With a grim suspicion forming in his mind, he glanced back over his shoulder. Along his line of flight, stretching away behind him like the wake of a ship, was a cloud of pale-blue smoke, and he knew beyond doubt that his engine was giving trouble.
He turned quickly to his instrument-board and confirmed it. The engine revolution counter had fallen to nearly half its normal revs. He looked over the side, now thoroughly alarmed, to judge his distance from the Lines. He decided, with a sigh of relief, that he mightjust reach them provided the trouble did not become worse. But in this he was doomed to disappointment, for hardly had the thought crossed his mind than there was a loud explosion, a streamer of flame leapt backwards from the whirling rotary engine, and a smell of burning oil filled his nostrils. Instantly he throttled back, preferring to land behind the German Lines rather than be burnt to a cinder in the air.
I le lost height rapidly, and fixed his eyes on the Lines in an agony of suspense.
Fortunately, the sky was clear of enemy machines, a fact which afforded him some consolation, for he Would have been in a hopeless position had he been attacked.
Still gliding, he moistened his lips, and tried opening the t hint t le a trifle. But the flames reappeared at once, and he had no alternative but to resume his former gliding angle.
Lines were not much more than a mile away now, but his height was less than a thousand feet, a fact that was unpleasantly impressed upon him by the closeness of the anti-aircraft gun-fire. An ominous crackling, too, warned him that the enemy machine-gunners on the ground were also making good shooting at the struggling machine. To make matters worse, there seemed to be a battle raging below. Clouds of smoke, stabbing spurts of flame, and leaping geysers of mud told a story of concentrated bombardment on both sides of the Lines. More than once the Camel rocked violently as abig projectile from the thundering howitzers hurtled by.
Biggles crouched a little lower in the cockpit, looking swiftly left and right, hoping to ascertain his position. But he was now too, low to distinguish anything except the churning inferno of smoke and mud. A battered tank, its nose pointing upwards like t hat of a sleeping lizard, loomed up before him and he kicked the rudder desperately to avoid it. Barbed wire, tangled and twisted, was everywhere. Mud, water, and bodies in khaki and field-grey were the only other things he could see.
There was no question of choosing a place to land—everywhere was the same, so there was no choice. There came a deafening explosion, the Camel twisted into a sickening sideslip, and, with a crash of rending timbers, struck the upright post of some wire entanglements.
Biggles' next conscious recollection was of digging feverishly in the mud under the side of his now upside-down machine in order to get clear, and then staring stupidly at the inferno raging about him. In which direction lay the British Lines? He had no idea, but the vicious rattle of a machine-gun from somewhere near at hand, and the shrill whang of bullets striking his
machine, brought him back from his semi-stunned condition with a rush, and suggested the immediate need for cover.
About twenty yards away a huge shell-crater yawned invitingly, and he leapt towards it like a tiger. A bullet clutched at the sleeve ofhis coat as he plunged through the mud, and he' ook the last two yards in a wild leap. His foot caught on the serrated rim of the crater and he dived headlong into the stagnant pool of slime at the bottom. Scrambling out blindly, he slipped and fell heavily on something soft.
`Now, then, look where you're comin' to, can't you! What's the 'urry?' snarled a Cockney voice.
Biggles blinked and wilted into a sitting position in the soft mud on the side of the hole.
On the opposite side sat a Tommy, caked with mud from head to foot, a drab and sorry spectacle; upon his knee, from which he had cut away a portion of his trousers, was a red-stained bandage which he had evidently just finished tying.
`Was I in a hurry?' inquired Biggles blandly, regarding the apparition curiously. 'Well, I may have been,' he confessed. `This isn't the sort of place to dawdle on an afternoon's stroll—at least, it didn't strike me like that. Where are we, and what's going on?' he asked, ducking instinctively as a shell landed just outside the crater with a dull whoosh.
`What did you want to land 'ere for? Ain't it bad enough upstairs?' snorted the Tommy. '
Life won't be worth livin"ere in 'arf a minute, when they start puttin' the kybosh on your aeroplane.'
Ì didn't land here because I was pining to see you, so don't get that idea,' grinned Biggles. 'Where are we—that's what I want to know.'
Àbout in the middle, I should think,' growled the Tommy. `Middle of what?' asked Biggles.
`The war, of course!' was the reply.
`Yes, I can see that,' admitted Biggles. 'But whereabouts are our troops, and where's the enemy?'
The soldier jerked his thumb over his shoulder and then jabbed it in the opposite direction.
`There and there, or they was last time I saw 'em, but they might be anywhere by now.
You know, mate, my missus, she says to me, "Bert," she says Ìs your name Bert?' asked Biggles, to stop the long oration he could see was coming.
'Yes. Bert Smart, 'A' Company, Twenty-third London,' replied the soldier.
'Nice name!' said Biggles.
'What's the matter with it?' growled the Tommy. 'Nothing! I said it was a nice name—nice and easy to remember!' protested Biggles.
'I thought you was pulling my leg!' growled Bert suspiciously. Òh, no, I wouldn't do that!' exclaimed Biggles, repressing a
smile with difficulty. 'But what about getting out of here?' `Well, I ain't stoppin' you, am I?' said Bert. 'If you don't like
my blinkin' society
Ìt isn't that!' broke in Biggles quickly, a broad grin on his face. 'I'd like to sit and chat to you all day—but not here!'
`Well, it's better than chargin' up and down, with people stabbin' at you, ain't it?' asked Bert. 'If you wants to go, there's a sap just behind you what leads to our Lines.'
À sap?' queried Biggles.
`Yes, sap!' said Bert. `S-A-P--stuff what they put in trees—you know—trench, if you like. I wish I could come with you. Jerry'll be coming back in a minute, I expect. This is '
is property. We'd just driven 'im out when I copped this one in my knee and down I goes.
Blighty one, I 'opes. As my missus says, "Bert," she says
'Hold hard!' cried Biggles. 'Let's leave what she says till another day. Can you walk?'
`With no blinkin' knee-cap?' asked Bert. 'No! And I can't 'op neither, not in this muck!
What do you think I am—a sparrer?'
`No. I can see you're no sparrow,' replied Biggles looking at the man's thirteen-stone bulk. 'And I'm no Samson to carry you, much as I should like to. I'll nip across and tell our fellows you're here. Then we'll come and fetch you.'
`You'll fetch me?' repeated Bert.
`Yes,' said Biggles.
`No sprucing?' asked the wounded man.
`What's that?' asked Biggles, with a start.
`Kiddin'. I mean, do you mean it?' explained Bert. Òf course I mean it!' replied Biggles.
`Well, you're a toff? All right; I'll wait 'ere!'
`That's right; don't run away!' grinned Biggles. 'Where's tha sap you were talking about?'
`Straight over the top, about twenty yards 'arf left,' replied Bert, pointing.
Biggles peeped stealthily over the rim of the crater. In all directions stretched a wilderness of mud and water in which barbed wire, tin helmets, rifles and ammunition-boxes lay in hopeless confusion. A bullet flipped through the ooze not an inch from his face, and he bobbed down hurriedly. But he had seen the end of the shell-shattered trench.
Turning, he looked down at Bert, whose face had turned chalky-white, and Biggles knew that in spite of his casual pose the Tommy was badly wounded, and would soon die from loss of blood if medical aid was delayed.
`Stick it, Bert, I shan't be long!' he called, dragging offhis coat and throwing it
to the wounded man. Put that over you; it'll keep you warm.' Then he darted for the end of the trench.
A fusillade of shots and the chatter of a machine-gun greeted him as, crouching low, he staggered heavily through the clinging mud. Out of the trench, as he neared it, the point of a bayonet rose to meet him, but with a shrill yell of 'Look out!' he leapt aside and then flung himself into the trench.
At the last moment he saw an infantry colonel who was talking to another officer at the end of a communication trench. He did his best to avoid them, but his foot slipped on the greasy parapet, and like a thunderbolt he struck the colonel in the small of the back. All three officers sprawled in the mud at the bottom of the trench.
The colonel was up first. Jamming a mud-coated monocle into his left eye, he glared at Biggles furiously.
`Where the dickens have you come from?' he snarled.
'My Camel landed me in this mess,' complained Biggles
The colonel started violently.
'Camel?' he gasped. 'Have they brought up the Camel Corps?'
That's right. That's why everyone's got the "hump"!' punned Biggles sarcastically. 'A Camel's an aeroplane in this war, not a dromedary!'
Further explanations were cut short by a shrill whistle and a cry of' 'Here they come!'
'Who's coming?' cried Biggles anxiously to a burly sergeant Who had sprung to the fire step and was firing his rifle rapidly.
'Father Christmas! Who do you think? 'Uns—the Prussian Guard—that's who!' snapped the N.C.O.
`Huns! Give me a rifle someone!' pleaded Biggles.
A bomb burst somewhere near at hand, filling the trench with a thick cloud of acrid yellow smoke, and he grabbed, gasping and choking, at a rife that leaned against the rear wall of the trench. The din of war was in his ears—the incessant rattle of rifles, the vicious crackle of machine-guns, the dull roar of heavy artillery, and the stinging crack of hand-grenades. Near at hand someone was moaning softly.
Above the noise another voice was giving orders in a crisp parade-ground voice:
`Here they come, boys—take it steady—shoot low—pick your man!'
With his head whirling, Biggles clambered up the side of the trench, still grasping his mud-coated rifle.
`Hi! Where are you going, that man? Get down, you fool!' yelled a voice.
Biggles hesitated. From the parapet he could see a long struggling line of men with fixed bayonets approaching his position at a lumbering trot. Then a hand seized his ankle and jerked him back into the trench. He swung round and found himself staring into the frowning face of the colonel, the monocle still gleaming in his eye.
`Who are you pulling about?' snarled the Camel pilot.
`What do you think you're doing?' grated the staff officer. Ì'm going to fetch Bert!'
snapped Biggles.
The colonel started.
`Bert? Bert who?' he asked.
`Bert, of the Twenty-third Londons,' replied Biggles. 'He's a pal of mine, and he's out somewhere in the middle by himself.' Ìn the middle?' repeated the staff officer.
`Yes!' snapped Biggles. 'In the middle of the war, he says, and I reckon he's about right!'
`You're crazy!' said the colonel. can't bother about individuals—and I order you to stay where you are!'
Òrder me!' stormed Biggles. 'Who do you think I am? I'm not one of your mob; I'm a flyer
Ì don't care tuppence who you are!' replied the other. `You're about as much good to me as a sick headache. I haven't time to argue. Another word from you, and I'll put you under close arrest for insubordination under fire!'
Biggles choked, speechless, knowing in his heart that the senior officer was well within his rights.
An orderly tumbled into the trench and handed the colonel a note. He read it swiftly, nodded, and then blew his whistle.
"A" Company, retire! "B" Company, stand fast!' he ordered crisply. And then, turning to the sergeant. 'The Boche are in on both flanks,' he went on quickly. 'Get "A" Company back as fast as you can. "B" Company will have to cover them. And you'd better get back, too!' he snapped, turning to Biggles, who, a moment later, in spite of violent protests, found himself slipping and stumbling up a narrow, winding trench.
`But what about Bert?' he pleaded to the sergeant in front of him.
'Can't 'elp 'im. We're in the soup as it is!' snarled the N. C.O.
The trouble about this foot-slopping game is the rotten
visibility!' growled Biggles. 'It's worse than flying in clouds. No altitude, no room to move—no nothing! You blokes might call this a dog-fight, but I call it a blooming worm-fight! A lot of perishing rabbits, that's all you are, bobbing in and out of holes!'
His remarks were cut short by an explosion that filled the air with flying mud and half-buried him. He struggled to his feet, to see a white-faced orderly talking rapidly to the sergeant and pointing in rapid succession to each point of the compass.
`Surrounded, eh?' said the sergeant.
`What with?' asked Biggles breathlessly.
The sergeant eyed him scornfully.
`Mud!' he said. 'Mud and blood and 'Uns! You ought to 'ave stayed upstairs, young feller.
We're in the blinking cart, and no mistake. The 'Uns are coming in on both flanks!'
`But I'm due for another patrol at six!' protested Biggles, aghast.
`You'll be patrolling the Milky Way by that time, me lad!' observed the sergeant bitterly.
Biggles turned to the orderly.
Àre you a messenger?' he said.
Ì'm a runner,' replied the lad.
`Well, let's see you do a bit of running!' snapped Biggles crisply, whipping out his notebook and writing rapidly. 'You run with that,' he went on, handing the orderly a note.
'Get through the Huns somehow, and don't stop for anyone. Grab the first motor-cyclist you see, and tell him it's urgent!'
`What's the big idea?' asked the sergeant, as the runner departed at the double.
Ì'm just saying goodbye to all kind friends and relations,' grinned Biggles. 'Hallo, here's old glass-house turned up again!'
The colonel, followed by a line of dishevelled, mud-coated men, staggered wearily up the communication trench.
`Line the parapets both sides!' he shouted. 'We'll get as many of them as we can before they get us! Get that gun, someone,' he snapped, pointing to a Vickers gun which, with its crew dead behind it, pointed aimlessly into the sky. 'Is there a machine-gunner here?'
Ì should say so!' cried Biggles joyfully.
He dragged the gun, with its heavy tripod, clear of the mud, and mounted it on the parapet. A line of grey-clad men in coal-scuttle steel helmets was advancing stealthily up a nearby trench, and Biggles' lips parted in his famous fighting smile as he seized the spade-grips of the gun, thumbs seeking the trigger. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
The grey line wilted and sagged.
`Fill some more belts for me!' shouted Biggles, ducking as a bullet cut through the loose flap of his flying helmet.
`Here, stick that on your head!' cried the colonel, passing him a steel helmet. 'Can you see anything?' he went on, crawling up beside him.
Ì can,' replied Biggles shortly. 'Huns to the right of us, Huns to the left of us—and Huns blinking well above us! Look at that nosy parker!' he snarled, jerking his thumb upwards to where an Albatross had appeared like magic in the sky, guns spouting lead into their trench.
Biggles flung himself on his back and jerked the muzzle of his gun upwards. He knew what few infantrymen knew—the distance it is necessary to shoot in front of a rapidly-moving target in order to hit it. He aimed not at the machine, but well in front of it on its line of flight. He pressed the double thumb-piece. A stream of lead soared upwards.
The German pilot was either careless or a novice, for he did not trouble to alter his course in conditions where straight flying was almost suicidal. Straight into Biggles' line of fire he flew. The watchers in the trench saw the black-crossed machine swerve, and then, wit
h engine roaring full on, plunge downward into the sea of mud. They could hear the crash above the noise of the battle.
`Got the blighter!' chuckled the sergeant. 'Good shooting, sir!'
Òh, I hope he didn't land on top of poor old Bert!' gasped Biggles. 'He must have been mighty close. I can see his tail sticking up near my Camel. I wonder will that one count on my score?' he asked the colonel. 'Although I don't suppose they'll believe it, anyway.'
Ì'll confirm it,' said the colonel vigorously; 'that is, if we get out alive. We're in a nasty hole!'
`So I see,' retorted Biggles, taking him literally. 'And I don't think much of it. I'm no mole. I like doing my fighting sitting down, and where I can see what's going on.'
Ì'm afraid we haven't a hope,' went on the colonel casually. `The brigadier won't risk the brigade up here in broad daylight to get us out. We're for it, unless a miracle happens—and the day of miracles has passed.'
`Don't you be too sure about that,' returned Biggles, spraying a group of sprawling Boche with bullets. 'What about those?' he added, jerking his thumb upwards.
The colonel cocked his eye towards a little cluster of black specks that had appeared high in the blue.
`What can they do?' he asked.
`Do? You watch 'em and see!' said Biggles. 'Give me a Very pistol, so that I can fire a light to show them where we are.' `Who are they?' asked the other.
`Friends of mine,' replied Biggles. 'I sent them word by a runner that their services were urgently required, and unless I'm very much mistaken the boys in this trench are going to see a treat for tired eyes. That's Mahoney in front—you can spot his machine a mile off.
And that's Mac over on the left.'
Òh!' he went on incredulously. 'What's all this coming behind them? A squadron of S.E.
s, with old Wilks leading! The C.O. must have phoned 287 Squadron after he got my message,' he grinned, and let out a shrill whoop of triumph. 'Here, we'd better bob down a bit, or we're likely to stop something,' he went on. 'I've an idea that this locality is going to be a pretty warm spot for the next few minutes when those lads start doing their stuff.
51 Biggles Pioneer Air Fighter Page 8
