Raising his eyes he saw that the Camels were still just above and behind him. This rather surprised him, for he rather expected that they would have done something, although what, he did not know. Still, it did not occur to him to question Biggles's judgement.
Looking at his watch for the hundredth time he saw that they had been in the air for an hour and a quarter, and a glance ahead still revealed no sign of the lines. What it did reveal, however, was a mighty mass of cloud, four or five thousand feet thick, rolling towards them, and not more than two or three miles away. He hoped that Biggles would give him a lead as to whether he should remain above it or go under it, and he was still staring at it when from a yawning blue chasm in the centre of it there burst five scarlet-painted Triplanes . He stared at them in unspeakable horror, for from their actions it was instantly clear that the enemy machines had seen those bearing the red, white, and blue rings. The Triplanes were between them and the
lines. Thirty's heart sank. 'We're cut off; they've got us between two fires,' he thought bitterly.
Looking up behind him he saw that Biggles and Algy had closed up; they were signalling to each other with swift gesticulations, a ridiculous-looking dumb pantomime. Evidently they understood each other, for Algy nodded assent. Almost at once the nose of his Camel tilted downwards and Biggles forged past the Bristol in a steep dive, beckoning to Thirty to follow him.
Thirty obeyed without hesitation, regardless of the fact that the three machines, with the two Camels leading, were roaring straight towards the five Triplanes, which, being slightly below them, had tilted up their noses to meet them.
To Thirty, the next few seconds were the acme of breathless excitement. As straight as a hawk swooping on its prey, Biggles's machine plunged towards the red formation. Thirty, being behind, saw everything. His heart seemed to stop beating, as, with a sort of spell-bound fascination, he waited for what appeared to be a wholesale collision. Something told him that whatever happened Biggles would not turn. A curious feeling of finality stole over him, leaving him strangely calm. He would not turn, either, he decided. So, tight-lipped, he waited for the crash. He saw little jabs of flame start dancing at the muzzles of the guns on the crimson cowlings; saw the swift streak of tracer bullets spurt from the nose of Biggles's machine. Perhaps two hundred yards separated the two formations, and they were still hurtling straight to destruction.
He had braced himself for the shock of the head-on collision when the German formation split like a covey of partridges driven over guns, some zooming to the right, others to the left. His left wing-tip missed a red one by perhaps ten feet. He could see every detail of it, the tappits working in the engine and the faint smoke trail of the exhaust. He saw the pilot's face clearly, the fixed stare in his eyes behind the goggles, and the set mouth. He heard a gun behind him stutter for an instant. Then the two machines swept past each other. The air ahead was clear.
Immediately Biggles steepened his dive to such a degree that Thirty used both hands on the joystick to keep pace with him. He became conscious of a great noise in his ears, a kind of wailing scream that rose to a shrill crescendo. He risked a glance behind. The sky seemed to be full of machines. He had no time to see more, for it needed all his skill to keep close to the two Camels, which, swerving, had plunged into the aerial chasm between the cloud masses from which the Triplanes had appeared.
Even at that desperate moment he found time to marvel on it, for it was a scene such as not even Dante could have imagined. It was unreal; a fantasy. Below lay a colossal pit, the base of which was lost in blue mist. On either side, ice-blue walls towered up to the paler blue of heaven. Billows of gleaming white, so bright that they dazzled the eyes, flecked the sun-drenched rim of this stupendous cavity, the bottom and sides of which were as intangible as the atmosphere through which they roared. The noise of the engines took on a strange muffled note.
Down—down—down they plunged, sometimes swerving round little islands of pale grey mist that floated in the void, dispersing others as they burst through them. Again Thirty heard the gun behind him,
and snatching a glance over his shoulder saw Forty shooting at something which the tail of the machine prevented him from seeing.
Biggles turned sharply to the right, so sharply that the Bristol overshot him. Recovering quickly, however, Thirty followed, and now being broadside to his original course saw clearly what had before been hidden from his view. Roaring down the misty gorge were nearly a score of machines. It was an amazing sight, one that printed itself indelibly on his memory.
A large, dark-green two-seater, with the tell-tale black crosses on its wings and fuselage, suddenly came into view at the far end of the gorge, evidently with the idea of using the passage to get above the clouds. The speed with which it turned and plunged blindly into the wall of cloud brought a faint smile to Thirty's lips. Then, suddenly, he saw the ground, dim with the shadow of the great cloud mass that hung over it like a pall. A little way ahead it changed from dull green to brown. Thirty recognized the lines. At the same moment Biggles and Algy both turned outwards, allowing him to pass between them.
He would have turned, too, but Biggles signalled to him to go on, and an instant later they had passed out of his field of view. He knew what they had done. They had turned to meet the enemy machines, which, being single-seaters, had drawn so close to the two-seater that it would have been fatal to go on. Alone, doubtless they could have given the enemy the slip, but they could not—or rather, would not—leave the slower two-seater.
Thirty looked at his altimeter. The needle was just below the two-thousand mark, so much height had they lost in their rush through the hole in the clouds. He looked back, trying to find it, hoping to see the two Camels emerge; but either it had closed up or there was nothing to indicate where it was. He was still looking when a smart blow on the head made him turn. Forty pointed. Following the line indicated, Thirty's heart gave a lurch when he saw four machines almost on top of him. He breathed again when he recognized them for Camels, but it gave him a jolt to realize that although they were so close he had not seen them until they had .been pointed out to him. Almost at once he saw that they were from his own squadron, Mahoney's red, yellow, and blue streamers conspicuous in the lead.
An idea came into his head. Flying close, he beckoned, and then turned back towards the clouds. Another shock awaited him as his nose came round, for the sky through which he had flown was black with archie bursts. Somehow it didn't worry him. He felt that the four Camels ought to know where Biggles and Algy were. But it was in vain that he searched for the cavity through which he had just come.
He jumped, literally, when, without warning, a red Triplane fell out of the cloud and plunged across his nose, the rear part smothered in a sheet of flame. He saw the luckless pilot trying to get out. Then it passed out of sight below him. An Albatros shot out of the cloud, but as quickly disappeared into it again when, apparently, the pilot saw the four Camels. Another Triplane came out, gliding, with a dead propeller; a Camel shot out a little way beyond it. The Triplane went into a spin, and the Camel started circling. From the fact that it carried no streamers Thirty knew it must be Algy.
Biggles came out of the cloud a good deal higher up; he, too, circled for a moment and then came down to join the others, but swerved away towards the lines before reaching them. Thirty followed, after noting that the other Camels were turning to do the same.
The nose of Biggles's Camel went down, and the seven machines scattered and, in no sort of formation, dived through the ever-present archie across the shell-torn strip of no-man's-land.
`We're home,' Thirty told himself unbelievingly.
He landed near Algy's machine. Algy came running over to him, laughing almost hysterically.
`My gosh! Did you see that old Hun two-seater scuttle when he saw us?' he chuckled.
`Yes,' answered Thirty, lamely, wondering how Algy could laugh. He himself felt oddly weak. His mouth was dry, and the skin seemed to be tightl
y drawn over his face. Stiffly, he climbed out on to the wing and jumped to the ground.
Chapter 9
Forty akes a Proposition
Forty also climbed down, followed by Rip, looking not a little relieved to vacate his cramped position. Mahoney joined them, and in a few minutes they were all laughing and joking.
`Lucky you arrived at such a useful moment,' Thirty told Mahoney.
`Lucky? I wouldn't call it luck,' replied the flight-commander. `Biggles asked me to hang about in case you ran into trouble.'
Ì thought we might be glad of Mahoney's help if we finished up with a rush—as indeed we did,' said Biggles. 'Here comes the C.O. You'd better leave the explaining to me; he'd be in order in ticking us off; in fact, I think he will.'
Major Mullen joined the party, his face expressing his astonishment when he saw Forty. '
Who is this fellow?' he asked, stiffly.
`Fortymore, sir, of eighty-four squadron,' answered Biggles.
'VI 'hat?'
`He was shot down some time ago, sir, and made prisoner. He had a sort of an arrangement with his brother—that is, Fortymore of our squadron—as to where he would make for if he got clear of the Huns. We went over to-day and picked him up. That's all, sir.' Such was Biggles's account of the adventures of the morning.
Major Mullen addressed Forty. 'Do you mean to say—you've just come out of—
Germany?' he asked incredulously.
`Yes, sir.'
The C.O. looked from one to the other. 'Great Heaven,' he said softly. He thought for a moment. `You'd better go and have a bath and some food and get into some decent clothes,' he told Forty, at last. 'I shall have to report this to Wing at once. Come up to the squadron office as soon as you are ready. You'd better come too,' he added, looking at Biggles and Thirty in turn. 'Hurry up; I expect Major Raymond will want a word with you.' With that he turned and walked towards his office.
`Who's Major Raymond?' Thirty asked Biggles:
`Wing Intelligence Officer. I should say he will come over; he doesn't get a chance to interview some one straight out of Germany every day. Come on, Forty; let's find you some togs.'
Biggles was right in his assumption that Major Raymond would want to interview Forty and hear at firsthand the details of the exploit, for when those who had been ordered to do so gathered at the squadron office about an hour later he was already there. He looked at Forty—now shaved, and spick and span in a borrowed uniform—for several seconds before congratulating him on his escape.
`Surely you are the officer who put forward such a scheme some time ago?' he remarked.
`That is correct, sir. I did, but it came to nothing. It's queer that I should have been able to prove it in actual practice; naturally, although I spoke about it, I hardly expected it to come off. Even now it hardly seems possible. Less than three hours ago I was in Germany, and had been run to earth in my hiding-place by an armed guard.'
Thereafter, for the benefit of the C.O. and the Wing officer, the whole story was related from the beginning, omitting, of course, all reference to Thirty and Rip's irregular arrival in France, which was something Forty himself did not yet know, since with being occupied by an extensive toilet and a square meal, Thirty had not had time to tell him. In any case, he was wondering if he ought to do so, since his brother was a senior officer.
When the story had ended, Major Raymond tossed the end of his cigarette through the open window. `Well, that's the most astonishing tale I've heard since I came to France,'
he observed slowly.
Thirty found himself wondering what the major would think if he knew the whole truth of his escapade.
`What had I better do, sir? Report back to my squadron?' asked Forty.
`No, you can't do that,' replied the major quietly. `Why not, sir?'
`What I meant was, you can never fly over the lines again.'
Forty's face showed his consternation.
`You know the rules of war,' went on the major, 'or you ought to. If an escaped prisoner is ever retaken by the enemy he can be shot, since he comes into the category of a spy. If you made a strong application to go on flying there is always a chance, of course, that the higher authority would allow you to do so, but your blood would be on your own head—so to speak. That has happened in the one or two rare cases of an officer getting out of Germany, but if he was captured in France, he is sent to another theatre of war—
Palestine or East Africa, for instance. But to tell you the truth, what I cannot help feeling is this: if this can be done once it should be possible to do it again. Officers of experience are very valuable just now, and there are hundreds in German prison camps.'
Ì don't see how it could be done again, sir,' said Biggles. 'You must remember that this was an exceptional case in that a landing-ground—or, shall we say, a picking-up ground—had been more or less prearranged. I'm not saying we couldn't land, but it would be no use landing if the fellows in the prison camps did not know where to make for.'
Ìt might be arranged for the future, though,' observed the major reflectively. 'A number of rendezvous could be pin-pointed, and officers made acquainted with them, so that if they were shot down they would know where to make for. I take it that you were actually captured by the enemy, Fortymore?'
Òh, yes, sir. Not immediately, though. I was on the run for a time. Then I was caught and sent to Tatzgart. I got away with several other fellows the very next day, and there I was lucky, for they had a tunnel which they had been digging for three months. By mutual consent we agreed to separate after we got out so as not to attract attention.
Naturally, I made straight for Berglaken, although with a good deal more hope than confidence that my brother would come over for me.'
Ìt is a pity there is no way of letting the fellows in prison camps know . . . but there, I do not think we need pursue that.'
`My original plan, you remember, sir, was not only to pick fellows up, but to establish food dumps, with maps, wire-cutters, rubber gloves for getting through electrified wire, and so on, so that they would at least stand a good chance of getting across the frontier even if they were not picked up,' explained Forty.
`Well, I certainly think it's worth going into,' declared Major Raymond. 'I'll see what headquarters have to say about it. We should need volunteers to run such a show, of course. It would be a lot too risky to order fellows to do it.'
`Well, you wouldn't have to look very far, sir,' put in Biggles.
A faint smile crossed the major's face as he looked at Biggles. 'Trust you to be in it,' he said lightly.
Ì didn't do so badly this time, sir,' Biggles reminded him.
`Well, we'll see,' went on the major. 'There would be a big risk in letting the information be generally known over this side of the line—and we should have to do that to make the thing possible—as a spy might get hold of it. Once it got back to Germany it would be all up. The Huns would simply set a trap at the rendezvous and catch the rescue pilots red-handed. Still, I'll think about that.'
`Pardon me, sir,' put in Forty. 'You said just now that there was no possible way of letting fellows already in prison camps know.'
The major raised his eyebrows. 'Can you think of a way?'
`Yes, sir.'
`Well?'
Ì could go back.'
Dead silence followed the words. It was as if every one were trying to work out just what Forty meant. `Go back?' said the major.
Èxactly, sir. In other words, I could be dumped back over the lines—and get myself recaptured. I should be put back into prison. I would then pass the necessary information to fellows whom I knew.'
The major stared at Forty as if he could not believe his ears. 'Good heavens!' he gasped. '
Are you serious?'
`Quite serious, sir.'
`Don't do it,' burst out Thirty impulsively. 'Why, they'll shoot you the moment they retake you.'
`Why should they?' asked Forty naïvely. 'They would hardly be likely
to recognize me.
On the only occasion that they saw me I looked pretty dishevelled and wore R.N.A.S.
blue uniform. I could arrange to go down a hundred miles farther north than last time.
Shaven, in R.F.C. uniform, and with a name like—say—John Smithson, there seems to me to be no earthly reason why they should associate me with the R.N.A.S. officer by the name of Fortymore who escaped from Tatzgart.'
`By Jove! That's true enough,' cried Major Raymond. `What do you think, Mullen?'
Ì agree with Fortymore; there should be little or no danger of recognition; all the same, I believe the German prison camps are stiff with counter-espionage agents, so there are bound to be risks.'
`Yes, I think it's too risky,' declared Thirty emphatically.
Ìf by this scheme we can serve more usefully than as ordinary flying members of a squadron, I think it's up to us to do it,' said Forty, simply. And I've one or two pals in Boche prisons; nothing would give me greater personal satisfaction than to get them away.'
`We've all got one or two there, if it comes to that,' murmured Biggles.
Major Raymond rose and picked up his cap. 'I must be getting along,' he said quietly, looking at his wristwatch. 'If you fellows hear no more about this you will know it is a washout, and I'll arrange for you, Fortymore, to be sent home for a spot of leave. Otherwise I'll call another conference. I hope you won't object to my borrowing your officers, Mullen, if we do decide to do something about it.'
The C.O. of 266 squadron made a wry face. 'Naturally, I shouldn't be pleased about it,'
he returned, and then sighed. 'But, as we say, there is a war on, so I suppose we shall all have to put our backs into it.'
Major Raymond shook hands with Forty. Goodbye,' he said. And, once more, good show.
Goodbye, gentlemen.'
17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight Page 7
