He found a trench in which a swarm of troops were feverishly repairing the parapet, and forced them to seek cover. Then he turned sharp to the right and broke up another working-party; there were no more long convoys to attack, but he found a German staff car and chased it until the driver, taking a corner too fast in • his efforts to escape, overturned it in a ditch.
For some minutes he worried a battery of field-guns
that were taking up a new position. Then he turned back towards the Lines—or the stretch of No man's Land that had originally marked the trench system. He was still half a mile away when it happened. Just what it was he could not say, although Mark swore it was one of the new 'chain' archies— two phosphorus flares joined together by a length of wire that wrapped itself around whatever it struck, and set it on fire. The Bristol lurched sickeningly, and for a moment went out of control. White-faced, Biggles fought with the control-stick to get the machine on even keel again, for at his height of a thousand feet there was very little margin of safety. He had just got the machine level when a wild yell and a blow on the back of his head brought him round, staring.
Aft of the gunner's cockpit the machine was a raging sheet of flame, which Mark was squirting with his Pyrene extinguisher, but without visible effect. As the extinguisher emptied itself of its contents he flung it overboard and set about beating the flames with his gauntlets.
Biggles did the only thing he could do in the circumstances; he jammed the control-stick forward and dived in a frantic effort to 'blow out' the flames with his slipstream. Fortunately his nose was still pointing towards the Lines, and the effort brought him fairly close, but the flames were only partly subdued and sprang to life again as he eased the control-stick back to prevent the machine from diving into the ground. The Bristol answered to the controls so slowly that his wheels actually grazed the turf, and he knew at once what had happened. The flames had burnt through to his tail unit destroying the fabric on his elevators,
rendering the fore and aft controls useless. He knew it was the end, and, abandoning hope of reaching the Lines, he concentrated his efforts on saving their lives. He thought and acted with a coolness that surprised him.
He tilted the machine on to its side, holding up his nose with the throttle, and commenced to slip wing-tip first towards the ground. Whether he was over British or German territory he neither knew nor cared; he had to get on to the ground or be burnt alive.
A quick glance behind revealed Mark still thrashing the flames with his glove, shielding his face with his left arm. Twenty feet from the ground Biggles switched off everything and unfastened his safety belt. The prop stopped. In the moment's silence he yelled '
Jump!'
He did not wait to see if Mark had followed his instructions, for there was no time, but climbed quickly out of his cockpit on to the wing just as the tip touched the ground. He had a fleeting vision of what seemed to be a gigantic catherine wheel as the machine cart-wheeled over the ground, shedding struts and flaming canvas, and then he lay on his back, staring at the sky, gasping for breath.
For a ghastly moment he thought his back was broken, and he struggled to rise in an agony of suspense. He groaned as he fought for breath, really winded for the first time in his life.
Mark appeared by his side and clutched at his shoulders. 'What is it—what is it?' he cried, believing that his partner was mortally hurt.
Biggles could not speak, he could only gasp. Mark caught him by the collar and dragged him into a nearby trench. They fell in a heap at the bottom.
`Not hurt—winded!' choked Biggles. 'Where are we?'
Mark took a quick look over the parapet, and then jumped back, shaking his head. '
Dunne he said laconically. 'Can't see anybody. All in the trenches, I suppose.'
Biggles managed to stagger to his feet. 'We'd better lie low till we find out where we are!
' he panted. 'What a mess! Let's get in here!' He nodded towards the gaping mouth of a dugout.
Footsteps were squelching through the mud towards them, and they dived into the dugout, Biggles leading. He knew instantly that the place was already occupied, but in the semi-darkness he could not for a moment make out who or what it was. Then he saw, and his eyes went round with astonishment. It was a German, cowering in a corner.
`Kamerad! Kamerad*!' cried the man, with his arms above his head. Àll right, we shan't hurt you,' Biggles assured him, kicking a rifle out of the way. 'It looks as if we're all in the same boat, but if you try any funny stuff I'll knock your block off!'
The German stared at him wide-eyed, but made no reply.
There was a great noise of splashing and shouting in the trench outside; a shell landed somewhere close at hand with a deafening roar, and a trickle of earth fell from the ceiling.
Mark grabbed Biggles' arm as a line of feet passed the entrance; there was no mistaking the regulation German boots, but if confirmation was needed, the harsh, guttural voices supplied it. They both breathed
more freely as the feet disappeared and the noise receded. Ìt looks as if we've landed in the middle of the war,' observed Biggles, with a watchful eye on the Boche, who still crouched in his corner as if dazed—as indeed he was.
`What are we going to do? We can't spend the rest of the war in here,' declared Mark. Ì wouldn't if I could,' replied Biggles. 'But it's no use doing anything in a hurry.'
`Some Boche troops will come barging in here in a minute and hand us a few inches of cold steel; they're not likely to be particular after that hullaballoo outside.'
Hullaballoo was a good word; it described things exactly. There came a medley of sounds in which shouts, groans, rifle and revolver shots and the reports of bursting handgrenades could be distinguished. Ìt sounds as if they're fighting all round us,' muttered Mark anxiously. Às long as they stay round us I don't mind,' Biggles told him. 'It'll be when they start crowding in here that the fun will begin!'
Heavy footsteps continued to splash up and down the communication trench. Once a German officer stopped outside the dugout and Biggles held his breath. The Boche seemed to be about to enter, but changed his mind and went off at a run. Then there came the sound of a sharp scuffle in the trench and a German N.C.O. leapt panting into the dugout. He glanced around wildly as the two airmen started up, and broke into a torrent of words. He was splashed with mud from head to foot, and bleeding from a cut in the cheek. He carried a rifle, but made no attempt to use it.
`Steady!' cried Biggles, removing the weapon from the man's unresisting hands. The Boche seemed to be trying to tell them something, pointing and gesticulating as he spoke.
Ì think he means that his pals outside are coming in,' said Biggles with a flash of inspiration. 'Well, there's still plenty of room.'
Ànybody in there?' cried a voice from the doorway. Before Biggles could speak the German had let out a yell.
`Just share this among you, but don't quarrel over it!' went on the same voice.
`This' was a Mills bomb* that pitched on to the floor between them. There was a wild stampede for the door; Biggles slipped, and was the last out. He had just flung himself clear as the dugout went up with a roar that seemed to burst his eardrums. He looked up to see the point of a bayonet a few inches from his throat; behind it was the amazed face of a British Tommy.
The soldier let out a whistle of surprise. More troops came bundling round the corner of the trench, an officer among them. 'Hallo, what's all this?' he cried, halting in surprise.
`Don't let us get in your way,' Biggles told him quickly. 'Go on with the war!'
`What might you be doing here?'
`We might be blackberrying, but we're not. Again, we might be playing croquet, or roller-skating, but we're not. We're just waiting.'
`Waiting! What for?'
Tor you blokes to come along, of course. I've got a date with a bath and a bar of soap, so I'll be getting along.'
`You'd better get out of this,' the other told him, grinning, as he prepared to mo
ve on.
`That's what I thought!' declared Biggles. 'Perhaps you'd tell us the easiest and safest way?'
The other laughed. 'Sure I will,' he said. 'Keep straight on down that sap* we've just come up and you'll come to our old Line. It's all fairly quiet now.'
`So I've noticed,' murmured Biggles. 'Come on, Mark, let's get back to where we belong.'
`What about the Bristol?' asked Mark.
`What about it? Are you thinking of carrying it back with you? I didn't stop to examine it closely, as you may have noticed, but I fancy that kite, or what's left of it, will take a bit of sticking together again. We needn't worry about that. The repair section will collect it, if it's any good. Come on!'
Three hours later, weary and smothered with mud, they arrived back at the aerodrome, having got a lift part of the way on a lorry.
Mabs, on crutches, was standing at the door of the mess. 'Where have you been?' he asked.
`Ha! Where haven't we!' replied Biggles, without stopping.
`Where are you off to now in such a hurry?' called Mabs after him.
`To bed, laddie,' Biggles told him enthusiastically. `To bed, till you find me another aeroplane.'
When the time came for Biggles to leave his old squadron and say good-bye to Mark Way, his gunner, he found himself a good deal more depressed than he had thought possible; he realized for the first time just how attached to them he had become. Naturally, he had
been delighted to join a scout squadron, for he had
always wanted to fly single-seaters. The presence of his old pal, Mahoney, who was flight-commander, prevented any awkwardness or strangeness amongst his new comrades, and he quickly settled down to routine work.
The commanding officer, Major Mullen, of his new squadron, No. 266, stationed at Maranique, allowed none of his pilots to take unnecessary risks if he could prevent it. So he gave Biggles ten days in which to make himself proficient in the handling of the single-seater Pup that had been allocated to him.
Biggles was told to put in as much flying-time as possible, but on no account to cross the Lines, and he found that the enforced rest from eternal vigilance did him a power of good, for his nerves had been badly jarred by his late spell of trench strafing. By the end of a week he was thoroughly at home with the Pup, and ready to try his hand at something more serious than beetling up and down behind his own Lines. He had noted all the outstanding landmarks around Maranique, and once or twice he accompanied
Mahoney on practice formation flights. His flight-commander had expressed himself satisfied, and Biggles begged to be allowed to do a 'show.'
His chance came soon. Lorton was wounded in the arm and packed off to hospital, and Biggles was detailed to take his place the following morning. But the afternoon before this decision took effect he had what he regarded as a slice of luck that greatly enhanced his reputation with the C.O., and the officers of the squadron, as well as bringing his name before Wing Headquarters.
He had set off on a cross-country flight to the Aircraft Repair Section at St Omer, to make inquiries for the equipment officer about a machine that had gone back for reconditioning, when he spotted a line of white archie bursts at a very high altitude—
about. 15,000 feet, he judged it to be.
He was flying at about 5,000 a few miles inside the Lines at the time, and he knew that the archie was being fired by British guns, which could only mean that the target was an enemy aircraft. It seemed to be flying on a course parallel with the Lines, evidently on a photographic or scouting raid.
Without any real hope of overtaking it he set off in pursuit, and, knowing that sooner or later the German would have to turn to reach his own side he steered an oblique course that would bring him between the raider and the Lines. In a few minutes he had increased his height to 10,000 feet, and could distinctly see the enemy machine. It was a Rumpler two-seater*. He had no doubt that the observer had spotted him, but the machine continued on its way as if the pilot was not concerned, possibly by reason of his superior altitude.
Biggles began to edge a little nearer to the Lines, and was not much more than a thousand feet below the Hun, when, to his disgust, it turned slowly and headed off on a diagonal course towards No Man's Land.
The Pup was climbing very slowly now, and it was more with hope than confidence that Biggles continued the pursuit. Then the unexpected happened. The enemy pilot turned sharply and dived straight at him, but opened fire at much too great a range for it to be effective, although he held the burst for at least a hundred rounds. Biggles had no idea where the bullets went, but he saw the Hun, at the end of his dive, zoom nearly back to his original altitude, and then make for home at full speed. But he had lingered just a trifle too long.
Biggles climbed up into the 'blind' spot under the enemy's elevators, and although the range was still too long for good shooting, he opened fire. Whether any of his shots took effect he was unable to tell, but the Hun was evidently alarmed, for the Rumpler made a quick turn out of the line of fire. It was a clumsy turn, and cost him two hundred precious feet of height at a moment when height was all-important. Moreover, it did not give the gunner in the back seat a chance to use his weapon.
Biggles seized his opportunity and fired one of the longest bursts he ever fired in his life. The German gunner swayed for a moment, then collapsed in his cockpit. Then, to his intense satisfaction, Biggles saw the propeller of the other machine slow down and stop, whereupon the enemy pilot shoved his nose down and
dived for the Lines, now not more than two or three miles away. It was a move that suited Biggles well, for the Rumpler was defenceless from the rear, so he tore down in hot pursuit, guns blazing, knowing that the Hun was at his mercy. The enemy pilot seemed to realize this for he turned broadside on and threw up his hands in surrender.
Biggles was amazed, for although he had heard of such things being done it was his first experience of it. He ceased firing at once and took up a position on the far side of the disabled machine; he did not trust his prisoner very much, for he guessed that he would, if the opportunity arose, make a dash for the Lines—so near, and yet so far away. Biggles therefore shepherded him down like a well-trained sheep-dog bringing in a stray lamb.
He could not really find it in his heart to blame the enemy pilot for surrendering. The fellow had had to choose between being made prisoner and certain death, and had chosen captivity as the lesser of the two evils. `Death before capture,' is no doubt an admirable slogan, but it loses some of its attractiveness in the face of cold facts. The German landed about four miles from Maranique and was prevented by a crowd of Tommies from purposely injuring his machine. Biggles landed in a near-by field and hurried to the scene, arriving just as the C.O. and several officers of the squadron, who had witnessed the end of the combat from the aerodrome, dashed up in the squadron car. It was purely a matter of luck that Major Raymond, of Wing Headquarters, who had been on the aerodrome talking with Major Mullen, was with them. He smiled at Biggles approvingly. 'Good show!' he said. 'We've been trying to get hold of one of these machines intact for a long time.'
Biggles made a suitable reply and requested that the crew of the Rumpler should be well cared for. The pilot, whose name they learnt was Schmidt, looked morose and badtempered—as, indeed, he had every cause to be; the observer had been wounded in the chest and was unconscious.
They were taken away under escort in an ambulance, and that was the end of the affair. Biggles never learned what happened to them.
The offensive patrol for which he had been detailed in place of Lorton turned out to be a more difficult business. It began quite simply. He took his place in a formation of five machines, and for an hour or more they cruised up and down their sector without incident, except, of course, for the inevitable archie. Then the trouble started around a single machine.
Several times they had passed a British machine—an R.E.8*—circling over the same spot, obviously engaged in doing a 'shoot' for the artillery, and Biggles was abl
e to sympathize with the pilot. He watched the circling 'plane quite dispassionately for a moment or two, glanced away, and then turned back to the R.E.8. It was no longer there. He stared—and stared harder. Then he saw it, three thousand feet below, plunging earthwards in flames. Screwing his head round a little farther he made out three German Albatros streaking for home. They must have made their attack on the two-seater under the
very noses of the Pups, and, well satisfied with the result of their work, were removing themselves from the vicinity without loss of time. But they were well below the Pups, and Mahoney, who was leading, tore down after them in a screaming dive, closely followed by the rest of the formation.
As they went down, something—he could not say what—made Biggles, who was an outside flank man, look back over his shoulder. There was really no reason why he should but the fact that he did so provided another example of the uncanny instinct he was developing for detecting the presence of Huns.
The sight that met his gaze put all thought of the escaping Albatroses clean out of his head. A German High Patrol of not fewer than twenty Triplanes were coming down like the proverbial ton of bricks.
Biggles' first idea was to warn Mahoney of the impending onslaught, but, try as he would, he could not overtake his leader. Yet he knew that if the Huns were allowed to come on in a solid formation on their tails, most of them would be wiped out before they knew what had hit them. He could think of only one thing to do, and he did it, although it did not occur to him that he was making something very much like a deliberate sacrifice of his own life. That he was not killed was due no doubt to the very unexpectedness of his move, which temporarily disorganized the Hun circus*. He swung the Pup round on its axis, cocked up his nose to face the oncoming Huns, and let drive at the whole formation.
The leader swerved just in time to avoid head-on
collision. His wing tip missed Biggles by inches. The lightning turn threw the others out of their places, and they, too, had to swerve wildly to avoid collision with their leader. Biggles held his breath as the cloud of gaudy-coloured enemy machines roared past him, so close that he could see the faces of the pilots staring at him. Yet not a bullet touched his machine. Nor did he hit one of them—at least, as far as he could see. The Huns pulled up, hesitating, to see if their leader was going on after the other Pups or staying to slay the impudent one. At that moment, Mahoney, missing one of his men, looked back. In that quick flash it must have seemed to him that Biggles was taking on the entire German Air Force single-handed, and he hung his Pup on its prop as he headed back towards the melee.
Biggles Learns To Fly Page 14
