He passed a Bristol lying upside-down on the ground, and a scout seemingly undamaged.
Mark tapped him on the shoulder, turned his thumbs down and pointed to his gun, and Biggles knew that he meant that his ammunition was finished.
Ì'll finish mine, too, and get out of this!' he thought. Ì've had about enough.' He took sights on a group of men who were struggling to drag a field-gun to the rear, and they flung themselves flat as the withering hail smote them. Biggles held the Bowden lever*
of his gun down until the gun ceased firing, then turned and raced towards his own side of the Lines.
Some Tommies waved to him as he skimmed along not fifty feet above their heads. Mark returned the salutation. The Bristol rocked as it crossed the tracks of heavy shells, and Biggles breathed a sigh of relief as they left the war zone behind them.
Five machines, one of which was Mabs' had already returned when they landed, their crews standing about on the tarmac discussing the 'show.'
`Well, what do you think of it?' asked the flight-commander as Biggles and Mark joined them.
'Rotten!' replied Biggles buffing his arms to restore circulation. He felt curiously exhausted, and began to understand the strain that low flying entails.
'Get filled up, and then rest while you can. We leave the ground again in an hour!' Mabs told them. 'The
enemy are giving way all along the sector and we've got to prevent them bringing up reinforcements.'
Ì see,' replied Biggles, without enthusiasm. 'In that case we might as well go down to the mess. Come on, Mark.'
For three days the attack continued. The squadron lost four machines; two others were unserviceable. The remainder were doing four shows a day, and Biggles staggered about almost asleep on his feet. Life had become a nightmare. Even when he flung himself on his bed at night he could not sleep. In his ears rang the incessant roar of his engine, and his bed seemed to stagger in the bumps of bursting shells, just as the Bristol had done during the day. Mabs had gone to hospital with a bullet through the kg, and new pilots were arriving to replace casualties.
On' the fourth morning he made his way, weary and unrefreshed, to the sheds; Mark, who was also feeling the strain, had preceded him. They seldom spoke. They no longer smiled. Mark eyed him grimly as he reached the Bristol and prepared to climb into his seat. 'Why so pale and wan, young airman, prithee why so pale?' he misquoted mockingly.
Biggles looked at him coldly. 'I'm sick and I'm tired,' he said, 'and I've got a nasty feeling that our turn is about due. Just a hunch that something's going to happen, that's all,' he concluded shortly.
`You'll make a good undertaker's clerk when this is over, you cheerful Jonah!' growled Mark.
`Well, come on, let's get on with it. Personally, I'm beyond caring what happens,' replied Biggles, climbing into his seat.
He was thoroughly sick of the war; the futility of it appalled him. He envied the scouts circling high in the sky as they protected the flow-flying trench strafers; they were putting in long hours, he knew, but they did at least escape the everlasting fire from the ground. Above all he sympathized with the swarms of human beings crawling and falling in the sea of mud below.
He took off and proceeded to the sector allotted to the squadron, and where four of its machines now lay in heaps of wreckage. For some minutes he flew up and down the Line, trying to pick out the new British advance posts, for the enemy were still retiring; it would be an easy matter to make a mistake and shoot up the hard-won positions that a few days before had been in German hands.
Archie and field-guns began to cough and bark as he approached the new German front Line, and machine-guns chattered shrilly, but he was past caring about such things. There was no way of avoiding them; they were just evils that had to be borne. One hoped for the best and carried on.
The battle was still raging. It was difficult to distinguish between the British and German troops, they seemed so hopelessly intermingled, so he turned farther into German territory rather than risk making a mistake.
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 hand-grenades 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 move 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.
05 Biggles Learns To Fly Page 14
