`What news, sir?'
`My brother has been reported missing. Officially he is "Missing—believed killed".'
There was a moment of embarrassing silence. The old man muttered something incoherently, then broke
down and wept unrestrainedly. 'Master Nigel, oh Master Nigel,' he sobbed. 'Such a lovable—'
Dry-eyed, Thirty cut him short. 'Thompson, please, to oblige me will you try to postpone your grief and give service to those who are alive.'
But what are you doing here, sir? Why aren't you at school?'
Ì'm going to the war, Thompson.'
But how—?'
Ìt's no use protesting. My mind is made up. I will avenge my brother, if nothing more. In case there should be inquiries, kindly forget that you have seen us—you understand?'
`Yes, sir.'
`Good. Now please get us some coffee and prepare a room. We will share one.'
`Very good, sir.' With tears still trickling down his face, the old man departed on his errand.
`Come this way, Rip,' invited Thirty, leading the way upstairs. He opened the door of a bedroom, crossed over to a wardrobe and pointed to several uniforms that hung on hangers. 'There's our kit, Rip,' he said softly. 'Let us try to be worthy of the grand chap who once wore it.'
Ì shall never forget that,' promised Rip, his lips quivering.
An hour later, having made a frugal and somewhat silent meal downstairs, they returned to the room, undressed, and got into the beds that Thompson had prepared for them.
`Call us at nine sharp,' was Thirty's last order to the old caretaker before turning out the light.
At half-past nine, having had a few hours' refreshing sleep, the boys stood regarding each other speculatively, conscious perhaps for the first time of the seriousness of the step they proposed to take.
`They fit pretty well, I think,' observed Thirty, referring to the uniforms they wore.
Rip nodded. 'You know, Thirty, now that we have actually got these things on, I feel it is awful cheek to wear them without even enlisting, much less being gazetted . We shall get it in the neck if we're found out.'
`We'll talk about that when the time comes,' replied Thirty evenly.
`What aerodrome are you going to make for?' inquired Rip. It was significant that although he was the elder he instinctively left the leadership to Thirty.
`Hounslow is as near as anywhere.'
`What sort of machine are we going to try to get hold of?'
Àny, but Sopwith Camels if we have any choice, since we have done most of our flying on rotary engined Avros. Anyway, we'll get two single-seaters if we can; if not, it will have to be a two-seater. I don't care which it is as long as we get to France. Once we are across the Channel we shall be safe; the very last thing any one will suppose is that we are not officers at all, but two chaps who have run away from school. Why, even if we told any one I doubt whether we should be believed. Come on, let's go.'
At the bottom of the stairs, Thirty, with a curious smile on his rather pale face, pointed to a coat of arms that was painted over the front door. Below it, on a scroll, was a motto. '
Thick and thin,' he said quietly. `That meant a lot to old Nigel and me. It's you and I, now.'
Rip nodded. 'Through thick and thin,' he said softly, and held out his hand.
Thirty clasped it, and then, as if ashamed of his display of sentiment, hurried into the hall where Thompson was waiting for them. He stared when he saw the uniforms.
`Lieutenants Fortymore and Ripley,' smiled Thirty. Òh, and Thompson, I'm afraid we shall need a little money. Do you happen to have five pounds about you? I'll give you a note to the lawyers in case—'
`Don't mention it, sir. I have some money in my room; I will fetch it.' He hurried away, and soon returned with five one-pound notes in his hand. Thirty gave two to Rip and put the other three in his pocket. Then he held out his hand. 'Goodbye, Thompson,' he said gravely. 'Thanks for what you've done.'
`But why are you doing this, sir?' protested the old man. 'Isn't one in the family enough—
?'
Thirty pointed to the coat of arms over the door. `Thick and thin, Thompson,' he murmured reprovingly. 'It's time you knew that.'
`Yes, sir. Of course, sir.' The old servant bowed his head as he opened the front door.
Thirty ran lightly down the steps and hailed a passing taxi. 'Goodbye, Thompson,' he called. 'Mum's the word, don't forget.'
Ì shan't forget, sir. Goodbye, sir—and God go with you.' Then, as if the old man could not bear to watch any longer, he hurried inside and closed the door.
`Hounslow Aerodrome,' Thirty told the driver.
`You going up to shoot down them blooming zeps sir?' inquired the taxi-driver eagerly, noticing the wings on the 'officers' breasts.
`Not to-day, driver,' replied Thirty easily, as he gazed in surprise at a passing Tommy who had saluted him. In a hesitating sort of way he returned the salute; then he got into the taxi in which Rip was already seated. 'Gosh, did you see that?' he breathed. Ì mean—
that tommy. He saluted me. It made me feel an awful hypocrite. We shall have to watch out for that sort of thing or we shall give ourselves away.' A peculiar smile spread over his face as the taxi moved forward. `Well, here we go,' he said softly.
`By jingo! I'll tell you one thing we've forgotten,' declared Rip suddenly. 'What are we going to do for money? Five pounds won't last us long. Don't we have to pay mess bills or something?'
Thirty started. 'Gosh—yes. I'd forgotten all about that,' he muttered with a worried frown. 'I shall have to write to Thompson from wherever we end up at. All the same, we can't go on drawing off him indefinitely. Now poor old Nigel's gone I must have got a lot of cash in the bank, but the question is how to get hold of it. If I write to the lawyers, they'll give us away and we shall be sent back to school. Still, as you say, we can't live without money, and if the worst comes to the
worst I shall just have to write to them. Otherwise we might soon be court martialled for not paying our mess bills. It seems to me that our best chance is to try to put up a jolly good show as soon as we get to France; then, if we are discovered, they might let us stay out there. What a nuisance money is. Well, we can't go back now, can we?'
`No fear,' agreed Rip.
It took them rather more than an hour to reach Hounslow Aerodrome, where the first of the pound notes was almost exhausted in paying off the taxi.
`By Jove! Just look at them. Doesn't it give you a thrill to see them?' cried Thirty, pointing to a dozen or more aeroplanes that were standing on the tarmac. An engine was started up, and the sickly smell of castor oil was wafted to their nostrils.
`Gosh, I'm trembling like a leaf with funk and excitement,' muttered Rip.
`Then you'd better let me do the talking,' returned Thirty. 'Only bare-faced bluff will see us through now. Come on.'
Together they moved forward towards the tarmac where several officers, some in flying kit, were standing about, and numerous mechanics were going about their tasks, for it was a fine day and a number of machines were in the air.
`Look!' breathed Thirty. 'Camels! Those are the machines for us if we can get hold of them. That's the type Nigel flew; he showed me the instrument board of his the last time he was home on leave. See those two with guns on? They must belong to fellows home on leave. If that is so, it doesn't matter a bit about taking them because they will jolly soon be given new ones.'
No one took the slightest notice of them as they walked along the wide strip of concrete in front of the hangars towards the spot where the Camels were standing. A little group of mechanics stood close at hand, a flight-sergeant among them. Thirty beckoned to the N.C.O. , who stepped forward smartly.
`Whose machines are these, flight-sergeant?' he inquired blandly.
`They belong to two officers just come on leave, sir,' was the prompt reply.
Àh, they're the ones we're looking for,' declared Thirty calmly. 'We're going to test them, to find out just what con
dition these overseas machines get in after a period of service.'
`Yes, sir.' The flight-sergeant showed not the slightest surprise at the statement or at the youthfulness of the two 'test pilots', for during the war pilots of eighteen or nineteen years of age were common, and many of them looked younger.
`Get the tanks filled up, flight-sergeant,' ordered Thirty calmly, and then, nudging Rip, he turned towards the nearest hangar. 'We shall have to see about borrowing some flying kit,' he whispered. 'It will be chilly upstairs, and we've a fair way to go. There should be plenty of jackets and things in the sheds.'
In this respect he was quite right, for there were several leather jackets together with other flying kit hanging on the walls or thrown across the wings of aeroplanes. After a quick glance to make sure that no one was watching, Thirty picked up the nearest jacket, from the pockets of which protruded flying cap and goggles.
Glancing round he saw that Rip had done the same, and together they hurried back to the tarmac.
Àll ready, sir,' called the flight-sergeant.
`Listen, Rip,' said Thirty quietly, as he put on his leather jacket. 'We'll take off in a dead straight line and climb slowly. I'll go first and you follow me. Once we are in the air we are as good as in France.'
As he climbed into the cockpit, the feeling again came over him that he was dreaming. In spite of the reality of the scene he could not believe that he was actually getting into a war plane, bound for France. `Switches off,' he called to the mechanic standing by his propeller, in a voice he hardly recognized as his own.
Breathlessly he watched the ack-emma turn the big blade of the propeller. 'Contact, sir,'
called the voice.
`Contact!'
The engine, which had not had time to get cold, started at the first attempt, and with exultation in his heart Thirty watched the mechanic run to the propeller of Rip's machine.
Another instant and it was a gleaming circle of light like his own.. For a minute or two he waited for the engine to get really warm, and while doing so made a quick survey of the instrument board. Satisfied that there was nothing he did not understand, he raised his hands above his head for the chocks to
be pulled away; then, taking a firm grip of the throttle, he moved it slowly forward. The mechanic saluted to show that the sky was clear for the take-off. The machine began to move from the aerodrome, slowly, but with ever increasing speed; a moment later it was racing tail up across the short green turf. Thirty pulled the joystick back gently and the machine rose gracefully into the air. At a thousand feet, just beyond the boundary of the aerodrome, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw another Camel following close behind him. `Good old Rip,' he thought joyfully. 'We've done it.'
Chapter 3
France
With Rip sitting close behind his tail, Thirty bored his way steadily through the atmosphere on a southerly course, and when, half an hour later, the Channel came into view, he experienced a new thrill. Beyond the narrow strip of sea, flecked with countless tiny crested waves, was a long dark shadow—war-stricken France, where a million men, crouching in shell-torn trenches, were engaged in the greatest life-and-death struggle in history. If only Nigel had been there—what a time they could have had together! A wave of misery swept over him, but he shook himself impatiently and looked down for something to distract his attention. Across the water, heading for the English coast, a broad-beamed boat was surging, leaving a long feather of wake astern to mark its course; on either side of it raced two slim shapes which even from his altitude he recognized as destroyers. 'It must be the leave boat , and her escort,' he thought, and then dismissed the matter from his mind as the long, hedgeless fields of northern France rose up before him.
With Rip still close behind, Thirty crossed the coastline and began closely scrutinizing the ground for an aerodrome. He also watched the air, hoping to see other machines carrying the red, white, and blue markings , for, if he followed one of these, he hoped it would lead him to an aerodrome; but although it was a fine day the atmosphere appeared deserted.
For another twenty minutes he flew on, now following a south-westerly course, which from memory— since he had no map—he felt sure would take him well behind the trenches and parallel with them. Then he glanced behind to make sure that Rip was following. What he saw seemed to stop his heart beating. So astounded was he that for several seconds he could only stare—and stare; then his heart appeared to burst into action again like a racing engine. Stretching for miles behind them was a ragged line of small, black, wind-torn clouds. Even as he watched there came a flash of orange flame perilously close to Rip's machine, followed an instant later by a bubble of black smoke which coiled and twisted as it grew swiftly larger. He ran his tongue over his lips which had turned dry. `Great heavens!' he muttered in something like a panic, `we're being archied . The Germans are shooting at us.'
Before he could force his stunned faculties into action, there was a streak of flame not a dozen feet from his wing-tip, and something struck his machine with a vicious whang that made it quiver like a frightened horse. His reaction was purely instinctive; he flung the joystick over away from the shell-burst, but, forgetting to apply the necessary rudder, he skidded wildly across the sky. Another flash blazed in front of him and he careered through the smoke. The pungent fumes bit into his lungs and made him cough.
With his brain whirling, Thirty looked for Rip, and saw him steering an erratic course about a hundred yards away. 'We must be on the wrong side of the lines ,' he thought feverishly, but for the life of him he could not work out which direction he ought to take.
Indeed, for a moment or two he could not think of anything; his power to reason seemed suddenly to have deserted him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, however, when he saw that the archie bursts no longer followed him; they had faded away as swiftly as they had appeared. It did not occur to him that there might be a reason for this, but he was soon to discover his error of judgement. Turning, he joined Rip, who was circling as though he was lost, and, after having attracted his attention, swung his machine round to the south, realizing at last that he must have crossed the coast-line too far north.
At that moment his only sensation was one of thankfulness that he had escaped the horrible archie, but his relief was short-lived, for within a minute he became conscious of a peculiar sound above the noise of his engine. It was a harsh, intermittent rattle, as though part of his engine had worked loose and was vibrating inside the cowling. But when, an instant later, something struck his machine like a whip-lash, he jumped violently and looked hastily around. He was just in time to see an orange-painted, shark-like body whirl past him. Down and down it went, its wings flashing as the sun caught them; then it soared upward again
in a beautiful curve until its nose was pointing directly at him. At three points round the gleaming propeller there appeared tiny, jabbing spurts of flame.
Thirty could only watch, like a bird fascinated by a snake. 'He's shooting at me,' he thought—but still he did nothing. He became aware of numerous dark-coloured lines, like thick pencil lines, around him; they all seemed to start from the nose of the other machine. Vaguely he remembered Nigel once telling him something about special bullets called 'tracers '. And it was while he was still wondering at this new phenomenon that something else caught his eyes. A drab-coloured speck, tiny, but growing swiftly larger, was falling out of the sky like a stone directed towards the enemy machine—for he had no delusions as to the nationality of the orange-coloured aircraft. Down—down—
down it came, straight towards the German scout until it seemed to Thirty that a collision was inevitable. He recognized it for a Camel like his own. Fascinated, he could only watch. The rest seemed to happen with the deliberation of a slow-motion film. He saw the small brown object that was the German pilot's head turn suddenly; instantly the orange machine spun on its axis; then it jerked upwards; a tongue of flame burst from the engine and licked hungrily along the side of the fuselag
e. The nose dropped. A wing sagged, and the machine began to spin, then a sheet of flame enveloped it and it plunged earthward, leaving a great plume of oily black smoke behind it.
Thirty tried to swallow something that seemed to be stuck in his throat. He felt sick. In a daze he looked
round for Rip, and was startled to see two Camels, not one, close beside him. The pilot of the leading one pushed up his goggles, grinned broadly, and then raised both hands, thumbs pointing upward. 'Thumbs up,' thought Thirty. 'He must be the fellow who shot down that German!'
With a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach he realized that but for the new-comer it would have been he, not the German pilot, who lay in a heap of smoking wreckage on the ground. 'How did he do it, I wonder?' he mused. 'I shall never be able to fly a machine like that as long as I live.'
He was still occupied with these disturbing thoughts when he saw the Camel's nose tilt downward. He switched his glance to Rip, and then back at the strange Camel—or rather, the place where it had been, for it was no longer there. Pushing up his goggles he gazed around unbelievingly. Where had it gone? It took him a full minute to find it, far below and still going down. Then he saw the reason. At the corner of a large field, close to a straggling clump of trees, was a line of unmistakable buildings—hangars.
In a moment he was gliding down towards them. Twice he circled the aerodrome to make sure of the direction of the wind; then he glided low over the boundary hedge and landed, taxying straight on as soon as he was safely down to allow Rip plenty of room to come in.
With mixed thoughts he taxied up to the sheds, where the pilot of the machine which had saved him was standing lighting a cigarette. On the tarmac he switched off, jumped down, and walked slowly towards his saviour. 'Thanks,' he said nervously.
`What was the matter—guns jammed?' was the casual question that greeted him.
`Guns?' Thirty blinked, feeling foolish. It gave him another shock to realize that he had not even thought of shooting back when he had been attacked. What a hope he had of ever becoming a fighting pilot like Nigel! Despondently he confessed the truth. 'I'm sorry,' he blurted, 'but we've never been in France before; we have just come straight from England.'
17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight Page 2
