17 Biggles And The Rescue Flight

by Captain W E Johns

  It showed Thirty everything about him, but he was only concerned with two of the objects he saw. Ten yards in front of the bumping machine stood a man with his arms outstretched. A little farther on loomed a thick-set hedge.

  For the next second, which to Thirty seemed like eternity, he did not think. His brain seemed to have become paralysed. It made no difference. It was too late to do anything.

  His only real thought, and this was subconscious, was that he had come down in the wrong field. There was a violent crash as the lurching machine struck the figure.

  Instinctively, knowing that he was going to crash, Thirty flicked off the ignition to prevent fire. There was a rending, grinding crash as the Bristol bored into the hedge.

  Then, suddenly, silence—silence broken only by the teeming rain and the intermittent roll of thunder.

  For a split second Thirty sat still, stunned by the calamity. Then, recovering himself with a rush, he undid his safety belt, flung it off, and turned to Rip.

  `Well, here we are,' said Rip, coolly.

  Ì know it,' snapped Thirty. 'I wish we weren't.

  What are we going to do? Heavens! Did you ever see such rain in your life?'

  `What about that poor devil you knocked over?' shouted Rip, above the tearing wind which now struck the wrecked machine like a tornado.

  Thirty did not answer. He jumped down and fought his way through the storm to where the figure lay motionless.

  Rip joined him. 'You've killed him,' he yelled.

  Thirty knelt, his hands groping. Then he sprang to his feet, laughing hysterically. 'It's a scarecrow,' he cried. 'We're in the wrong field.'

  The wind became a thousand shrieking demons clutching at them, slashing the rain into their faces, making it difficult for them to keep their feet.

  `We would choose a night like this,' yelled Thirty bitterly in Rip's ear.

  `What are you going to do? We can't stand out here like a pair of fools in this rain,' cried Rip, wildly.

  Thirty, crouching low, made his way back to the machine. He grabbed Rip's arm. 'Get that grub out,' he shouted.

  'Why?'

  Ì'm going' to set fire to her. She'll be seen a mile off when it gets light. If I burn her there'll be nothing left to see. Now's the time. Every one will be indoors, and the fire won't be seen for a hundred yards, anyway, in this perishing rain.'

  Rip climbed into the wreck and dragged out the parcel of food. Thirty managed to find his Very pistol in the torn cockpit. 'Stand back,' he yelled, and sent the flaming charge into the Bristol's main tank. Then he hurled the pistol into the leaping flames that gushed out, and ran down the hedge to get clear of the bullets that he knew would start flying in all directions as soon as the flames reached the ammunition.

  Satisfied that they were in a safe place, he stopped. `There is only one thing to do,' he told Rip.

  `What's that?'

  `You get across to the proper landing-field. It's just over there, to the right. Wait for Biggles. He'll guess that the storm has jiggered us. If he comes before I'm back tell him what happened.'

  `Before you're back . . . what are you going to do?' Ì'm going on to find the padre.'

  `What—in your uniform? You're mad. Great Scott! Where's the macintosh you were going to wear? Did you bring one?'

  Thirty staggered. His hand went to his brow. 'My God! I left it in the machine,' he choked. 'Quick!' He spun round.

  But it was too late. Already the ill-fated Bristol was enveloped in flames from end to end.

  Helpless, they stood on the outskirts of the ruddy glow of the flames and watched it burn.

  Cartridges began exploding and forced them to take cover again.

  Ì must be crazy,' groaned Thirty. 'What on earth could I have been thinking about to do a fool thing like that?'

  `You were upset by the crash, I expect.'

  `Yes, I must have been. But what am I going to do? I can't walk about the roads like this and hope to get away with it. By gosh! I've got it. The scarecrow!'

  Risking the bullets, Thirty tore across to where the dummy figure lay. 'A peasant's old blue blouse—the very thing!' he cried exultantly, and started dragging the scarecrow towards the hedge. Reaching it, he dragged off his flying-kit and then donned the one whole garment that comprised the scarecrow's attire, a loose blue calico blouse of the sort that is commonly worn by the working classes in France and Belgium.

  It was, of course, saturated, but he was already so wet that it made little difference.

  `Got the box of tricks you've got to hand over to the padre?' questioned Rip, anxiously.

  `Yes—in my pocket. I'm off now. I've wasted too much time here already. You find your way to the northern hedge of the landing-field and wait.'

  Ì'd rather come with you.'

  `We haven't two blouses, so it's no use talking about that,' answered Thirty, shortly. 'I hope I'll be back about dawn.'

  Rip held out his hand. He seemed to be choking.

  `Goodbye, Thirty,' he said huskily. 'Be careful.'

  Ì will,' Thirty assured him. 'Remember the motto.' `What . . . ?'

  `Thick and thin.'

  `Thick and thin,' echoed Rip hoarsely.

  Thirty waved his hand and set off down the hedge at a steady trot.

  Rip watched him until he disappeared into the darkness, and then, picking up the food-bag, began to make his way cautiously towards the landing-field.

  Chapter 14

  Belville-Sur-Somme

  Thirty struck off across the fields until he came to the road he was looking for; he knew of its existence, having previously marked it down from the air; he also knew that in one direction it led to Belville-sur-Somme, some six or seven kilometres distant.

  At the road he halted for a minute or two to take stock of the general situation. The, centre of the storm had now passed and with it the torrential downpour, although lightning still flickered along the eastern horizon and the aftermath of the rainclouds precipitated a steady drizzle. The night was dark. From where he stood, soaked to the skin, he could not see a single light. Fortunately it was not cold, so he suffered no great discomfort on account of the wet. Satisfied with his inspection of the immediate surroundings, he set off at a steady pace towards the village.

  He had covered about a kilometre when he heard a motor vehicle coming along the road behind him; it sounded like a heavy lorry. It was, in fact, a motor-wagon, and he stood aside to allow it to pass, for the road was so narrow that it occupied the whole of it, and the wheels were spurting mud on either side. He did not attempt to hide; there seemed to be no reason why he should; the driver of the vehicle would expect to see somebody on the road occasionally, and there was no reason why he should attach any importance to a belated peasant. Therefore Thirty simply stood aside to allow the wagon to pass.

  It did not occur to him that it might stop, so he was unprepared for what happened. As it drew level with him the wagon slowed down, and too late Thirty wished that he had hidden in the hedge until it had passed; but he realized that to do so now would be foolish, for the headlights had revealed him.

  `Lovely night,' called the driver, with cheerful sarcasm, speaking in German. 'How far are you going?'

  Thirty, in the brief interval at his disposal before he was compelled to answer, could think of no reason for not telling the truth. `Belville,' he said.

  `So am I,' declared the driver. 'Hop up.'

  Thirty hopped up. There was nothing else he could do. As the wagon lurched forward he snatched a glance at his companion, and saw that he was a soldier.

  `Nearly time this cursed war was over,' grumbled the driver.

  Thirty agreed, without enthusiasm. He was thinking hard.

  The driver looked at him for a moment; it could only be for a moment because care was needed to keep the vehicle on the narrow road. 'What are you doing, wandering about by yourself on a night like this?' he questioned, but without real interest.

  Ì've got a message to deliver,' replied Th
irty, evasively.

  Silence fell.

  Ìt's a fair step to Belville; lucky for you I came along,' observed the German presently, in an inconsequential tone of voice, apparently for the sake of saying something.

  `Yes, it will save my legs and my boot-leather,' agreed Thirty, wishing the man would not talk.

  `Got a match on you?' was the next question.

  Thirty had, but he did not say so, for the very good reason that he had no desire to reveal what was under his blouse. 'I don't smoke,' he answered truthfully, and the German accepted this as a negative answer.

  Presently, to Thirty's relief, the soldier began to sing. The wagon trundled on, sometimes passing a farmhouse or peasant's cottage. Once they passed what looked like a big concentration camp. Shortly afterwards lights began to appear ahead.

  The driver stopped singing and yawned. 'Nearly there,' he said. 'Where shall I drop you?'

  It struck Thirty that he was safer where he was than he would be on the ground, for they were now meeting frequent parties of soldiers, no doubt on their way back to the concentration camp after an evening in the village. 'Do you go near the church?' he asked.

  Ì'm parking in the square right in front of it,' announced the German.

  `Then there's no need for you to stop; I'll go there with you,' returned Thirty, well satisfied with this arrangement.

  They entered the long village street, ran the full length of it, bumped across a level crossing, and then turned into a large square on the far side of which loomed the black silhouette of the church tower.

  Thirty caught his breath and held it, for the scene was very different from the one he had imagined. He had thought to dismount in a deserted village square whence he would be able to stroll away without further parley. Instead of that he found himself in the centre of a scene of military activity. Parked all round the square were lorries and several sorts of artillery. Horses were picketed with cavalry precision; round them, stable-guards in oilskins or great-coats kept the animals in order. In one corner the fire of a field-kitchen flung a cheerful glow over the shining cobble-stones. Troops crowded round it. Soldiers were everywhere.

  Into the very middle of this unwelcome spectacle the driver guided his wagon. It stopped with a jerk. 'So,' he said. 'Here we are.'

  `Thanks, I'll do as much for you some day,' said Thirty quietly, and prepared to dismount.

  In spite of his efforts to remain calm, his heart was fluttering, and he determined to lose no time in removing himself from such distasteful surroundings.

  But even as he climbed down a cloaked figure detached itself from a group and moved towards the vehicle.

  Ìs that you, Willy Schmidt?' asked a voice. `fa,' replied the driver.

  `Who's that you've got with you?'

  À fellow I gave a lift to, that's all.'

  `You know it's against orders to give rides to strangers.'

  `He's the son of the woman at my billet,' lied the soldier, evidently with the object of saving himself from further reprimand.

  Thirty began to walk away. Every instinct in him was prompting him to run, but he kept himself under control and walked as naturally as possible. Risking a sidelong glance, he saw to his consternation that the German N.C.O. was staring at his feet; he knew well enough what the man was staring at, and only by a

  supreme effort did he refrain from looking down at his field-boots.

  `Hi, you!' shouted the N.C.O. suddenly.

  Thirty pretended not to hear. Mingling with a party of soldiers, he hurried amongst them, and then slipped between the line of lorries to the pavement.

  The N.C.O. shouted again, louder this time. Thirty heard him start to run forward and knew that he was in a tight corner. To make a bolt for it would, he knew, attract attention to himself, and with so many troops about this was the last thing he wanted. Still walking as quickly as he dared, his eyes flashed round his immediate surroundings. A dozen paces away a narrow alley leading off the square beckoned invitingly, and towards it he turned his steps. As soon as he was inside he darted forward, and did not slow down until the darkness in the unlighted passage forced him to go more warily.

  He stopped to listen. He could still hear the N.C.O.'s strident voice, but he judged that he was talking to the troops in the square and had not followed him into the alley. Not a little relieved, he looked about him; he knew that he must be close to the church, but owing to the narrowness of the path in which he found himself, all he could see was the rising walls of the dingy houses on either side. However, to go back was out of the question, so he hurried on, keeping a look-out for an opening on either hand, hoping that he would find one wide enough to enable him to see the church tower and thus get his bearings. Instead, he came upon something which suited him even better, although it was not without a grim significance, for at the point where he struck it there was a surprising number of newly turned

  mounds of earth. It was the churchyard. In the centre of it loomed the stately mass of the church itself, now gaunt and forbidding in the dim light. Beyond it, and a little to one side, stood a house, from one window of which, on the ground-floor, a blur of orange light glowed fitfully through the misty rain.

  Standing as it did in the churchyard, he knew that the house could be nothing but the presbytery, but between him and the little path that led to it was a formidable fence of perpendicular iron railings. He hesitated, and while he stood thus in indecision he heard footsteps approaching from the direction from which he had come. The footsteps were hurried, and accompanied by the sound of many voices. Instinctively he started off the opposite way, but before he had gone a dozen paces he heard footsteps coming from that direction also. In a moment he was clambering over the railings, hampered not a little by the blue blouse which he dared not discard. Reaching the top, he balanced himself precariously for a moment, and then jumped down on the other side. He landed with a jar that shook most of the breath out of his body, for the ground was uneven; but, waiting only long enough to recover his balance, he sped across the churchyard like a hunted animal, jumping over graves and dodging round the ornate tombstones that rose in front of him.

  He reached a shrubbery, which he now discovered formed a hedge between the churchyard and the presbytery garden, and there stopped to collect his wits and his composure, for his nerves were quivering under the strain of his predicament. He could still hear voices in the direction of the footpath, but otherwise all seemed quiet, so, moving quietly, he forced a way through the shrubbery and approached the house.

  Now that the moment had come, doubts began to assail him. Suppose it was not the right house? Suppose the priest was not at home? Suppose . . . He pulled himself together with an effort. Should he go to the window, or to the door? Peering into the gloom, he saw that he was in a small paved courtyard, on the far side of which stood a door with a window on either side. No lights showed. All was as silent as the grave.

  `Well, it's no use standing here; I've got to get in somehow,' he thought desperately, and walking quickly to the door, knocked on it with his knuckles. Then he listened; but the only sound was the monotonous dripdrip-drip of rain from the overflowing eaves. He knocked again, looking apprehensively over his shoulder in the direction of the path, where sounds suggested that a number of men had halted.

  `Yes, what is it?'

  Thirty jumped convulsively as the words, spoken softly in French, came from the doorway. He had not heard the door open. Even now he was not quite sure whether it was open or shut.

  `Father Dupont?' he whispered.

  `Yes, my son,' replied the voice evenly. 'What can I do for you at this late hour?'

  Ì have a message for you,' said Thirty softly, in his best French.

  Àh! Come in.'

  Thirty stepped forward and, stood still while he heard the door being closed and bolted.

  Suddenly a match flared up, and for the first time he could see the speaker, who was now lighting a candle. He experienced a feeling of profound relief when h
e perceived the black cassock of a priest.

  `Follow me.'

  Obediently Thirty followed the man down a narrow panelled corridor, on either side of which hung rows of old prints—pictures of saints and other religious subjects. Then a door was opened, and he found himself in a well-lighted room that was evidently a study.

  `Kindly be seated.'

  Thirty sat nervously in the proffered chair while the priest walked slowly to the chair behind his desk and settled himself in it. Thirty looked at him curiously, for he was not in any way the sort of man he expected to see. Vaguely, at the back of his mind, he had visualized a keen, hawk-like face with piercing eyes; a slim, sinister-looking person.

  Instead, he found himself looking into a pair of gentle brown eyes, as soft as those of a doe. They were set in a round, kindly face, free from any sign of care or worry. But for the clerical attire, the man might have been a prosperous restaurantproprietor—so thought Thirty as he gazed at him, wondering how to open the conversation.

  `You said something about a message, I think?' the priest reminded him, quietly.

  Thirty groped for his pocket under the blouse, and took out the little box which he had risked so much to deliver. 'I was told to bring this to you,' he said, simply.

  The priest's eyes looked at him from a face that was now completely devoid of expression. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Is that all?'

  `Yes . . . that's all,' replied Thirty awkwardly, somewhat taken aback by the other's manner.

  `Then you'll be going now? Come, I will show you out.'

  Thirty stared. In his heart he knew that his mission had been accomplished and there was no reason for him to delay, yet he had hardly expected such a casual reception. Doubts again swept through him.

  `You are Father Dupont?' he questioned, feeling more than a little embarrassed.

  `Do you doubt it?'

  Èr—no.'

  `Then why question it?'

  Thirty plunged. 'You know what is in that box?' The priest regarded him dispassionately.

  'I shall find out,' he said.

  Thirty experienced a strange sensation of anticlimax. The encounter, so far from having any dramatic quality, had proved to be so casual as to make him feel suddenly foolish. A faint smile crossed his face. But it faded suddenly as a sound reached his ears, and he knew from the manner in which the priest stiffened almost imperceptibly that he had heard it, too. Otherwise his manner did not change. -Footsteps were approaching the house—heavy footsteps; and with them, faintly, came the chink of spurs.