He rose wearily. Voices were singing in the distance, and he smiled bitterly as he heard the well-remembered words:
`Who minds to the dust returning, Who shrinks from the sable shore, Where the high and haughty yearning Of the soul shall be no more?
So stand by your glasses steady,
This world is a world of lies;
A cup to the dead already,
Hurrah! for the next man who dies.'
A knock at the door aroused him from his reverie. An orderly of the guard entered.
À lady left this for you,' he said, holding out a letter.
À lady—when?' said Biggles, holding himself in hand with a mighty effort.
Àbout ten minutes ago, sir. Just before you came in. She came about eight and said she must see you, sir, but I told her you weren't here.'
`Where is she now?'
`She's gone, sir; she was in a car. She told me to bring the letter straight to you when you returned, sir.'
Àll right—you may go.'
Biggles took the letter, fighting back a wild desire to shout, opened it, and read: Goodbye, my Biggles.
You know now. What can I say? Only this. Our destinies are not always in our own hands—always try and remember that, my Biggles. That is all I may say. I came tonight to take you away or die with you, but you were not here. And remember that one thing in this world of war and lies is true; my love for you. It may help, as it helps me. Take care of yourself. Always I shall pray for you. If anything happens to you I shall know, but if to me you will never know. My last thought will be of you. We shall meet again, if not in this world then in the next, so I will not say goodbye.
Au revoir,
MARIE.
Ànd they think she's dead,' said Biggles softly. 'She risked her life to tell me this.'
He kissed the letter tenderly, then held it to the candle and watched it burn away.
He was crumbling the ashes between his fingers when the
door opened, and Mahoney entered. 'Hullo, laddie, what's wrong; had a fire?' he enquired.
`Yes,' replied Biggles slowly; 'foolish of me; got my fingers burnt a bit, too.'
IN the days that followed the tragic affaire, Biggles flew with abandon and with such an utter disregard of consequences that Major Mullen knew that if he persisted it could only be a matter of time before he 'failed to return'. The C.O. had not mentioned the affair of the girl to him, but Biggles knew that he must be aware of the main facts of the case, or he would certainly have asked him why he had been called to Headquarters.
However much the Major knew he said nothing, but he watched his flight-commander's behaviour with deep-rooted anxiety. He called MacLaren and Mahoney into his office to discuss the matter with them.
Mahoney nodded sympathetically as he listened to the C.O.'s plaint. `Biggles is finished unless he takes a rest,' he said. 'He's drinking, and you know what that means—he's going fast. Of course, a fellow doesn't get drunk when he's in the state Biggles is in. It's no use talking to him—you know that as well as I do. He's got to the stage when he takes advice as a personal affront against his flying. It's a pity, but most of us go that way at the end, I suppose. Newland, of 287, told me confidentially the other day that a blue pigeon follows him in the air wherever he goes, and he meant it.'
`Well, I shall have to send him home, whether he likes it or not,' went on the Major, 'but it will break his heart if I don't find a good excuse. Now look, you fellows. I've got to send somebody home to form a new Squadron—of Snipes, I believe—and bring it over.
You are both senior to Bigglesworth; you are both due for promotion. I shall be going to Wing in a week or two, I hear, so one of you will have to take over 266. Do you mind if I send Bigglesworth home for the new Squadron?' The C.O. looked at the two captains apologetically.
`Not me, sir,' said Mahoney instantly.
`Nor I, sir,' echoed MacLaren.
`Thank you. That's what I wanted to know,' said the Major. Ì'll send him home, then.
Where is he now?'
`He's in the air,' replied Mahoney. 'He's never on the ground. Goodness knows where he goes; it must be miles over; I never see him on patrol.'
The C.O. nodded, 'Well, he can't get away with that much longer. They're bound to get him. By the way, there's a big show tomorrow—it will be in orders tonight. You'd better have a good look round your machines.'
Biggles, cruising at i8,000 feet, turned in the direction of Lille without being really conscious of the fact. He surveyed the surrounding air coldly and dispassionately for signs of enemy aircraft, but except for a formation of Bristol Fighters homeward bound, far below, the sky was empty. His thoughts wandered
back to the girl who had come into his life. Where was she now? Where had she gone on that tragic night of disillusionment? Had she been caught? That was the thought that made the day a torture and the night a horror. He visualized her in the cold-grey of dawn with a bandage over her eyes facing a firing party in some gloomy French prison.
A volley of shots rang out, something jerked the rudder-bar from his feet and brought him back to the realities of life with a start.
He half-rolled and looked around; a Hannoverian was rapidly receding into the distance.
He frowned at it in surprise and consternation. 'Good Lord! I must have nearly flown into it without seeing it, and the observer had a crack at me as he went by,' he mused. 'If it had been a D.VII ' He shrugged his shoulders. What did it matter—what did anything matter?
He looked downwards to pick up his bearings; the landscape was familar, for he had seen it a dozen times during the past week. To the left lay Lille, the worst hot-bed of archie in the whole of France. On his right a narrow, winding road led to the village of Vinard and the Chateau Boreau—his only link with Marie. She might even be there now—the thought occurred to him for the first time. How could she have reached it? Spies went to and fro across the line, he reflected; nobody knew how, except the chosen few whose hazardous business it was. He looked around the sky, but could see nothing; he put the stick forward and commenced to spiral down in wide circles.
At 5,000 feet he hesitated. Dare he risk losing any more height? He looped, half-rolled, came out and looped again, half-rolling off the top of it. Then he spun. He came out at 2, 000 feet and studied the chateau intently. No one was in sight—yes—his eye caught a movement at the end of the garden and he glided lower. He knew that he was taking a foolish risk, but his curiosity overcame his caution.
Someone was waving—what? He put his nose down in a swift dive and then zoomed upwards exultantly, his heart beating tumultuously. Had his eyes betrayed him or had he seen a blue-clad figure waving a blue-and-white scarf? He looked back; the blue-and-white scarf was spread on the lawn. He turned the Camel in the direction of the line and raced for home, his mind in a whirl.
Ì'm mad,' he grated between his clenched teeth. 'She must be a spy or she wouldn't be there.' The thought seemed to chill him, and only then did he realize that he still hoped that the authorities were mistaken in their belief that she was engaged in espionage.
Doubts began to assail him. Had he really seen her—or had it been a trick of the imagination? It might have been someone else; he was too far away to recognize features.
`She's a spy anyway. I must be stark, staring mad,' he told himself, as he dodged and twisted away from a close salvo of archie.
Half-way home he had the good fortune to fall in with a formation of S.E.5s, to which he attached himself. Safely over the lines he waved them farewell and was soon back at Maranique. He made his way to the mess and thrust himself into a group of officers clustered around the noticeboard.
`What's on, chaps?' he asked.
`Big show tomorrow, Biggles,' replied Mahoney.
`What is it?'
Èscort—a double dose. Eighteen "Nines" are bombing Aerodrome 27 in the morning and the same lot are doing an objective near Lille in the afternoon. We and 287 are escorting. 287 are up in the gallery, and we're sticking
with the formation. Rendezvous over Mossyface at 10,000 feet at ten ack-emma.'
`Great Scott! Have they discovered the German Headquarters Staff or something?'
`Shouldn't be surprised. Must be something important to do the shows. The Aerodrome 27 show was on first—and the second show came through later. They must be going to try and blot something off the map; the idea's all right if the bombers could only hit the thing.'
Biggles nodded moodily, for the show left him unmoved. Escort was a boring business, particularly in his present state of mind. Later in the evening another notice was put on the board,
which was greeted with loud cheers. Biggles forced his way to the front rank of the group and read:
Promotions
Act. Cpt. 1. Bigglesworth, M.C., to Major, W.E.F. io.11.18 (Authority) P.243/117/18.
Postings
Major 3. Bigglesworth, from 266 Squadron to Command 319 Squadron. H.E., W.E.F. 11.
11.18. P.243/118/18.
Biggles looked at the notice unbelievingly. He turned to Major Mullen, who had just entered.
`So I'm going home, sir,' he said in a strained voice.
`Yes, Bigglesworth. Wing wants you to fetch 319 out. I believe you're getting Snipes—you'll be able to make rings round Camels.
`Camels are good enough for me,' protested Biggles. 'That's the trouble with this infernal war. People are never satisfied. Let us stick to Camels and S.E.s and let the Boche have their D. Sevens, instead of all this chopping and changing about. I've heard a rumour about a new kite called a Salamander that carries a sheet of armour plate. Why? I'll tell you. Some brass-hat's got hit in the pants and that's the result. What with sheet iron, oxygen to blow your inside out, and electrically heated clothing to set fire to your kidneys, this war is going to bits.'
`You'll talk differently when you get your Snipes,' laughed the Major.
Òrders say I'm to move off tomorrow.'
`Yes, that's right.'
`Good. You can give my love to the Huns at Aerodrome 27 and—what's the name of the other target they're going to fan down?'
Òh, it's a new one to me,' replied the Major. 'Place near Lille—Chateau Boreau or something like that—cheerio—see you later.'
It was as well that he did not pause to take a second glance at his flight-commander's face, or he might have asked awkward questions. For a full minute Biggles remained rooted to the spot with the words ringing in his ears.
`Chateau Boreau, eh?' he said, under his breath. 'So they know about that. How the deuce did those nosy-parkers on Intelligence find that out?' he muttered bitterly.
Mahoney slapped him on the back. 'Have a drink, Biggles?' he cried.
Biggles swung round. 'Go to
No, I didn't mean that, old lad,' he said quickly. 'I was a bit upset at leaving the Squadron. Sorry—what are you having, everybody?' he called aloud. `Drinks are on me tonight.'
Dinner was a boisterous affair; the usual farewell speeches were made and everybody was noisily happy. Biggles, pale-faced, with his eyes gleaming unnaturally, held the board.
`So tomorrow I am doing my last show,' he concluded.
The C.O. looked up quickly. 'But I thought you were going in the morning,' he exclaimed in surprise.
Ìn the afternoon, if you don't mind, sir,' answered Biggles. 'I must do one more show with 266.'
Major Mullen nodded. 'All right,' he said; 'but don't take any chances,' he added. 'I ought to pack you off in the morning really.'
Biggles spent a troubled and restless night. Why he had asked to be allowed to fly with the morning show he hardly knew, unless it was to delay departure as long as possible.
He racked his brain to find an excuse to postpone it until the evening in order to learn the result of the bombing of the Chateau. If he was unable to do that, he had decided to ask Mac or Mahoney to try to send him copies of the photographs of the bomb-bursts.
Thinking things over, he realised that his first fears that the Chateau was to be bombed because Intelligence had learned that Marie had made her way there were unfounded. It was far more likely that they had known for some time that the building housed certain members of the German Headquarters or Intelligence Staff, and the recent trouble had simply served to expedite their decision to bomb it.
What could he do about it? Nothing, he decided despairingly, absolutely nothing. It crossed his mind that he might drop a message of warning, but he dismissed the thought at once, because such an act would definitely make him a traitor to his own side. The thought of returning to England and leaving the girl to her fate without lifting a finger to save her nearly drove him to distraction. After all, the girl had tried to save him when the position had been reversed!
He was glad when his batman brought him early morning tea, and he arose, weary and hollow-eyed. Ten o'clock found him in the air heading for the line and the Boche aerodrome at Lille. Behind him were Cowley and Algernon Montgomery. On his left were the bombers, the sun flashing on their varnished wings, the observers leaning carelessly on their Scarf rings. Beyond was Mahoney and 'A' Flight. Somewhere in the rear was MacLaren and 'B' Flight, while two thousand feet above he could see the S.E.5s.
`What a sight,' thought Biggles, as his eyes swept over the thirty-six machines; 'it will take a Hun with some nerve to tackle this lot.'
The observer in the nearest 'Nine' waved him, crossed his fingers and pointed. Biggles, following the direction indicated, saw half-a-dozen Fokker Triplanes flying parallel with them. Presently they turned away and disappeared into the distance. The observer waved and laughed and held out his hands with the thumbs turned up.
`Yes,' agreed Biggles mentally; 'they spotted the S.E.s up top. They've thought better of it, and I don't wonder.'
He was sorry that the Huns had departed, for he was aching for action. For three-quarters of an hour they flew steadily into enemy sky, and then the leader of the bombers, conspicuous by his streamers, began to turn.
`He's coming round into the wind,' thought Biggles. 'We must be over the objective.'
He looked down and beheld the aerodrome. He looked up again just in time to see the leader fire a green Very light. Eighteen 1 12-lb bombs swung off their racks into space.
A moment later a second lot of eighteen bombs followed the first. Keeping a watchful eye on his position in the formation Biggles snatched quick glances at the earth below.
What a time it seemed to take the bombs to reach the ground.
`Dash it, they can't all be duds,' he muttered. Àh, there they go!'
A group of smoke-bursts appeared on the aerodrome, and, a moment later, another group.
The second lot were better than the first. One bomb had fallen directly on to a hangar, one had burst among the machines on the tarmac, and another had struck some buildings just behind. The rest of the bombs had scattered themselves over the aerodrome.
`There will have to be a lot of spade work there before anybody will try any night-landings,' grinned Biggles, as he visualised the havoc the bombs had caused to the surface of the aerodrome.
The faint crackle of guns reached his ears above the noise of the engines; he looked quickly over his shoulder and caught his breath as his eyes fell on a mixed swarm of Fokker D.VIIs and Triplanes coming down almost vertically on the rearmost `Nines'. The gunners in the back seats were crouching low behind their Lewis guns. For a brief moment, as the enemy came within range, the air was full of sparkling lines of tracer, and then the Fokkers disappeared through and below the bombers.
He saw MacLaren's machine wallow for a moment like a rolling porpoise, and then, with the rest of his Flight, plunge down in the wake of the enemy machines.
`Suffering heavens! There must be thirty of them, and they mean business, coming in like that,' thought Biggles, as he rocked his wings and roared down into the whirling medley below. A red-painted machine crossed his sights and he pressed his triggers, but had to jerk round in a steep bank to avoid colliding with the first of the S.E.s which were coming
down from above. He glanced around swiftly. The air about him was full of machines, diving, zooming and circling; the bombers had held on their course and were already a mile away.
He flung his Camel on the tail of a blue-and-white Fokker, and the same instant there was a splintering jar as something crashed through his instrument board. A burning pain paralysed his leg, and he twisted desperately to try to see his opponent. Huns were all round him shooting his machine to pieces. He pulled the joy-stick back into his stomach and zoomed wildly. A Fokker flashed into his sights; he saw his tracer pour straight through it; the pilot slumped forward in his seat and the nose of the machine went down in an engine stall as the withering blast of lead struck it.
Something lashed the Camel like a cat-o'-nine-tails; he felt the machine quiver, and the next moment he was spinning, fighting furiously to get the machine on an even keel. A feeling of nauseating helplessness swept over him as he realized that the Camel was not answering to the controls.
Something strange seemed to be whirling on the end of his wing-tip, and he saw it was an aileron, hanging by a single wire. He kicked on the opposite rudder and the nose of the Camel came up.
Ìf I can only keep her there,' was the thought that flashed through his brain; but another burst of fire from an unseen foe tore through his centre section and he instinctively kicked out his right foot. The Camel spun again at once. He was near the ground now and he fought to get the nose of the machine up again, but something seemed to have gone wrong with his leg. He couldn't move it.
Biggles knew his time had come. He knew he was going down under a hail of lead in just the same way as he had seen dozens of machines going down, as he himself had sent them down. He knew he was going to crash, but the knowledge left him unmoved. A thousand thoughts crowded into his mind in a second of time that seemed like minutes; in that brief moment he thought of a dozen things he might do as the machine struck.
The nose of the Camel half came up—slowly--and the machine stopped spinning.
The Camel was side-slipping steeply to the right now, nose down, on the very verge of another spin that would be the last.
51 Biggles Pioneer Air Fighter Page 13
