Chapter 1 Peter Fortymore Receives
Bad News
There was a pensive, almost wistful, expression on the face of the Honourable Peter Fortymore as, with his chin cupped in his hands, he sat at his study window and stared out across the deserted, moonlit playing-fields of Rundell School, where for five years he had been a pupil. The door behind him opened, but he did not turn, for he knew from the heavy, deliberate footsteps that the newcomer was his friend and room-mate, Dick Ripley, known throughout the upper school as Rip.
`Hello, Thirty, what are you doing?' he began, but `Thirty' silenced him with a gesture.
`Hark,' he said tersely.
Rip joined him at the window and then stood still, his head a little to one side, listening.
From far away, rising and falling on a light breeze, came a dull mutter, punctuated from time to time by a heavier rolling boom.
Seen thus in the moonlight the two boys were in strange contrast. Peter Fortymore—or '
Thirty', as he had promptly been dubbed when he had arrived from prep. school, since his elder brother, already at Rundell, answered to 'Forty' —was slim and dark, with finely out features which revealed clearly his
aristocratic lineage and Norman ancestors. Rip, with his flaxen hair and blue eyes, was of the heavier Saxon type; yet, curiously enough, on the rugger field his ferocious rush was often outwitted by Thirty's swift, shrewdly considered tactics.
For some minutes they stood listening, both gazing towards the east whence came the ominous rumble. `What is it?' whispered Rip at last.
`Gun fire,' answered Thirty in a strained voice. `Listen to it. The wind is from the east; that's why we can hear so plainly to-night. There must be a big strafe on.
`Forty's out there, isn't he?'
Thirty nodded. 'Yes,' he said. 'He's been out there over six months now, yet it seems only the other day that he was here with us. By Jove! Remember him knocking up that century last summer against Winchester? Now he is flying, fighting in the air—and still playing the game, I'll bet.'
`Yes, he was a grand chap,' admitted Rip. 'What was that motto you used to shout at each other at games?'
Thirty smiled. 'Thick and thin.'
`What did it mean?'
Òh, it was only a free translation of our old family war-cry, meaning that we stick to each other through thick and thin. I wish I was out there with him. He's only two years older than I am, but I suppose they won't let me go into the R.F.C. for another year at least. I've a jolly good mind to go now.'
Tut dash it all, Thirty, you're not old enough.' Ì'm nearly seventeen. Heaps of chaps have joined under that age.'
Ì know. I'm a bit older than you are, but my guv'nor wouldn't hear of my going yet. He's out there, too—a colonel in the Sappers. He told the Head—gosh! I forgot to tell you.
The Head sent me to say that he wanted to see you in his study right away.'
Thirty looked up sharply, searching his mind for a possible reason for the summons. 'I'd better go,' he said. 'Wait here; I shan't be long.'
Three minutes later he knocked lightly on the door of the Head's study, and in response to the curt 'Come in' he opened it, and walked briskly towards the massive desk where he expected the Head would be sitting. He was, therefore, a trifle surprised to find him standing in the centre of the room, an unusual expression on his face; furthermore, his manner was odd, almost agitated.
`Come in, my boy,' he said, in a curiously husky voice, and stepping forward rested his hands on Thirty's shoulders, at the same time looking down into the keen, questioning face. Fortymore,' he continued, `since you have been at Rundell, whatever your failings may have been you have always played the man. That makes my task... easier. Try to live up to that now. I have bad news for you.'
Thirty moistened his lips. A cold hand seemed to settle over his heart. Somehow, he sensed what was coming. 'Yes, sir,' he said firmly. 'Is it—Nigel?'
`Yes.'
`Killed?'
Ì fear so.'
Thirty bowed his head so that the Head should not see his face. His teeth sank deeply into his lower lip. 'I won't blub,' he told himself fiercely. 'I won't.' Something seemed to rise up in his throat, choking him, and forcing tears into his eyes. He felt the Head's grip tighten on his shoulders.
`Bear up, my boy,' whispered the master unsteadily.
Thirty felt the Head's grip suddenly relax; heard him walk over to his desk and sit down.
When he looked up he saw a sight he would never have imagined. The Head's face was buried in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. Thirty stared. A sense of unreality swept over him. The whole thing was a dream. It was preposterous—the Head, of all people, blubbing.
Suddenly the master stood up and blew his nose noisily. 'Forgive me,' he said huskily. 'If this is hard for you to bear, remember that it is also hard for me. One by one my boys are going out there . . . to the battle-field. One by one they fall. You have lost but one, Fortymore, but I have lost many. Your brother was Captain of the School the year before he left us, and in that capacity I saw much of him. A finer fellow never stepped into a classroom or on a playing-field.'
`Yes, sir,' choked Thirty, still fighting to keep back the tears. 'How did it happen, sir—
do you know?'
Àll I know is what I have learned from these,' answered the Head, pointing to three letters that lay on his desk. 'One is from the War Office, informing me that Nigel is missing, believed killed, and since you are his next of kin I am requested to break the news to you. The second letter is from your family lawyers, asking me as your temporary guardian—since you are an orphan—to inform you of your brother's presumed death, and to notify you that the title passes to you. You are now Lord Fortymore. The third letter is a copy of a report from Nigel's Commanding Officer. It is very brief. After speaking highly of your brother's character and ability he goes on to say that Nigel's aeroplane was last seen by other members of the squadron falling out of control over Zafferville. A forward artillery observation officer watched the machine crash behind the lines. That is all, except that a German communiqué issued on the day in question states that five British machines were shot down by their airmen, all the occupants being killed.
In each case the aircraft burst into flames when it struck the ground, so identification was impossible. It seems doubtful, therefore, if we shall ever know any more.'
Thirty nodded heavily. 'Thank you, sir,' he said in a tired voice. 'Have I your leave to go, sir? I should like to—think.'
`There is one last thing.' The Head opened the drawer of his desk and took out a letter. '
Nigel sent this, addressed to you, about a month ago, with a request that if—anything happened to him—I should pass it on to you.'
Still feeling that he was dreaming, Thirty took the letter and put it in his pocket. The Head held out his hand. They shook hands in silence, and then Thirty swung round and walked quickly from the room.
Rip was still sitting by the open window when he returned to the study. 'Close the window, Rip,' he said quietly.
`What's the matter?'
Thirty passed his hand wearily over his face. 'Nigel has been killed,' he said and, slumping down into his chair, he buried his face in his hands.
There was a long silence. Rip sat very still, staring out into the darkness whence still came the distant mutter of guns.
At last Thirty looked up. 'I have a last letter from him,' he said, in a curiously even voice.
'He wrote it to me some time ago.' Taking the letter from his pocket he tore it open and read it from beginning to end. When he had finished he looked up again at Rip. 'Listen to this,' he said eagerly. 'I may be a fool, but so
mehow it almost gives me hope. I have a sort of feeling from it—that Nigel may not be dead, after all. Listen; I'll read the letter to you.
Dear Thirty,
I hope you will never read this letter. Funny way of beginning isn't it, but you'll understand what I mean. The fact is, old boy, things are pretty hot out here, and although I hope I am not a pessimist it seems to me that sooner or later one is pretty certain to get in the way of a small piece of lead travelling in the opposite direction with considerable velocity. We are losing a lot of fellows—five in my squadron last week—but they are not all being killed. Which brings me to the point. Quite a number are being taken prisoner, although they are not to be blamed for that, because if a bullet knocks a lump off your engine you have got to go down, so if you happen to be on the wrong side of the line—
well, it's your unlucky day. So many fellows are going West in this way that the War Office is sending an officer round—an ex-prisoner who escaped—to give people the tip what to do if they find themselves on the floor in Germany. The chap came here about a fortnight ago, and at the end of the lecture he asked if any one had any questions.
There were a lot of brass-hats present, and they smirked when I suggested that we ought to organize a sort of special rescue flight—the idea being to pick up fellows who were shot down. Having no imagination they only laughed at me, but, personally, I don't see why it shouldn't be done.
`From what I hear, the most difficult part of escaping is getting across the frontier.
Scores of fellows are stout enough to break out of the prison camps, but what with dog patrols, electrified wire, double frontiers, hunger, and so on, few succeed in getting out of Germany. Sooner or later they are recaptured, when they are punished pretty severely for their efforts. Yet why need they have to get across the frontier? It seems to pie that if certain big fields inside Germany were marked down, and fellows in the R.F.C. knew which they were, they could make for them when they found themselves on the wrong side of the lines (either before they were actually captured, or after breaking out of prison). The rescue flight would go to these fields from time to time to pick the fugitives up. It could do other useful things, too, such as making secret food dumps on which escaped prisoners could live until they were picked up. I say it is absurd that no attempt is made to rescue them. A fellow going out on a risky show might even make provision to be picked up if he was forced down on the wrong side of the lines. For instance, take my own case. You remember those holidays we spent together at Berg-taken, when the guv'nor was Ambassador at Berlin? Remember the old but in the valley where we used to sleep when we went fishing? I could hide there indefinitely. Within a mile of it, at the foot of the hills, there is a whacking great field big enough for a dozen machines to land in. If I went down I believe I could live on fish, corn, and fruit for a long time. Anyway, if
one day I fail to return from a show, you will know where to find me.
`Well, that's all for the present, old boy. Don't be in too much of a hurry to get out here; it isn't all beer and skittles—as the troops say. My compliments to the Head and best regards to Rip and the others.
Through thick and thin, Yours, Nigel.
`That's what I call a sensible letter,' declared Rip when Thirty had finished reading. 'Pity we aren't in France; if we were we'd go and have a look round this place Berglaken.'
Thirty folded the letter and put it in his pocket. 'I'm going, anyway,' he declared.
`Going—where?'
`To France.'
`When?'
`Now.'
Rip stared. 'Are you mad?'
Thirty shook his head. 'I was never more sane in my life.'
`But how . . . ?'
`Listen, Rip,' said Thirty crisply. 'For the last three months you and I have been getting up at four o'clock in the morning, breaking out of school, and biking to the flying school at Barton to learn to fly so that we shan't have so long to wait before we are sent to France when we do join up. We can both fly, and the only reason that we haven't got our certificates is because we are under age. I've done eighteen hours' solo, and you have done nearly as much; plenty of fellows have
gone to France with less experience than that. Heaps have learned to fly privately so that they can get to France quickly—Nigel told me so. All the same, I don't mind admitting that I felt a prize cad about breaking school when the Head was so jolly decent just now—but there, it couldn't be helped, and we are only doing it for the best. I have no parents to worry about me. Nigel was my only relation—apart from distant cousins who do not matter.'
`Well, I've only got my father, if it comes to that, and he's in France,' observed Rip thoughtfully. 'He'd give me a thundering good hiding, though, if I ran away from school and he found me in France.'
Òh no, he wouldn't,' declared Thirty. 'He wouldn't dare. He could be court-martialled if he did. A senior officer daren't strike a subaltern, not even his own son.'
`What are you going to do—join up?'
Ànd hang about a training school for six months, waiting to be sent out? No fear. I've got a brilliant scheme; in fact, I don't mind telling you that I have been turning it over in my mind for some time. Now poor old Nigel's gone I don't seem to care much what happens to me, and that's a fact. This is my idea. The last time Forty was home on leave he got his promotion, so he dumped all his uniforms and got new ones with three stars on the sleeves. The old uniforms are in his room; I saw them there when I was home for the Easter hols. I'm going to put one on, go to the nearest aerodrome, get into a machine and fly it to France, and then report for duty at the first aerodrome I come to.
`But you'd be spotted for a cert.'
`Don't you believe it. With thousands of officers walking about, who is going to take any notice of me?' Tut what would they say in France?'
`Nothing. They need officers too badly to worry about where they come from. I should have to pretend that I had been ordered to report, and hope that the C.O. would think that my posting orders had got mislaid somewhere. In any case, even if I was found out, what could they do to me? Shoot me for trying to fight for my King and Country? No fear.
Once I get to France they'll let me stay.'
`You mean us—not I.'
Ùs—what do you mean?'
`You don't think I'm going to let you buzz off to France leaving me here swotting over Euclid and other rot, do you?'
`By Jove! Rip, do you mean it?'
Ì jolly well do. When can we start?'
`Now; this very minute.'
Rip sprang to his feet and locked the door as Thirty climbed on a chair and pulled down a suitcase from the top of his locker. Throwing back the lid he took out an assortment of clothes.
`When we brought these here so that we could learn to fly without awkward questions being asked, we little thought how useful they were going to be,' muttered Thirty, as he struggled into an old grey sweater.
In a few minutes the change was complete, and Rip cautiously opened the window. '
What about writing a note to the Head telling him what we've done?' he suggested.
`He'd wire to the authorities to stop us,' protested Thirty sadly. 'We'll drop him a line when we get to France.'
`By the way, have you got any chink?' asked Rip suddenly.
`Why do we need money?'
Ìt's nearly a hundred miles to London, and it will take us a long time to walk.'
Thirty thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out some loose coppers. `Sevenpence,'
he announced.
Ì've threepence; it looks as if we shall have to hoof it, after all,' declared Rip.
Thirty threw a leg over the window-sill. 'What does it matter how we go as long as we get there?' he observed.
Chapter 2
The Adventure Begins
Twenty minutes saw them on the main road plodding steadily towards London. They hailed several cars going their way, but none would stop; with a lorry driver, however, they had better luck. In response to t
he boys' desperate signals he drew in to the side of the road, and only then did they see that he was in khaki.
`Gosh, we've stopped an army lorry,' whispered Rip. `Will you give us a lift, driver?'
pleaded Thirty. `Where are you going?'
`London.'
`What for?'
`To join up.'
"Op in.'
In a twinkling of an eye the boys had squeezed themselves in next to the driver, and in another moment the lorry was once more speeding down the road.
Neither of the boys ever forgot that journey; it seemed interminable. On and on through the night they rumbled, sometimes meeting or overtaking marching troops, or lines of guns, or wagons. It was two o'clock in the morning when they arrived at the Crystal Palace, the driver's destination, where, with sincere thanks, they bade him farewell, and started on a long walk through the darkened streets to Mayfair, where the Fortymore town house was situated. They were deadly tired, and Thirty became more and more convinced that the whole thing was a dream. He wondered vaguely what Thompson, the caretaker, would say when he saw them, for it would be necessary to ring the bell to gain admittance.
The sky was just beginning to turn grey when, footsore and weary, Thirty exclaimed, '
Thank goodness, we're here,' and halted before a pillared entrance. His finger found the bell push and he pressed it steadily.
After a few seconds they could hear bolts being drawn. A key grated in the lock. The door opened, revealing a grey-headed old man with a dressing-gown thrown over his night attire. His eyes grew round with wonder as Thirty stepped into the hall. 'Master Peter,' he gasped.
`Quite right, Thompson,' admitted Thirty. 'This is my friend, Mr. Ripley.'
But what in heaven's name, sir —'
`Never mind explanations now, there's a good fellow,' said Thirty firmly. 'Coffee, please, and plenty of it—and some sandwiches. While we're eating them kindly make up my bed and a spare one. Much as I regret the waste of time I shall have to sleep for a little while.
You had better make up Master Nigel's —' He broke off, faltering. 'I nearly forgot,' he went on quietly. `Have you heard the news, Thompson?'
17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight Page 1
