He looked again at the landing-ground, and caught his breath as the dark figure of a man burst from the bushes near the wood, and, ducking low, raced down the hedge. For some distance he ran as only a hunted man will run. Then he swerved out into the field and flung up both arms with a gesture of appeal that was unmistakable.
By this time Thirty had cut his engine and was going down in a steep side-slip; the gun behind him had stopped. A lightning glance over his shoulder showed him that Rip had seen the solitary man. Rip saw Thirty turn, and, bending over, he yelled in his ear, 'He's the chap they're after; we must get him.'
Thirty moistened his lips and flattened out for the landing, by no means certain of the direction of the wind. There could not be much or he would have noticed it, he thought desperately. He would have to risk it.
A bullet smashing against his engine-cowling brought forcibly to his notice the fact that he was running other risks besides a bad landing, but he set his teeth and endeavoured to remain cool in circumstances which were calculated to upset even the steadiest pilot, doing his best to touch his wheels in such a position that the Bristol would finish its run near the fugitive, who was now darting this way and that in an attempt to anticipate the stopping-place of the machine.
In the circumstances Thirty's effort was a creditable one; he kept his line fairly well, but he knew from the behaviour of the machine that he was slightly crosswind, and he flinched as the undercarriage groaned a protest.
The Bristol never entirely stopped. The moment it began to slow down the fugitive raced madly towards it, with Rip yelling encouragement. Above the noises made by these operations came the irregular crackle of musketry, the persistent taca-taca-taca-taca of machine-guns from overhead, and the crash of exploding bombs.
Thirty, risking an upward glance, saw the two Camels circling and swooping low over the edge of the wood, like a pair of plovers when a dog approaches their nest. Their manoeuvring told him that Biggles and Algy were using their twenty-pound Cooper bombs, of which each carried eight, as well as their machine-guns in an attempt to hold up the pursuit. He had no time to dwell on the spectacle; grey-coated figures burst through the hedge, and bullets cut up the turf round the feet of the running fugitive who by this time had nearly reached the machine.
`Come on!' yelled Rip, although it was obvious that the man for whom they were waiting was making every effort.
Thirty, left hand ready on the -throttle, felt a wave of compassion surge through him. The filthy mud-stained clothes, the ashen face, staring dark-rimmed eyes, and parted lips told their own story of dreadful ordeal. For the rest, he was a middle-aged man, with dark hair and heavy features. It was clear from his gasping breaths and distorted features that he was near the end of his endurance.
He got one foot into the fuselage stirrup and grabbed the edge of Rip's cockpit, but he had not the strength left to pull himself up. Rip grabbed him under the arms and dragged him in head first.
The engine roared as Thirty opened the throttle, using joystick and rudder-bar to drag the machine round to face the open field again, but even so it took some seconds to get into position for a safe take-off
It was a frantic moment in which Thirty acted more from impulse and habit than by lucid thought, for bullets were now hitting the machine, ripping through woodwork and fabric with the terrifying force of deadly power such missiles have.
The Bristol ran forward, its speed increasing at every instant. The tail lifted. Thirty sat rigid in his seat, eyes fixed on the mark he had chosen on the far side of the field to help to keep him straight. The wheels bumped once or twice, and then the machine was off, swerving from side to side as he kicked the rudder-bar to spoil the aim of the Germans who he knew without looking were still shooting at him.
Not until the machine was at a thousand feet, sweeping round in a wide, gently climbing turn, did he dare to look around. A glance behind showed Rip standing in his cockpit emptying his drum of ammunition into the wood. The Camels had broken off and were following him, rapidly overtaking him by reason of their superior speed. 'Phew! Thank goodness,' he muttered to himself, hardly daring to believe that they had escaped without a casualty.
The Camels drew level with him and he settled down for the return journey, scanning the sky ahead with no small anxiety. But his fears proved groundless. Once he saw a small formation of enemy scouts in the distance heading towards the lines, but either the leader did not see them or he was disinclined to fight, for he made no move towards them; he also saw an enemy two-seater, several thousand feet above them, apparently returning from a reconnaissance flight over the trenches. That was all, and he breathed his satisfaction when, without having fired a shot himself; and escorted by Mahoney's flight which had come to meet them, they roared across the wilderness of no-man's-land into their own territory.
Biggles was down first, closely followed by Algy. Standing beside their machines they waited for Thirty to land and taxi in, and then hurried over to him.
`Good show,' called Biggles cheerfully, as Thirty climbed down. 'Where's the passenger?'
Rip dismounted, followed by the man they had picked up. They all waited for him to speak, but `Thanks' was all he said and then started to walk towards the aerodrome buildings.
Algy stared at Biggles blankly. 'By gosh! Not exactly what you might call bubbling over with gratitude, is he?'
Biggles, with a curious expression on his face, hurried after the ex-fugitive. 'Hi, just a minute,' he said curtly. `Who are you?'
A ghost of a smile flitted across the man's pallid face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. 'Sorry, but— er —I don't happen to have a name,' he said quietly.
`Then you'd better find one,' Biggles told him shortly. 'We like to know our friends.'
Ì must refer you to headquarters—somebody should be here to meet me. Ah! Here comes Major Raymond.'
Biggles pushed back his flying-helmet and received the major with a suspicious frown. '
What's going on, sir?' he asked.
Ìt's all right, Bigglesworth,' the major assured him quietly.
Ì'm not so sure that it is, sir,' Biggles flung back belligerently. 'Who is this fellow?'
`He is one of our men.'
Òne of your men? You mean he's a sp—agent?' The major nodded.
`But—how did he know where to come to be picked up?'
Ì told him.'
`You told him?'
`Yes.'
`But how . . . ?'
`Carrier pigeon .'
Biggles flushed. Then his face paled. 'Then, if you'll permit me to express an opinion, sir, I don't think that's good enough,' he said angrily. 'Nothing was said about this in our plans. If we're caught now it will be a firing party for us .'
Ì'm sorry, Bigglesworth, but the exigencies of war made it imperative that we should get this man out of Germany immediately. And while not depreciating the good job of work you have done, may I remind you that he has taken bigger risks than you have—of facing a firing party? And to settle any grievance you may think you have, it may be some small comfort to you to know that, in bringing this fellow out, you four have done more good for our side to-day than any four men in the British army. I shall see that it is not overlooked. I'll talk to you later. That's all.' The major raised his hand in salute and, with his companion, walked quickly towards the squadron office.
Biggles took a cigarette from his case and tapped it on the back of his hand. 'The trouble with this perishing war is that you never know what you're doing,' he said bitterly. 'Come on, we might as well go and get some food.'
Chapter 12
Cutting It Fine
The business of the spy, or rather, the manner in which the rescue flight had been used by Intelligence Headquarters while being kept in ignorance of the facts, rankled with Biggles for the remainder of the day, and he was only mollified when, that evening, Major Raymond came over to the squadron and gave his assurance that it should not happen again. He did not say that the
rescue flight could not be used for Intelligence purposes, but he promised that when this happened the members of the flight should be informed.
In the quiet of his room Biggles talked to Thirty and Rip. 'You see, you fellows are not even officers. Really, you are civilians under arms, and if you were caught you'd have your backs against a brick wall inside twelve hours. I know, of course, that the Germans do not know you are civilians; but supposing you were captured and sent to a prison camp, and then some time later the truth leaked out, in the English newspapers, for instance, which are seen in Germany; well, they'd just shoot you out of hand, and you couldn't blame them for it. That's why I object to this being kept in the dark as to Raymond's real scheme. And make no mistake; sooner or later the Boche is bound to get wind of what is going on.'
Nothing more was said, in fact there was little to say, so they continued their operations as planned.
They heard no more of the man they had brought out of Germany.
During the next few days they visited each of the picking-up points, and without particular incident rescued five British officers, one of whom was an infantry colonel- of importance. After this they took three days' rest, but on their next trip everything seemed to go wrong from the beginning.
One of the officers whom they had rescued, a cavalry captain, had told them that he had reason to suppose that another officer would shortly succeed in getting out of the same prison camp; and if he did, in fact, succeed in getting out, he would be certain to make for the landing-ground-- which happened to be aerodrome C —where he, the cavalry captain, had been picked up.
This was the first occasion on which the rescue flight had gone over with good reason to suppose that an escaped prisoner would be waiting to be picked up. Actually, they were not due at aerodrome C for another three days, but in the circumstances they decided to make a special flight, although, as parcels of food had by now been hidden in the northern hedge of each landing-ground, they did not think that the man would suffer any great hardships while he was waiting—beyond, of course, a good deal of anxiety.
A sequence of unforeseen, although quite natural, events made them late. As they were crossing the lines the Bristol's oil-pressure suddenly went wrong, and Thirty had no alternative but to return. Ten minutes sufficed to put it right, so Biggles, after a moment's hesitation, decided to carry on. On the next attempt a close burst of archie hurtled a piece of shrapnel into Algy's engine, and after signalling that he could not go on he turned and glided towards home. Thirty did not see him go, and was only aware of what had happened when Biggles came close and signalled to him to go on.
Twenty minutes later the two machines were attacked by three Pfalz Scouts ; the attack was only half-hearted, rather suggesting that the three enemy scout pilots were beginnners; still, a fight ensued, and this delayed the two rescue planes still further. As soon as they saw that they were outmatched, the three Germans broke off the fight by diving for the ground, where, in the circumstances, Biggles did not pursue them, although it looked as if they would provide him with two or three easy victories.
With one thing and another it was broad daylight by the time the two machines reached their objective, and both Biggles and Thirty, although unaware that they were thinking alike, were hoping that it would not be necessary to land. But, surely enough, a piece of paper blowing about in a corner of the field told them that their man was waiting.
Then, to his surprise and consternation, Thirty, as he landed, saw two men break cover, from different places, and stand waiting for him. He guessed at once what had happened.
Two prisoners, each unaware of the other's presence, had arrived at the landing-ground.
He had wondered vaguely once or twice what would happen in such an emergency, but no definite rule had been laid down, so it was with considerable misgiving that he taxied towards the point on which they were converging. He saw that both wore ragged British uniforms, one an ordinary infantry field-service tunic and the other an R.F.C. double-breasted tunic. He also noticed that the flying officer was limping. Standing up in the cockpit, he spoke to them together. 'I can't take you both,' he called.
An altercation immediately ensued, and from it these facts emerged. The infantry officer was a guards major; he wore the ribbon of the D.S.O. on his tunic. The R.F.C. officer, a second-lieutenant, had not yet been taken prisoner. He was the pilot of an F.E. bomber which had been shot down on a raid only a few hours previously. His observer had been killed outright by the archie burst that caused their downfall; he, the pilot, had been wounded in the leg by the same burst. He knew nothing of the rescue flight. By the merest fluke he had been hiding in a ditch, in order to try to get back through the lines, but seeing two British machines he had, not unnaturally, exposed himself.
Thirty made up his mind quickly. 'I'm sorry, sir, but I shall have to take this chap first,' he told the major. 'He's wounded, and needs medical attention.'
`But I've been here for two days,' expostulated the guards officer, a heavily built, florid-faced man with an upturned moustache. Something in his manner annoyed Thirty.
Ì can't help that, sir,' he said evenly. 'With a wounded officer in question I am surprised that you do not agree with me.'
Ì have reasons for getting back,' snapped the major, making as if he would climb into the machine.
Major or no major, this was more than Thirty was
prepared to stand. 'I don't doubt that,' he replied curtly. 'So have we all. Stand away, please.'
The guards officer glared. 'You'll obey my orders,' he exclaimed wrathfully, and started climbing on to the wing.
Thirty whipped his Very pistol out of its pocket and levelled it. His face was pale, and there was a curious glitter in his eyes. 'If you don't get off that wing, I'll shoot you,' he snapped, in a voice that was as cold and brittle as ice. 'I'll show you who is in command here.'
The major stepped back. 'You'd threaten me?' he gasped incredulously. 'I'll have you put under close arrest the moment I get back.'
Ìt will be some time before you are in a position to do that if you go on talking in that strain,' Thirty told him. Then, to the R.F.C. officer, 'In you get. Give him a hand, Rip.'
The major burst into a stream of profanity, but Thirty cut him short. 'Stand clear, please,'
he shouted. Ì can't stay here arguing.'
The major suddenly changed his tune. 'Will you come back for me?' he asked.
`Yes.'
`When?'
`To-morrow morning at dawn.'
Tut they'll retake me before then,' declared the major desperately. 'The fellows in the camp won't be able to keep my disappearance a secret for more than a day or two at the most, and then they'll have the dogs on my track. I mustn't be retaken. You see—I —
killed a sentry to get out.'
Thirty, hand on the throttle, stared. 'Great heavens!' he breathed. 'All right,' he said crisply. 'Get back in
the ditch. I'll be back in two hours—unless I'm shot down on the way.'
Biggles was roaring low overhead. Thirty glanced up, realizing that he would be at a loss to understand the delay. He waited no longer. The Bristol's propeller took on an added sheen as he opened the throttle, and the waving grass flattened under the tearing slipstream. A minute later his wheels, still spinning, had left the ground, and he had taken up position beside Biggles, the two machines rising and falling lightly in the slight bumps caused by the freshening breeze.
They flew low all the way to the lines, hoping in this way to escape observation by the enemy scouts who, by this time, would certainly be on the move. They saw Mahoney's flight in the distance, no doubt looking for them higher up, but Mahoney did not see them. Knowing that he was well able to take care of himself Thirty did not worry much on that account, and shortly afterwards he was on the aerodrome, running to meet Biggles.
`What happened?' asked Biggles, tersely.
Àwful mess. There were two of them; a guards major and one of our chaps who has been hit in
the leg. I brought him first.'
`Quite right.'
`The major was savage about it. He has threatened to put me under arrest when he gets back.'
`Then let him find his own way back,' replied Biggles promptly.
Ì can't do that; I've promised to fetch him.' `When?'
`Now.'
`Now?'
`Yes.'
`You're crazy.'
Ì know—but he got a promise out of me. I think he's got the wind up because he killed a sentry getting out of jail.'
Biggles started. 'By gosh! That's bad,' he muttered. `They'll hang him for that if they get him. Looks as if we shall have to try to fetch him.' He swung round on his heel. 'Hi!
Smyth!' he shouted to the flight-sergeant. `Fill up both machines and make it snappy.'
`You needn't come, Biggles,' began Thirty, but Biggles cut him short.
`Don't be a fool,' he snapped. 'You can't go over there alone. Here's Mahoney coming in, cursing like a trooper, I bet, because we gave him the slip. He'll come part of the way with us. We've just time for a coffee while they're filling up.'
They ran down to the mess, burnt their mouths with hot coffee, and then hurried back to the sheds, where they explained to the indignant Mahoney what had happened. 'You fill up and then come to meet us,' Biggles told him, as he clambered up into his tiny cockpit.
'Come on, Thirty, let's get it over. Keep your eyes open and your gun ready, Rip. Is your machine all right now, Algy?'
`Yes.'
Àre you coming with us?'
Ì'm not likely to stay behind.'
`Fine. Let's get along, then.'
The sun was high in the sky as the three machines took off and headed straight for their objective. And for a time it looked as if they might reach it without being molested, for the only hostile aircraft they saw
17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight Page 9
