commendable effort to return to its paddock.
It managed to get one wing in between Biggles’ legs and, using it as a lever, nearly sent him over the side; he only saved himself by letting go of the control-stick and grabbing at the sides of the cockpit with both hands. The machine responded at once to this unusual freedom by making a sickening, swerving turn earthwards, and he only prevented a spin, which at that altitude would have been fatal, by the skin of his teeth.
“Phew!” he gasped, thoroughly alarmed. “Another one like that and this bird’ll have the cockpit to himself!” He brought the machine to even keel, at the same time taking a swift look around for possible trouble.
He saw it at once, in the shape of a lone Albatros scout that had evidently just emerged from the clouds, and was now moving towards him.
He pursed his lips, then automatically bent forward to see if his gunsight was in order.
Only then did he realize that he was much too high in his seat to get his eye anywhere near it. In a vain attempt to do this he again crouched forward, and once more the bird displayed its appreciation of the favour by heaving to such good purpose that Biggles was flung forward so hard that his nose struc
k the top edge of the windscreen. He blinked under the blow, and retaliated by fetching the cause of it a smart jab with his left elbow.
Meanwhile, the Hun was obviously regarding the unusual position and antics of the pilot with deep suspicion, for he half turned away before approaching warily from another direction.
“That fellow must think I’ve got St. Vitus’ Dance,” thought Biggles moodily, as the bird started a new movement of short, sharp jerks which had the effect of causing the pilot to bob up and down and the machine to pursue a curious, undulating course. “I don’t wonder he’s scared!” he concluded. “Oh, help!”
The turkey had at last succeeded in getting its head free, and it raised it to a point not a foot from Biggles’ face. The look of dignity it had once worn was now replaced by one of indignation. For a moment or two all went well, for the bird seemed to be satisfied with this modicum of freedom, and began to look from side to side at its unusual surroundings with considerable interest.
“Yes, my lad, that’s a Hun over there!” Biggles told it viciously, as the Albatros swept round behind them. “If you start playing the fool again you’re likely to be roasted in your feathers!”
Taka-taka-taka-taka!
Biggles saw that the Hun had placed himself in a good position for attack, and knew the matter was getting serious. He had no intention of losing his life for the sake of a meal, so he forthwith prepared to jettison his cargo—an action which had always been in the background of his mind as a last resort.
But, to his increasing alarm, he found that this was going to be a by-no-means-simple matter, and he was considering the best way of accomplishing it when the staccato chatter of machine-guns, now very close, reached his ears.
To stunt, or even return the attack, was out of the question, and now, thoroughly alarmed, he moved his body as far forward as possible in order to allow the bird to wriggle up behind him and escape. The turkey appeared to realise his intention, and began worming its way upward between his back and the seat.
Taka-taka-taka-taka-taka!
“Get out, you fool!” yelled Biggles, as he heard the bullets boring into the fuselage behind him; but either the bird did not understand or else it refused to accept his invitation, for it remained quite still. There was only one thing to do, and he did it. He pulled the control-stick back and shot upwards into the clouds.
To climb right through them—a distance of perhaps several thousand feet—was, of course, impossible, for to keep the machine level in such conditions was out of the question. Still, he hung on until, finding himself becoming giddy, he dived earthward again, and looked anxiously for his pursuer as he emerged into clean air.
To his annoyance, he saw that the Hun was still there, about three hundred yards behind him.
In turning to look behind he had put his left hand on the bird, and as he turned once more he saw, to his horror, that his glove was covered with blood.
“I’ve been hit!” was his first thought.
Then he grasped the true state of affairs. No wonder the bird was quiet—it was dead. It had stopped a shot which in normal circumstances might have caught him in the small of the back.
The shock sobered him, but he found that it was a good deal easier to dispose of a dead bird than a living one. Twenty-odd pounds of dead weight was a very different proposition from the same weight of jerking, flapping, muscular life, and he had no difficulty in stowing it in the space between the calves of his legs and the bottom of the seat.
This done, he quickly buckled his safety-belt, and, turning to his attacker, saw, to his intense relief, that, presumably encouraged by his opponent’s disinclination to fight, the Hun was coming in carelessly to deliver the knock-out.
Biggles spun the Camel round in its own length and shot up in a climbing turn that brought him behind the straight-winged machine. That the pilot had completely lost him he saw at a glance, for he raised his head from his sights, and was looking up and down, as if bewildered by the Camel’s miraculous disappearance.
Confidently Biggles roared down to point-blank range. The German looked round over his shoulder at the same moment, but he was too late, for Biggles’ hand had already closed over his gun-lever.
He fired only a short burst, but it was enough. The Albatros reared up on its tail, fell off on to a wing, and then spun earthwards, its engine roaring in full throttle.
Biggles did not wait to see it crash. He was more concerned with getting home, for he was both cold and tired. He found a rift in the clouds, climbed up through it, and, without seeing a machine of any description, crossed the Lines into comparative safety.
Judging the position of the aerodrome as well as he could he crept cautiously back to the ground, and landed on the deserted tarmac.
With grim satisfaction, he hauled the corpse of his unwitting preserver from the cockpit, and, flinging it over his shoulder, strode towards the mess.
Dead silence greeted him as he opened the mess door, and, still in his flying-kit, heaved the body of his feathered passenger on to the table. Then a babble of voices broke out.
Mahoney pushed his way to the front, staring. “Where on earth did you get that?” he cried incredulously.
“I told you I was going turkey hunting,” replied Biggles simply, “and—well, there you are! Look a bit closer, and you’ll see the bullet-holes. I don’t like reminding you, old lad, but don’t forget you’re doing my early patrols next week. And don’t forget I’m carving the turkey!”
[Back to Contents]
WAR IN HOT BLOOD
ALGY LACEY ran into the officers’ mess and cast a swift, cautious glance round the room.
“Biggles is on the way here. He’s in a blazing white-hot fury!” he said quickly. “Let him get it off his chest—ahem!” He broke off and reached for the bell as Biggles, the subject of his warning, kicked the door open and glared from the threshold. His face was dead white; his lips were pressed into a thin, straight line; his nostrils quivered. His eyes, half-closed, glinted as they swept over the assembled officers.
“You’re a nice lot of poor skates,” he observed, in a half-choked voice. “It’s time some of us got down to a little war, instead of playing fool games like a lot of kids!”
“All right—pour yourself out some tea and get it off your chest,” suggested MacLaren calmly. He had seen the symptoms before.
Biggles glared at him belligerently. He seemed to have difficulty in finding his voice.
“Where’s Wilson?” asked Mahoney.
“Wilson’s dead!” replied Biggles shortly. Wilson was an officer who had recently transferred to the squadron from a two-seater unit.
“How did it happen?”
“I don’t know. I saw him going down in flames, but I didn’t know whether it was Wilson or Lacey until I got back. Wilson was bound to get it sooner or later, the way he flew. He acted as if the sky was his own.”
“Well, don’t let it worry you!” muttered Mahoney.
“That’s not worrying me. It was only —”
Biggles broke off, buried his face in his hands, and was silent for some seconds. Nobody spoke. Mahoney caught Algy’s eye, and grimaced. Algy shrugged his shoulders.Biggles drew a deep breath, and looked up. “Sorry, blokes,” he said slowly, “but I’m a bit het up! Any tea left in that pot?”
Mahoney pushed the teapot towards him.
“You remember young Parker of Wilks’ squadron?” went on Biggles.
“Yes. Nice lad! I always had an idea he’d do well. Got two or three Huns already, hasn’t he?”
“He had,” replied Biggles. “They don’t count now. They got him—this afternoon—murdered him.”
“What are you talking about?” Mahoney said tersely.
Biggles made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Let me tell you,” he said. “Listen here, chaps. I did the evening show today with Algy and Wilson. We worked round the Harnes, Annoeulin, Don area. Just before we got to Annoeulin I saw some S.E.s ahead —four of ‘em. Presently I sa
w it was Wilks and his Flight, so we linked up. There was nothing doing for a long time, and I thought it was going to be a washout, when a great mob of Huns suddenly blew along from the direction of Seclin. We ought not to have taken them on. There were too many of ‘em—but that’s by the way. They were a new lot to me—Albatros D. Fives, orange with black stripes. It was a circus I’ve never seen before. Wilks turned towards them. I followed, and then I don’t quite know what happened.” Biggles paused and puckered his forehead.
“They were a pretty rotten lot, or none of us would have got back,” he went on. “They flew badly, and shot all over the place. Two of ‘em flew straight into each other. They struck me as being a new mob that had just come up from a flying school as a complete unit—except the three leaders, who, of course, would be old hands. They wore green streamers—at least, one of ‘em did—the only one I saw. Did you notice anything, Algy?”
“I saw one with red streamers.”
“I didn’t. No matter. Towards the finish I saw Parker going down with a dead prop—looked to me as if it had been shot off. Still, he was gliding comfortably enough, and was bound to land all right—over the German side, of course—when this Hun with the green streamers comes along, spots him, and goes down after him.
“There was no need for him to do it. Parker was going down a prisoner, anyhow. I’ll give Parker full marks; he put up a jolly good show, although he couldn’t do anything else but go down. He kept his eye on Green Streamers, and sideslipped from side to side so that he couldn’t be hit.
“No man worth a hang would shoot a fellow who was helpless and bound to be taken prisoner, whatever else happened. It isn’t done. But Green Streamers— whether because he was sore because he couldn’t hit him, or whether it was because he wanted a flamer to make his claim good, I don’t know—shot at Parker all the way down. Even then he couldn’t hit him, and Parker managed to make a landing of sorts in a stubble-field.