The war pilot laughed, throwing open the collar of his oil-stained tunic. Àh, well, you'll learn,' he said. `We're all hopeless at first, but I must say you were lucky to get here. I was just making my last turn before coming home when I spotted that marigold-tinted skunk plastering you. Well, he'll do no more plastering. Where were you bound for, anyway?'
`What squadron is this?' returned Thirty evasively. `Two-six-six.'
`Why, that's the squadron we were making for,' declared Thirty, not untruthfully, since any squadron would have suited him.
`Good! We can do with some new fellows. The Boche are keeping things lively, and I have some gaps in my own flight. My name's Bigglesworth—Biggles for short. I may need you to confirm my combat report, but first of all you'd better go and sign on. There'
s the orderly room over there. Cheerio, see you later.'
Thirty turned to Rip. 'Come on,' he said, 'let's get it over. Our luck's been grand so far; it won't let us down now.'
Feeling more confident than he had been since their wild escapade started, Thirty walked briskly towards the hutment which `Biggles' had said was the orderly room. He knocked on the door and entered, with Rip close behind him. A little, sandy-haired man, with a terrible scar on the side of his jaw, was sitting at a paper-littered desk. He looked up as they entered. `What cheer?' he said lightly.
`Lieutenants Fortymore and Ripley reporting for duty, sir,' said Thirty smartly.
`Fortymore?'
`Yes, sir.'
`You needn't sir me—I'm only the Recording Officer ; have you got a brother out here?'
Ì had—he's missing.'
The Recording Officer rose to his feet and held out his hand. Bad luck,' he said quietly. '
Glad to meet you, Fortymore. Your brother was a stout fellow. If you shape anything like him we shall be glad to have you. Got your movement orders?'
`No. At least, we weren't given any papers to bring here,' answered Thirty truthfully.
`Never mind; I expect they've gone adrift somewhere. How did you get here?'
`We flew over.'
`The dickens you did. I heard a rumour that they were going to send new fellows over that way—much more sensible than boat and train. Just a minute, the C.O. will probably want a word with you.' The Recording Officer disappeared into an inner room, but was back in a moment. 'Come in and meet Major Mullen, the C.O.' he said.
Thirty and Rip followed the Recording Officer into the C.O.'s office. To Thirty's surprise, a curly haired young man who could not have been a day more than twenty-five rose to meet them, a smile of welcome on his rather careworn face. 'Hello, chaps; welcome to two-six-six,' he said cheerfully, holding out his hand. Ì've been screaming for some new fellows for a fortnight. Know anything about flying?'
`Not very much, I'm afraid, sir.'
The C.O. laughed outright. 'That's frank, anyway,' he replied. 'Too many fellows come out here overconfident, and that's a mistake they seldom live long enough to discover.
There is only one place where you can learn war-flying, and that's in France. Forget all you've been taught at home and start afresh. I believe in giving fellows a fair chance, so you won't go near the lines until I've passed you out. Put in all the flying time and target practice you can for the next ten days, then I'll see how you shape. You'd better go to—
let me see.' The major turned and studied a chart that hung on the wall behind his desk.
Thirty saw that it was a list of names, many of which, however, had been scored out. '
You'd like to keep together, you two, I suppose?' inquired the C.O.
Ìf it can be arranged, sir.'
`Nothing easier. You can both go to B flight. Captain Bigglesworth will be your skipper.
He'll take care of you, for he's as stout a pilot as there is in France; do what he tells you and don't ever let him down. If you do,' —the C.O.'s eyes glinted ominously—I'll shoot you myself. I must get on now. Go and find Bigglesworth. I think I saw him come in a minute or two ago.
Make yourselves at home; you'll find we're a happy family here. Goodbye for the present.'
`By gosh! That's a bit of luck,' said Thirty excitedly when they were outside again. `
Bigglesworth was the chap who saved us just now. I liked him from the moment I set eyes on him. Let's go and find him.'
`There he goes now, walking towards the sheds,' exclaimed Rip. 'Let's catch him up.'
Breathless, they overtook the flight-commander just as he reached the hangars. He heard them coming and turned to wait for them. 'What's the hurry—going home again?' he inquired brightly.
`We've been posted to your flight, sir,' replied Thirty enthusiastically.
The flight-commander regarded them thoughtfully for a moment without speaking. 'Don't call me sir,' he said at last. 'Ceremony doesn't cut any ice out here—. and you'll soon understand why. How long has the C.O. given you to learn to fly and shoot straight?'
`Ten days.'
`Fine! Then let's sit down and have a chat about things in general. By the way, what are your names?'
Ì'm Fortymore and this is Ripley. Thirty and Rip for short.'
`Why Thirty?'
`Because my brother was Forty.'
`Not Forty of eighty-four squadron?'
`That's right. He's—missing.'
Ì'm sorry to hear that. Bad show. I've met him once or twice, and he struck me as being an exceptionally good scout. Ah well, that's the luck of the game. Pull some chocks over and let's sit down; there's no sense in standing when you can sit.'
Squatting on the low wooden chocks in the warm sunshine by the hangar wall, the flight-commander lit a cigarette and regarded the glowing end pensively.
Thirty looked at him curiously, finding it difficult to believe that his flight-commander had killed several men in mortal combat, for he was not much older than himself. Slight in build, his features were as delicate as those of a girl, as were his hands, which fidgeted continually with the throat fastening of his tunic. His deep-set hazel eyes were never still, yet held a quality of humour that seemed out of place in a pale face upon which the strain of war, and the sight of sudden death, had already graven little lines.
He flicked the ash off his cigarette with a little nervous movement, and then looked thoughtfully at the two boys.
`Now I'm not going to give you a lecture,' he began, in a soft, well-modulated voice. 'I'm going to tell you a few things for your own good. Nobody told me; I had to find 'em out for myself, which means that I must have been very, very lucky. In the ordinary way you might last a week; with luck you might even last a fortnight; if you pay attention to what I'm going to tell you, and survive the initial difficulties, there is just a chance that you might last until the end of the war. The more you know, the better chance you have of knocking down a Hun or two before you get knocked down yourself. That's what you're here for. First of all, until you know your way around, don't cross the lines under ten thousand feet, and even then stay within striking distance of home until you are able to take on anybody with a fair chance of getting away with it. If you are flying in formation don't leave it on any
account—never mind what you see. It may be a Hun underneath—well, leave him alone; as like as not it will be a decoy to get you down so that you will be easy meat for the fellows who will be waiting upstairs. If you see anything suspicious, or something you don't understand, make for home as if the devil himself was after you. Always keep your eyes skinned. The air is stiff with Huns all hoping to get the Iron Cross, and it's newcomers to the game who give them their chance. Never stop looking for one instant—
particularly in the direction of the sun; at first you'll see nothing, but in a week or two there won't be a machine in the sky that you won't spot. It's a knack that comes with practice. Don't worry about archie; its bark is worse than its bite and it seldom hits anybody. Keep away from balloons , and watch ahead for balloon cables if you have to come home low down. More than one fellow has hit one—and aeropl
anes don't like it.
Remember, it's no use shooting at a Hun outside three hundred feet; it's a waste of ammunition—apart from which it tells the Hun, if he is an old hand, that you're green.
Keep away from clouds; nasty people lurk in them waiting for careless people to come along. If you are meeting a Hun head-on, don't turn; it isn't done; make him turn; that's how we keep their tails down. Finally, if you are attacked by a Hun and things look grim, don't try to get away. Go for him as though you'd made up your mind to ram him; it's your only chance; it will give him the idea that you mean business, even if you don't, and the odds are he'll clear off and leave you alone. Put in every minute you can at target practice. It's no use being able to fly if you can't shoot straight. It's better to be a rotten pilot and a good shot than the other way about. If there's anything you don't understand, about your machine or anything else, don't be afraid to ask me. That sounds rather a lot to remember, but it isn't much, really; in a week or two you'll be doing all these things instinctively, without having to think. Presently I'll take you up and show you the lines, and the best landmarks. Meanwhile, I've got to go and have a word with the flight-sergeant about my kite ; she's flying a bit right wing low. Go and get yourselves fixed up with quarters.'
A horrible thought struck Thirty. 'Gosh! We haven't any kit,' he muttered.
`What do you mean—you haven't any kit?'
`Well, you see, we flew over, so we couldn't bring any with us.'
Ìt will come up on a tender, I expect.'
`Possibly,' answered Thirty non-committally, catching Rip's eye. 'Meanwhile we have nothing to go on with.'
`No matter. You can get some small kit from Roddy, the mess secretary, and I can probably dig out an old suit or two of pyjamas. They may be a bit oily because on summer dawn patrols I sometimes fly in them—but that needn't worry you.' The flight-commander stood up. 'See you later,' he said, and disappeared inside the hangar.
Neither of the boys spoke for a little while. Then Rip regarded Thirty with a half-alarmed, half-amused expression on his face. 'Well, we'
ve done it,' he observed in a tense whisper. 'We are actually in France, in a fighting squadron. This time yesterday we were at school. Jove! This is the greatest thrill of my life.'
Ìn a week or so, if our luck holds, I may get a chance to fly to Berglaken,' replied Thirty, in a voice that shook a little. 'That will be the greatest adventure of my life.'
Chapter 4
Into the Blue
For ten days, under the watchful tuition of their flight-commander, Thirty and Rip practised assiduously the tactics of war-flying, upon which—so they were assured—their lives would depend immediately they crossed the lines into enemy country. This consisted chiefly of gunnery, both with camera-guns and shooting with live ammunition at a target set in a field not far from the aerodrome. The target in the first instance consisted of two old aeroplane wings lying flat on the grass, but when they reached the stage when they could hit it fairly frequently, Captain Bigglesworth— or Biggles as he was known to every one in the squadron—gave them a much more difficult mark to hit; nothing more than an old petrol can. This they were taught to shoot at from various angles, not the least difficult being a direct 'stall' immediately above it, which was one of Biggles's own specialities in the matter of attack.
Of general tactics they learned a good deal from conversations in the mess, where they listened with breathless interest to the stories of hair-raising exploits that occurred almost daily in that vague place known as 'over the lines' or 'in the blue'. Not infrequently Biggles was the leader of these exploits, sometimes in company with the other two flight-commanders, Mahoney and McLaren.
But of all their fellow officers the one for whom they formed the greatest attachment was a member of their own flight who invariably flew in formation at Biggles's right hand.
He was an untidy youth with longish hair and a freckled face on which dwelt an expression of amused surprise. He was, they learned, a distant relative of Biggles's, and had come straight out from school and caused a minor sensation at the squadron by shooting down an enemy aircraft on his first trip over the lines. His name appeared on the squadron roll as Second Lieutenant The Honourable Algernon Lacey, but he was never called anything but Algy, even by Major Mullen, the C.O.
From the very beginning, possibly on account of their recent schooldays, a mutual friendship sprang up. Some of the older pilots sometimes showed signs of nerves, but Algy refused to treat the war as anything but a joke. The more his machine was shot about, the more he laughed, although on such occasions Biggles was apt to turn a reproving eye on him.
It was Algy who, on the eleventh morning after their arrival at the squadron, joined them on the tarmac in front of the flight hangar where they were waiting for orders. His Sidcot flying suit was flung carelessly over his shoulder; in his right hand he carried the rest of his flying kit—helmet, goggles, and gauntlets. On reaching Thirty and Rip he flung his kit in a heap on the dusty concrete and eyed them both with mock seriousness.
`How are you feeling?' he inquired.
Àll right,' replied Thirty. 'Why?'
Algy nodded sombrely. 'This is the great day.' `You mean—'
`You're going over the lines—right over to where the big bad Huns are waiting to gobble little boys up.'
`You being one of the little boys?' suggested Thirty slyly.
A quick smile spread over Algy's face. 'Not me,' he declared. 'I used to be, but I'm a tough mouthful, now.'
Ìs Biggles coming?'
`You bet he is. He's leading the show. Four machines are required to escort a photographic machine home; that's all; it looks like being a nice quiet party, so Biggles has decided to give you a taste of the real business. I'm making the fourth. We're to pick up the two-seater—a D.H.4 —over Douai, at ten o'clock.'
`Douai?' murmured Thirty. 'I've heard you speak about that place in the mess. Isn't there an enemy aerodrome there?'
`There certainly is. It's the little old home town of the Richthofen Circus —the boys who fly the red Albatroses . That's why the "Four" is going over to try to get a photograph of it. If we barge into any Albatroses take my tip and stick close to Biggles. But we may not see them.'
`Why not?'
`Because at that time of the morning they're usually at the far end of their beat—the other side of Savy. That's why the raid has been timed for ten o'clock.'
Ì hope we see them, all the same,' murmured Thirty.
`You'll live and learn,' grinned Algy. 'That is, if you're lucky,' he added. 'Here comes Biggles; we'd better get started up.'
Biggles, in his flying kit, had come out of the squadron office and was walking briskly towards them. 'I suppose Algy has told you that I'm taking you over the lines this morning,' he began.
`Yes,' answered Thirty and Rip together.
Biggles nodded seriously. 'I shall keep out of trouble if I can,' he said. 'But if we do run into any I hope you'll try to remember what I have told you. Above all, don't lose your heads—and keep close to me if you can. Never mind what you see, and on no account leave the formation. If you do, it's ten to one you never get back to it. You understand that?'
`Yes.'
`Good! Then let's get away.'
Without another word Biggles turned on his heel and walked towards his machine, beside which two mechanics were standing.
The other three members of the flight made their way to their respective Camels, where they put on their flying kit, and after settling themselves in their cockpits started their engines.
Thirty, thrilling with a sensation he had never before experienced, looked across at Rip and, meeting his eyes, waved his hand encouragingly. Rip waved back. There was no time for anything more, for Biggles's
machine, with streamers fluttering from the inter-plane struts, had begun to taxi out towards the aerodrome. The others followed, and a moment later all four were roaring across the short green turf.
Once in the air t
hey closed up, and after circling the aerodrome three times to gain height, the leading machine, still climbing, turned slowly towards the east.
Thirty gave his engine a little more throttle and moved up as close as he dared to the fluttering wing pennants of his leader. Once more he was finding it difficult to believe that he was not dreaming; that what he saw was really happening; that he was in an aeroplane flying towards the battlefields through a sky in which enemy machines were on constant patrol. Looking down he saw an expanse of brown earth, perhaps a mile in width, gradually merging into dull green on either side. Through the brown expanse that coiled like a mighty serpent across the landscape from west to east ran tiny zigzag lines, hundreds of them, making a cobweb-like pattern. His breath suddenly came faster as he realized that he was looking at the actual lines where two mighty armies were entrenched, grappling in a stupendous life and death struggle. From time to time tiny white puffs appeared, and drifted sluggishly across the brown expanse. They looked harmless enough, but he knew that they must be the smoke of bursting shells.
Remembering where he was, he looked up sharply, and with a guilty start saw that he had got out of position. Biggles was looking at him, beckoning him nearer with a peremptory gesture, so he made haste to
close up again. Hardly had he done so than a little ball of black smoke appeared and mushroomed out not far from his outside wing tip. He no longer marvelled at it, for he knew what it was. They were over the lines, and they were being shelled.
Biggles flew straight on. He took no notice of the archie bursts that began to arrive in twos and threes. He did not appear to be aware of them. Thirty was, however—painfully so—as he realized what the unpleasant result would be if one came too close. Moistening his lips, he flew on, trying not to think about the venomous-looking little clouds of smoke with their fiery hearts. Presently, to his relief, they began to die away, as if the gunners had grown weary of their task.
Again he looked down. The country was absolutely strange, and he realized with a tightening of the heartstrings that should he by any chance find himself alone he would only have the remotest idea of how to get back to the aerodrome.
17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight Page 3
