by W E Johns
CHAPTER 5
THE FIELD DAY
ANOTHER incident that occurred about this time must be recorded because it was Biggles’ first essay in the art of war, and although not everyone shared his view, he was satisfied with it. Whatever opinions may have been at the time, the affair reveals, at all events, that even at this early age Biggles possessed that faculty for stratagem which was to be displayed to a greater extent in the years to come. A tendency towards individual effort, in which he afterwards excelled, rather than acceptance of the role of a small cog in a big machine, is also to be observed.
As stated earlier, there was at the school a cadet corps to which every boy and master had to belong, for it was the Head’s own creation and had become his pride and joy. He was, of course, the commanding officer, and obviously took a delight in demonstrating his knowledge of the military matters he had acquired when he himself was a soldier. At least one half day a week was devoted to drill, and for the last hour of Saturday morning it was his custom to lecture the whole school on the art of war, as approved at that time by the War Office. He laid stress constantly on the initiative which the British soldier possessed. “A soldier without initiative,” he was fond of saying, “is a mere machine.” The class ended with the singing of the school marching song which the Head himself had composed.
The uniform was as simple and inexpensive as could be devised, consisting of a navy blue sweater, blue breeches, blue puttees and black boots. The headgear was a blue forage cap. The accoutrements were a white belt, with two ammunition pouches (which were never used for anything but carrying sweets) and a dummy rifle made of wood. On the shoulders, in white letters, in the form of a semi-circle, was the cypher M.H.S. O.T.C., which stood for Malton Hall School, Officers’ Training Corps. There were, it must be admitted, two real service rifles in the Head’s study that were sometimes used by the older boys for target practice on the local Volunteer rifle range.
Biggles was in the cadet corps with the rest, and it was with anything but pleasure that he looked forward to the weekly drill parade, which he held to be largely a waste of time and energy. The customary procedure was for the four companies of twenty-five boys each to parade in the quad, where a slow and extremely boring inspection took place. The troops, each company under a master who for the time being became an officer, then marched to the football field, where two hours was spent quick marching, slow marching, double marching, lying down, getting up, and marching on again. Afterwards the troops came home at the double to prove they were not tired. All this Biggles suffered in silence as part of the price he had to pay for his education.
The Head took it seriously, but few of the boys shared his enthusiasm. To most of them it was a silly game played for the Head’s amusement. None could guess that within a few years most of them would be doing these things in grim earnest on the war-stricken fields of Flanders; or that before the First World War was over nearly a third of them were to die on that same battlefield. The O.T.C. was not, of course, confined to Malton Hall. Every school of any size in the country had its O.T.C., and after the war was over each could show a similar melancholy record.
But to return to Biggles. He became interested, although not by any means enthusiastic, when one day the Head announced that the Corps had been accorded a great honour. The Volunteers were having a Field Day, and he had obtained permission for the school corps to take part. There was a scheme, as there had to be in field manceuvres, and he went on to explain it. The great thing, he said, was to make the exercise as much like the real thing as possible.
This struck Biggles as a little odd, for he could not see how the scheme could be realistic if each side knew beforehand what the other side was going to do. However, he said nothing.
As he understood it the general idea was this. At a given time a convoy would advance down the road from Hertbury to Wanton, a distance of about five miles. The purpose of the convoy was to get through to Wanton with an imaginary load of stores and ammunition for imaginary troops besieged there. As there were no troops to spare, this convoy would be only a “ token” force, consisting simply of a horse-drawn covered van carrying a large orange flag. It would be under the control of Colour Sergeant Buckle, the local recruiting sergeant, and to help it to get through it would be defended by a battalion of Volunteers known as Red Force. To prevent it from getting through would be the task of another battalion known as Blue Force. The Cadet Corps would be attached to the attacking force; that is, Blue Force.
The success or failure of the convoy would be judged by a number of umpires, senior regular officers who would be identified by white armlets. They would, on their horses, watch the progress of the battle. Chief among them would be General Cauldwell himself, from the War Office. It would be, said the Head, a most interesting experience, and they were very lucky to be allowed to take part. It was necessary that every boy should do his best to make the thing a success by using his initiative. They were to remember that the General himself would be watching.
Excitement mounted as the great day drew near, although this, Biggles suspected, was largely due to the fact that it meant missing a day in school. Anything was better than school.
The day dawned clear and bright, and there was nearly as much excitement in the school as if the Corps had really been ordered out on active service. Rations, consisting of sandwiches, were to be carried in haversacks, and water bottles, borrowed from the barracks, would be filled. This gave the project a final touch of realism, and when the company stood to attention on parade, Biggles, with a supply of acid drops in one pouch, and an apple in the other, was determined that the convoy should not get through.
A tall fair boy named Curtiss, who was shortly going into the Guards, had supplemented his equipment with a repeating pistol that fired caps. Of this he was obviously very proud, for he had been rushing about shouting “Charge!” and blazing away at an imaginary foe at some risk of running out of ammunition before the battle started. This picture was to flash back into Biggles’ mind when, five years later, he read in the London Gazette, in a citation of the award of the Victoria Cross, of how Captain Lionel Curtiss, Grenadier Guards, had died on the Somme at the head of his men in a gallant attempt to regain a lost position.
The corps marched off, with the Head bouncing along in front, his old regimental badge flashing in the sun. Little Page, the drummer, kept the troops in step with his drum.
They went through the town at the double, to show they were no ordinary foot-sloggers, and when the shopkeepers came out to watch, Biggles began to feel that there was something in being a soldier after all.
At the far side of the town, on a grass field, drawn up in lines, stood the two forces of Volunteers that were to oppose each other in the manoeuvres. There, too, near the road, stood the “convoy” with its large, orange flag. Conspicuous near it in the scarlet uniform of the Militia, was Colour Sergeant Buckle, a rather short but broad, virile-looking man, with the ends of his moustache as stiff and sharp as bayonet points. A red, white and blue rosette was pinned to the side of his cap. He was very much on his toes, as if to remind the troops that he was a “regular” while they were only amateurs. It fascinated Biggles to see the way his joints worked; they might have been fitted with springs. Even more imposing were the umpires, on horseback, important-looking officers, some of whom had gold on the peaks of their caps. The General was with them, easily distinguished by his red lapels.
There was a good deal of activity. Officers hurried about. Some stood in groups poring over maps.
“Are your men ready, Colonel Chase?” called the General loudly.
The Head saluted smartly. “All ready, sir.”
There was a flutter of excitement as the General’s trumpeter blew a call. The convoy moved off, its orange standard flying bravely. Biggles watched it go, for it was the enemy he was now determined to wipe out.
Orders were shouted. Troops sprang to attention, sloped arms, and began to move off to the positions allotted
to them. The convoy was now on the road, and the defending force, to Biggles surprise, instead of marching with it, began to deploy on either flank at a considerable distance from it.
After a final conversation with the officer commanding Blue Force, the Head, more business-like than Biggles had ever seen him, called the corps to attention. Taking his place at the head of the column he led his troops in the direction opposite from the one taken by the convoy.
This, to Biggles, was all very puzzling. There was the convoy in plain view, yet nobody was attempting to interfere with it. He had not the remotest idea of where they were going, or what they were going to do. He thought the Head might have told them instead of keeping the information to himself. Not knowing made things very boring. The rest of Blue Force was already a long way off, moving in an entirely different direction. They were going away from the convoy instead of towards it. Biggles could not imagine what they were going to do.
The next hour brought no change in the situation, and Smith agreed with Biggles that war was a dreary business. He was glad, he said, that he had remembered to put some sherbet in his water. Biggles crunched an acid drop. “We seem to be getting farther away from everything,” he observed moodily.
“Stop that talking in the ranks!” shouted the Head.
An umpire galloped past, as if on a definite errand. He did not stop. The march continued across a seemingly endless succession of ploughed fields. Biggles’ interest was definitely on the wane. His instinct about soldiering had been right, he decided.
However, when at last the Head halted his corps in a wood and started to make his dispositions, the thing once more began to show promise. Boys were called to the front, given their orders, and moved off. Biggles was detailed to be a scout, and by good fortune, Smith with him. Their particular duty was to go on to a copse on some high ground in the distance and watch for the convoy. Nothing was said about what they were to do if they saw it. However, that was a minor point, thought Biggles, as with Smith beside him, his wooden rifle at the “trail,” he set off at a trot.
Reaching the copse they sat down. “That’s better,” said Smith. “Now we can talk and eat our sandwiches. I’m glad I brought sherbet. It’s better than plain water, don’t you think?”
Biggles did think so.
There was not a soul in sight, either in the fields or on the road, which could be seen some three hundred yards below, where it entered a cutting with high hedges on either side. It was all very quiet. Not a shot had so far been fired, which was most disappointing, Biggles thought, because there had been a rumour that the Volunteers were to be issued with blank cartridges. “I call this pretty dull,” he remarked.
“Don’t worry. We’re all right here, where no one can see us,” said Smith. “I vote we stay here all day.”
Half an hour passed with nothing to break the monotony. Not a soldier could be seen.
“If you ask me,” remarked Smith, “I’d say we’ve been forgotten. It’s probably all over by now. I suppose that is the right road down there?”
“It’s the only one, so it must be,” replied Biggles. In his heart he agreed with Smith.
Something had gone wrong without a doubt, otherwise there would have been some attacking or defending by now.
“How long are you going to stay here?” asked Smith, getting up and starting to pick blackberries.
“I don’t know,” admitted Biggles.
“I suppose we came to the right place?”
“I thought so when we came here, but I’m beginning to wonder.”
Smith changed the subject. He pointed. “They look like chestnut trees over there. What about going over and getting some?”
“I think we ought to stay a bit longer,” demurred Biggles. “After all, we don’t want to miss the battle.”
“What battle?” inquired Smith, excusably perhaps. “There isn’t any battle. I’ll bet everyone’s got fed up and gone home.”
Biggles sprang to his feet, staring. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Here comes the convoy!” He pointed to the vehicle with the orange flag, which now appeared on the road, moving slowly in their direction.
“There doesn’t seem to be anybody defending it,” observed Smith.
“There doesn’t seem to be anybody attacking it, either,” returned Biggles.
“Shall we fire on it?” asked Smith, getting his rifle ready.
“What’s the use? We’ve nothing to fire,” Biggles pointed out. “The sergeant wouldn’t know we were shooting at him.” Then he stiffened under a wave of inspiration. “I say, Smith, I’ve got an idea!”
“You have?”
“Yes.”
“A good one?”
“Jolly good.”
“What is it?”
“Let’s capture the convoy.”
Smith frowned. “Is that allowed?”
“What do you mean—is it allowed? It’s there to be captured, and aren’t we part of the attacking force?”
“That’s what I thought,” admitted Smith.
“Very well, then. Why shouldn’t we capture the enemy’s flag?”
“Would that be playing the game?”
“Playing what game?” came back Biggles irritably. “You’re always talking about playing the game. We aren’t playing a game; we’re at war.”
“All right. You know best. But what about the sergeant? He’ll cuff our ears if we try to push him off.”
Biggles did not deny it. He thought it more than probable. “The thing to do,” he declared, “is to get him to leave the cart of his own free will.”
“Why should he do that?”
“We’ll make him.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Biggles. “We’ll go down to the road, to that place where it disappears through those banks.”
“Then what?”
“You go into the bushes on the far side, and when the cart gets level, let out a howl as though you were being murdered.”
“What for?”
“To make the sergeant jump off the cart, you ass. He’ll rush to your rescue.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I shall jump on the cart and drive it away.”
Smith whistled softly. “By gum! I say, that is an idea!” Then a doubt seemed to strike him. “Wait a minute, though. What’s going to happen to me?”
“You can kill the sergeant.”
“Kill him?”
“Not really, of course. What you do is point your rifle at his face and shout, ‘Hands up!’ Then he’ll surrender.”
“Suppose he doesn’t? Suppose he clouts me?”
“He wouldn’t be such a cad as to do that,” declared Biggles. “You tell him he’s dead, and if he’s anything like a sport he ought to jolly well stay dead. Unless he’s an absolute rotter he will.”
“All right,” agreed Smith dubiously. “I suppose someone has to make sacrifices in a war.”
They set off. Reaching the hedge that bounded the road, Biggles found a place to hide.
Smith went over and disappeared into the bushes on the far side. The cart was still coming on, slowly. Biggles could see the Colour Sergeant, rosette in cap, sitting on the seat with the reins looped over a hook, smoking a pipe. His pointed waxed moustache gave him a very fierce expression. Biggles hoped that Smith would not see him until he had groaned, or he might change his mind.
This hope, apparently, was fulfilled. As the cart drew level there burst from the bushes a hollow moan of such heart-rending quality that Biggles half rose, fearing that Smith had really met with an accident. Again came the sound, pitched on a higher note, and followed by the words, “Help! Help!” Biggles mentally congratulated Smith on his brilliant acting.
The sergeant behaved like the man of action that he was. In the matter of speed, nothing that Biggles could have imagined was to be compared with reality. “Whoa, mare!” he cried, and reaching the road in a bound, plunged into the bushes.
Biggles made a flyin
g leap into the vacated seat, took the reins and grabbed the whip.
Subconsciously he heard Smith say “Hands up!” but the words were followed instantly by a yelp of pain that gave him reason to fear that Smith’s objections had been fully justified by the event. But there were bound to be casualties in war, he thought, as in his excitement he gave the unsuspecting horse a cut with the whip. He had only intended to crack it.
The horse responded nobly. In fact, it responded too well. It bolted.
Biggles bounced in his seat, but hung on to the reins, shouting “Whoa! Whoa!” But he might as well have saved his breath for all the effect this had. The horse went on at full gallop, terrified now, it seemed, by the noise it was itself making. Biggles clung to the seat, waiting for an end that now seemed inevitable. Behind him a cloud of dust rose high into the air.
He was probably lucky. So was an old man who came round a corner on a bicycle. Seeing what was coming he rode into the hedge and Biggles saw him no more. An old woman, filling buckets from a well, nearly fell into it as a wheel missed her by inches. A dog, asleep in the road outside a farm, also had a narrow escape. A line of ducks, waddling in single file from one side of the road to the other, disappeared in a cloud of feathers.
The horse only slowed down and finally stopped when its strength was spent, by which time it had covered, as near as Biggles could judge, about three miles. The animal began to graze, while Biggles, weak from shock, mopped a sweating face with trembling hands.
Actually, he was elated by the success of his plan, even though the way in which it had worked out was not entirely what he had visualised. However, he had no intention of losing what he had captured at so much risk to life and limb, so taking the bridle he led the now passive horse through a gate to a convenient field barn, where he tied it to a staple in the wall. He tore the flag from its pole, tucked it under his jersey, and returning to the road, set off back the way he had come, feeling that the day had been worth while after all.
The long walk back was tiresome, particularly as he had to avoid several groups of people who were standing about, obviously discussing the runaway. He had gone about half way when he had a fright. Rounding a corner he came suddenly face to face with the Colour Sergeant, looking very hot and very angry. Biggles realised at once that the soldier was looking for what he had lost, a contingency for which he, Biggles, should have been prepared, but was not.
