Landing, he climbed out, and, wiping oil from his face with his sleeve, looked earnestly at Harcourt, who had also landed and was walking slowly towards him. On Harcourt's face was an expression of utter gloom.
"What came over you?" asked Biggles, smiling.
"Came over me?" replied Harcourt. "Did you see me knocking the spots off the red-and-yellow hound?"
"I should say I did!" said Biggles. "I thought you'd gone off your rocker-trying to ram him!"
"I was!" Harcourt muttered.
Biggles started.
"What's that?" he said quickly.
"I'd made up my mind to get him somehow," replied Harcourt harshly. "I'd shot nearly all my ammunition at him without hitting him, and I thought it was the only thing I could do to get him. I'd made up my mind I was going to get him-somehow. I've never been so angry with anyone in my life before."
"But why-why the yellow-and-red fellow in particular?" asked Biggles.
Harcourt looked up quickly, his eyes glinting with anger. "Didn't you see what he did?" he asked in surprise.
"Yes-I saw him throw the boots," admitted Biggles.
"Boots!" Harcourt hooted. "I didn't care two hoots about the boots. It was where he threw them that made me so angry. They went through the roof of my hut and landed on the table beside my bed. Look!"
He groped in his pocket and held out his hand, on which lay a stripe of something golden-something that shone brightly in the sun.
"What is it!" asked Biggles, with a puzzled frown.
Harcourt tried to speak, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.
"Percy!" he said huskily. "Poor little Percy!"
Biggles leaned against the fuselage of his machine and laughed weakly.
"It's nothing to laugh about!" snarled Harcourt. "He was swimming in his jam-jar on the table as good as gold. The boots caught him fair and square, and flattened him out like a common plaice-poor little beggar. I tell you, Bigglesworth, when I saw he was dead I was so angry I made up my mind to get his murderer, even if it cost me my life. It cured me of being afraid of Huns. A man is a coward who will do a thing like that! Let's do some more flying. I'll teach the hounds to go about killing goldfish!"
THE PROFESSOR COMES BACK
Algernon Montgomery burst into the officers' mess of No. 266 Squadron.
"Biggles!" he yelled. "Listen, everybody! The Professor's O.K.! He's down over the other side!" The words fairly tumbled out of his mouth. "It's a fact!" he went on breathlessly. "A message has just come through from Wing that the Boche have reported him a prisoner of war. What do you know about that?"
Biggles had sprung to his feet at Algy's first shrill announcement.
"What?" he cried incredulously. "Say that again!"
"It's true enough. Henry Watkins, otherwise the Professor, or how would the Boche know his name?" cried Algy excitedly.
Biggles grinned and scratched his head.
"Well, I'm dashed!" he said. "But there! Plenty of people have been shot down in flames and got away with it. If he was flying fairly low, he might have managed to sideslip down and crash on his wing-tip. Well, well, would you believe it?"
Major Mullen hurried into the room.
"Have you heard the news, Bigglesworth?" he called. "Young Henry Watkins wasn't killed, after all! He's down, over the other side!"
"Yes, sir," replied Biggles. "Algy has just told us. That reminds me of something. I wonder-I wonder!" he mused, a thoughtful frown coming over his face.
"Wonder what, Biggles?" broke in Algy impatiently. "Come on don't keep us in suspense!"
"The Professor being a prisoner of war reminds me of something, that's all. Listen! You know how he was always bursting with ideas? Well, he said to me one day that he wondered why on earth some organisation wasn't started to pick up British officers who had escaped from prison in Germany, at some pre-arranged rendezvous. You remember the lecture we had from that chap-I forget his name-who came round all the squadrons telling us what to do if we were captured? He told us about frontiers, frontier guards, electrified wire, dog patrols, the difficulty of swimming the Rhine, and so on. Well, I sat next to Henry, and after the lecture he asked the bloke some questions about it. The chap said it wasn't actually so difficult to get out of prison as it was to get back through the Lines or across the frontier. That was where most people were nabbed again. Henry asked him why we didn't have some meeting-place fixed-some field where machines could go over and pick prisoners up. The chap said the idea had been thought of, but the trouble was there were so many German spies over this side that the enemy would know which fields were to be used as soon as we had fixed them, and the first machine that went over and landed would probably find an armed guard waiting or else they would wire the field and crash the plane as it landed. Instead of getting a prisoner back, we should probably lose another officer and a machine as well. The idea stuck in Henry's mind, though, and he told me one evening that he reckoned we should all work in pairs within the squadron, each pair to fix up its own rendezvous. In fact, he showed me the field he had fixed on, where he would make for if he was a prisoner and escaped. He said we should know if he was there because he'd try to keep a small smoke-fire going in a corner of the field. As a matter of fact, there are plenty of fields close together in that locality that would do-along the east side of the Langaarte Forest. This news that he's a prisoner made me wonder if he has managed to get away and get to the field. Dash it, he might be there now! He'd get out of prison somehow! He wouldn't be in quod five minutes without working out some scheme…"
Colonel Raymond's car, from Wing Headquarters, pulled up outside, and a moment later the staff officer entered the mess. He nodded cheerfully to Biggles and the other officers, then crossed over to Major Mullen, standing near the fireplace. Presently Major Mullen beckoned to Biggles and to MacLaren and Mahoney, the other flight-commanders.
"The Colonel wants to know why you haven't found that new Boche night-bombing squadron," began the CO. earnestly. "It's getting serious. They are coming over every night and doing a terrible lot of damage in back areas!"
"Don't we know it!" snorted Biggles. "We've had an alarm every night this week. I'm getting an old man for want of sleep. No, sir, I can't spot their aerodrome, and that's a fact. I've searched every inch of the ground for forty miles. The only thing I can think of is they might be using those abandoned sheds which were used by the Richthofen crowd before they moved nearer the Line."
"No, they're not there," replied the Colonel, shaking his head.
"How do you know that?" asked Biggles quickly, with a frown.
Colonel Raymond overlooked the breach of respect.
"We know that's all," he replied quietly. "We have our own way of finding out these things!”
"I see," answered Biggles slowly. "Sorry!"
"Well, they're in your sector somewhere," declared the Colonel, "and it's up to you fellows to find them. They're Friedrichshafens, so they're big enough to see the Boche can't hide 'em in a cowshed. Well, get busy, you fellows. I shall expect to hear from you. Goodbye!”
Biggles gazed after the retreating figure thoughtfully. "You'll go on expecting, if I know anything!" he muttered. "The Boche have got a nice little dug-out for those planes where they won't be disturbed. But I suppose we shall have to have another look for them. What about the Professor, though? Who's game to come over with me to see if Henry's lit his bonfire? It must be six weeks since he went down. If he isn't there yet, we'll keep an eye on the place to see if he arrives. What about having a look this afternoon? It's some way over the Line, so the more of us there are, the merrier!"
"I'm game!" replied MacLaren at once. "I'll bring my hoys."
"And I," grinned Mahoney. "We'll all go-the whole bunch of us!"
"Fine!" replied Biggles. "Algy !" he called. "Harcourt! Stand by for patrol at four-thirty. We're going to fetch the Professor home!"
"You're as crazy as he was!" growled Algy, hut his twinkling eyes belied his words.
"Half a minute what's the plan?" inquired Mahoney.
"I think the best thing to do is simply to fly over and find out if he's there, before we do anything else," suggested Biggles.
"Suppose he is what then?" asked MacLaren.
"Then we'll come back and decide what to do about it. We don't want to attract too much attention, though. I'll take Algy and Harcourt, and stay at about five thousand feet. You, Mac, come along just behind me at seven or eight thousand. And you, Mahoney, bring the rest along at about ten thousand. We'll fly straight over there and back, and take no notice of anything or anybody. Come on."
Ten minutes later nine Camels were roaring steadily towards the Lines in the position which had been agreed upon. Biggles, with Algy at his right wing-tip and Harcourt at his left, settled himself comfortably in his cockpit for the fairly long cruise ahead. They raced through the archie over the Line, and sped on into enemy country, keeping a watchful eye open for hostile scouts. Once a formation of half a dozen enemy Fokker triplanes appeared on the horizon and stood towards them, but spotting the other Camels high overhead the Germans thought better of it, and beat a hasty retreat.
A long straight road bordered with straggling poplars loomed up ahead, and ran like a silver thread into the blue distance, where it disappeared into the vast Forest of Langaarte, which lay like a great stain across the landscape. Biggles altered his course a trifle as he drew nearer, then began to swing round in a wide circle that would take him over the edge of the forest and the field of Henry's choice. He pushed up his goggles and stared down intently, although he was still too far off to pick out the details of the objective field. From time to time he looked around, and a puzzled frown puckered his brow.
"Funny no archie," he mused "and this area used to be stiff with it. They must have shifted it nearer to the Lines!"
The complete absence of archie aroused his suspicions without his being able to say why. It was not normal, that was all. And anything of an unusual nature in the sky of France at that time was in itself a cause for suspicion. Again he peered downwards, then caught his breath with a little hiss of surprise. In the far corner of a long rectangular field which bordered the forest a tiny pillar of pale-blue smoke rose almost perpendicularly in the still evening air.
"He's there," Biggles told himself unbelievingly, for, in spite of the object of their flight, he did not in his heart of hearts really expect to find that the Professor had been able to keep his word. He turned his head and looked at Algy, pointing downwards as he did so. Algy raised his thumb to show that he understood.
For a moment Biggles was tempted to risk a landing, but the sun was already sinking in the west, throwing long, purple shadows across the ground. His impatient spirit craved for the excitement of the rescue, but the sober voice of prudence warned him to wait.
"If he's there now, he'll still be there tomorrow," he reflected, and then, suddenly making up his mind, he headed back towards the Lines.
"Well, what do you know about it, eh?" he cried to the other flight-commanders half an hour later as they climbed out of their cockpits.
"The point is, what are we going to do about it?" muttered Mahoney seriously. "Landing is going to be a thundering risky business. Quite apart from the risk of a trap, it only needs a rabbit hole to trip your machine up, and then where are you?"
"You leave that to me," said Biggles confidently.
"What luck?" cried Major Mullen, hurrying from the squadron office.
"He's there!" replied Biggles. "This is my idea, sir. We'll all go over tomorrow morning at the first glimmer of dawn, just like we did today, except that we'll keep a bit higher up. If the whole bunch of us start milling about the wood, low down, the entire German Army will roll up to see what's going on. So when we reach the forest, you swing away to the left, Mac, and you, Mahoney, to the right but keep an eye on me. Algy and Harcourt will circle just above the field and keep unwanted visitors out of the way. If the Professor is there, he will have to come back on my wing."
"Unless we ask for a two-seater to go and fetch him," chimed in the Major.
"Not likely, sir. By the time it got there, half the German Air Force would be there waiting for it. The Boche know as much about what is going on this side of the Line as over their own side, and the fewer people who know about this the better. He can ride on my wing comfortably enough I've carried a passenger that way before. As soon as I get him aboard and start off back, everybody close up round me, and we'll make a dash for the Line. How's that?"
"Suits me," said MacLaren laconically.
"And me," agreed Mahoney.
"That's settled, then," said Biggles, with satisfaction.
Late that evening, Biggles threw aside the book he was reading, rose to his feet, and yawned mightily.
"Well, I'm going to roost," he announced. "Don't forget the show in the morning. We leave the ground at dawn, and…"
He broke off suddenly, and stiffened into an attitude of expectancy. Every officer in the room did the same. Algy, who was thumping the battered mess piano, stopped in the middle of a bar with his hands raised. From a buzz of conversation and laughter a hush settled over the room in which a pin might have been heard to drop. A civilian, visiting the Front for the first time, might have wondered what had caused the change of attitude, for it was by no means obvious. From the far distance came the thunder of guns along the Line. Above it, sharper detonations, also in the distance, could be heard. Every man in the room knew that it was archie, bursting high in the sky.
"Coming closer!" observed Biggles.
"Hope they aren't coming here," grunted Mahoney.
The door burst open, and "Wat" Tyler, the Recording Officer, dashed into the room.
"Get those lights out, you poor prunes !" he grated. "Can't you hear that archie? Bombers are heading this way. Haven't you any more sense than to sit here with all the candles alight, making the place like a blinking beacon? Get 'em out-quick!"
Biggles strolled towards the door.
"I wish you wouldn't get so panicky, Wat," he complained. "Let's go and watch the fireworks."
As he opened the door the noise increased a hundredfold. A few miles away the air was full of stabbing flashes of red flame and the dull rumble of powerful engines.
"They're coming over us, if they aren't actually coming here," declared Algy. "I'm going to find a hole!
"It'll need to be a deep 'un if you think it's going to stop the bombs those boys carry," grinned Biggles. "Hold hard I'll come with you."
Around them on the ground complete darkness reigned. Not a glimmer of light showed anywhere on the aerodrome. Harcourt joined them a trifle breathlessly, eyes riveted upwards to the sparkling flashes now approaching with deadly certainty. A dozen searchlights were probing the sky, their long, white fingers criss-crossing and scissoring through the inky blackness. The deep "pour-vous, pour-vous, pour-vous" of the engines of the bombers, sinister in the distance, took on a more menacing note.
The archie-bursts were almost immediately above them now, filling the air with an orgy of sound. A brilliant white light, shedding a dazzling radiance over the whole aerodrome, appeared like magic overhead, and hung, apparently motionless. Biggles made a swift leap towards a trench that encircled the nearest hut.
"Look out!" he yelled. "We're for it! They're dropping parachute flares!"
A faint wail, like the whistle of an engine far away, became audible, and Biggles crouched lower in the trench.
"Here they come!" he muttered, as the wail became a howling shriek. Instinctively the airmen flinched as the missile came nearer, seeming to be falling on their very heads. A blinding sheet of flame rose in the air not far away. There was a deafening detonation, and the earth rocked.
"That's too close for my liking," snarled Biggles, risking a peep over the parapet, in spite of the howl of more falling bombs. "Look they've got 'A' Flight sheds!" he yelled. "They're alight. They'll set ours on fire-the wind's blowing that way. Come on, cha
ps."
The next instant he was sprinting towards the sheds, gleaming whitely like ghosts in the ghastly glare of the flares.
Major Mullen leapt out of the door of his office.
"Turn out, everybody!" he shouted. "Try to save the machines."
There was a general rush towards the blazing hangars. A cloud of earth with a blood-red core leapt up not fifty yards in front of Biggles, and he was flung violently to the ground. Gasping for breath in the choking fumes of the explosive, he picked himself up and tore on again.
One glance, and he realised it was useless to try to save any of the "A" Flight machines, for the canvas hangar was a roaring sea of flame that cast an orange glow over the scene of destruction "B" Flight hangars were also well alight, and a streak of flame was already licking across the roof of the shed where the "C" Flight machines were housed. The scene was an inferno of noise and smoke in which men moved like demons.
Biggles, the perspiration pouring off his face, seized the tail-skid of his Camel and started to drag it backwards into the open. Algy, Harcourt, the flight-sergeant, and several mechanics came to his assistance, and the "C" Flight machines were soon well out on the tarmac. Invisible machine-guns were chattering in the darkness above, as the Boche gunners emptied their drums of ammunition into the scene of confusion. A mechanic, standing near Biggles, gave a little grunt of surprise, stared open-eyed at his flight-commander for a moment, and then dropped limply, like a garment falling from a coat-rack.
"Two men here, quick!" Biggles snapped in a voice that commanded attention. "Get him down to the medical officer," he yelled, turning to see how the other flights were faring.
A groan broke from his lips as he saw that in spite of their efforts neither of the other two flights had been able to save a single machine. The heat was so intense that it was impossible to get within a hundred yards of them. The bombers, their work finished, were now retiring.
"Well!" observed Biggles to the others, pointing to a row of yawning craters on the aerodrome. "I must say they've made a good job of it. They were the Friedrich-shafens the Colonel was talking about this afternoon."
Biggles of the Camel Squadron Page 8
