by W E Johns
There was a whirring, slithering scream as the caterpillar wheels got a grip on the bank, and then, with a lurch like a sinking ship, it was over. The lurch flung him out of his seat, but he was back again at once, looking frantically for what lay ahead. A groan of despair broke from his lips when he saw that he was on his own aerodrome, heading straight for the sheds.
He snatched at the throttle, but could not move it, for it had slipped into the catch provided for it, and which prevented it from jarring loose with the vibration. But, naturally, he was unaware of this.
‘Picture of an airman arriving home!’ he muttered despairingly, as he tried to swerve clear of the hangars. ‘Look out! Stand clear! I’m coming!’ he bellowed, but his words were lost in the din.
But the air-mechanics who were on duty needed no warning. They rushed out of the hangars, and, after one glance at the terrifying apparition hurtling towards them, they bolted in all directions.
Biggles saw that a Camel plane – Mahoney’s – stood directly in his path. He hung on to the wheel, but it was no use. The tank, which had seemed willing enough to turn when he was on the road, now refused to answer the controls in the slightest degree. The tank took the unlucky Camel in its stride, and Mahoney’s pet machine disappeared in a cloud of flying fabric and splinters. Beyond it loomed the mouth of a hangar. Mahoney rushed out of it, took one look at the mangled remains of his machine, and appeared to go mad.
‘Look out, you fool – I can’t stop!’ screamed Biggles through the letter-box opening.
Whether Mahoney heard or not, Biggles did not know; but the flight-commander leapt for his life at the last moment, just as the tank roared past him and plunged into the entrance of the hangar. Where a bank and a hedge had failed to have any effect, it was not to be expected that a mere flimsy canvas hangar could stop it, and Biggles burst out of the far side like an express coming out of a tunnel, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. The hangar looked as if a tornado had struck it.
An air-mechanic, who was having a quiet doze at the back of it, had the narrowest escape of his life. He woke abruptly, and sat up wonderingly as the din reached his ears, and then leapt like a frog as he saw death burst out through the structure behind him.
The tank’s caterpillar wheels missed him by inches, and Biggles afterwards told him that he must have broken the world’s record for the standing jump.
A party of men were under instruction in the concrete machine-gun pit a little further on. They heard the noise, but, mistaking it for a low-flying formation of planes, they did not immediately look round. They did so, however, as the steel monster plunged into it, and how they managed to escape being crushed to pulp was always a mystery to Biggles. The concrete pit was a tougher proposition than the tank had before encountered, and the tank gave its best. With a loud hiss of escaping steam, it gave one final convulsive lurch and then lay silent.
Biggles picked himself up from amongst the controls, and felt himself gingerly to see if any bones were broken. A noise of shouting came from outside, so he crawled to the door and tried to unfasten it, but it refused to budge.
A strong smell of petrol reached his nostrils, and in something like a panic he hurled himself against the door, just as it was opened from the outside.
Blinking like an owl, with oil and perspiration running down his face, he sat up and looked about him stupidly.
Facing him was the C.O. Near him was Mahoney, and, close behind, most of the officers of the squadron, who had rushed up from the mess when they heard the crash. Biggles afterwards swore that it was the expressions on their faces that brought about his undoing. No one, he claimed, could look upon such comical amazement and keep a straight face.
Mahoney’s face, in particular, appeared to be frozen into a stare of stunned incredulity. Whether it was that, or whether it was simply nervous reaction from shock, Biggles himself was unable to say, but the fact remains that he started to laugh. He got up and staggered to the corrugated iron wheel of his late conveyance and laughed until he sobbed weakly.
‘These kites are too heavy on the controls!’ he gurgled.
‘So you think it’s funny?’ said a voice.
It held such a quality of icy bitterness that Biggles’ laugh broke off short, and, looking up, he found himself staring into the frosty eyes of a senior officer, whose red tabs and red-rimmed cap betokened General Headquarters. Behind him stood a brigade-major and two aides-de-camp with an imposing array of red and gold on their uniforms. Close behind stood a Staff car, with a small Union Jack fixed to the radiator cap.
Biggles’ mirth subsided as swiftly as a burst tyre, and he sprang erect, for the expression on the face of the general spelt trouble.
The general lifted a monocle to his eye and regarded him ‘like a piece of bad cheese’, as Biggles afterwards put it.
‘What is the name of this – er – officer?’ he asked Major Mullen, with a cutting emphasis on the word officer that made Biggles blush.
‘Bigglesworth, sir.’
‘I—’ began Biggles, but the general cut him off.
‘Silence!’ he snapped in a voice that had been known to make senior officers tremble. ‘Save your explanations for the court. You are under arrest!
‘Please come with me, Major Mullen,’ he went on, turning to the C.O. ‘I should like a word with you.’
The C.O. cast one look at the culprit, in which reproach and pity were blended, and followed the general towards the Squadron Office.
Biggles’ fellow-officers crowded round him in an excited, chattering group. Some thought the business a huge joke, and fired congratulations at him. Others, with visions of trouble ahead for Biggles, told him what a frightful ass he was, and wanted to know what made him do it. And one was frankly furious. That was Mahoney, whose machine had been smashed by the runaway tank.
Everybody was talking at once, and Biggles, thoroughly fed-up with the episode by this time, clapped his hands over his ears and endeavoured to push his way out of the crowd.
‘No, you don’t!’ growled Mahoney, dragging him back. ‘You’ve had your little joke, and now we want an explanation.’
‘Joke?’ spluttered Biggles. ‘Joke, d’you call it?’
‘Well, what else was it?’ retorted Mahoney. ‘Either that or you’ve gone suddenly mad. Nobody but a madman or an idiot would go careering round in a tank smashing up things and endangering lives. Where in the name of suffering humanity did you get the thing?’
‘I didn’t get it – it got me! Do you think I wanted the confounded thing?’ cried Biggles, exasperated.
Suddenly he threw off Mahoney’s restraining hand and barged his way through the crowd towards the group of engineers approaching the tank.
‘Hey, corporal!’ he yelled. ‘What d’you mean by shutting me up in that confounded thing and leaving me?’
‘Wasn’t my fault, sir,’ replied the corporal. ‘I was called out of the tank, and no sooner was I outside than you started it off. And the door slammed itself shut, sir.’
‘Well, there’s the very dickens to pay now!’ said Biggles. ‘The confounded thing ran away with me, and the steering went wrong. I’ve smashed up no end of property, and, to crown it all, I landed right at the feet of one of the big-wigs from Headquarters. You and I will be hearing a lot more about this, Corporal, but I’ll do my best to make things all right for you. After all, the fault’s mine. I shouldn’t have been so confoundedly curious and started monkeying about with the controls.
‘Now,’ he added, ‘for goodness’ sake buck up and take the perishing tank away. Sight of it gives me the shudders!’
‘You’ll shudder some more when the bigwigs have you up on the carpetfn1, my lad,’ said Mahoney, who had been listening to the conversation. ‘Take a bit of advice from me, and next time you want a joy-ride go in something less dangerous!’
‘Joy-ride!’ exclaimed Biggles. ‘Perishing nightmare, you mean! Anyway,’ he added bitterly, pointing, ‘I have at least finished the peri
shing road for you!’
Where the heap of rubble had been ran a broad, flat track, like a well-made road. No steam-roller could have pressed those brickbats into the soft turf more thoroughly than had that runaway German tank!
fn1 Slang: to be reprimanded.
Chapter 5:
BIGGLES GETS A BULL
For four consecutive days the weather had been bad, and flying was held up. A thick layer of cloud, from which fell a steady drizzle of rain, lay over the trenches – and half Europe, for that matter – blotting out the landscape from the ground and from the air.
It is a well-known fact that when a number of people are thrown together in a confined space for a considerable period tempers are apt to become short and nerves frayed. Few of the officers of No. 266 Squadron were exceptions to that rule, and the atmosphere in the Mess, due to the enforced inactivity, was becoming strained.
There was nothing to do. The gramophone had been played to a standstill, and playing-cards littered the tables, where they had been left by bridge-playing officers who had become tired of playing. One or two fellows were writing letters; the others were either lounging about or staring disconsolately through the window at the sullen, waterlogged aerodrome. The silence which had fallen was suddenly broken by Biggles, who declared his intention of going out.
‘Are you going crazy, or something?’ growled Mahoney, the flight-commander. ‘You’ll get wet through.’
‘I can’t help that,’ retorted Biggles. ‘I’m going out. If I don’t go out I shall start gibbering like an ape in a cage.’
‘You shouldn’t find that very difficult,’ murmured Mahoney softly.
Biggles glared, but said nothing. He left the room, slipping on his leather flying-coat and helmet in the hall, and opened the front door. Not until then did he realize just how foul the weather was, and he was half-inclined to withdraw his impetuous decision. However, more from a dislike of facing the others again in the ante-room than any other reason, he stepped out and splashed his way to the sheds.
The short walk was sufficient to damp his ardour, and he regarded the weather with increasing disfavour, that became a sort of sullen, impotent rage. It was ridiculous, and he knew it; but he could not help it. After twenty minutes pottering about the sheds he felt more irritable than he did when he had left the mess. He made up his mind suddenly.
‘Get my machine out, flight-sergeant,’ he snapped shortly.
‘But, sir—’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Sorry, sir!’
The machine was wheeled out and started up.
Biggles took his goggles from his pocket and automatically put them over his helmet, but not over his eyes, for he knew that the rain would obscure them instantly; then he climbed into his seat.
‘It’s all right, I’m only going visiting,’ he told the N.C.O. quietly. ‘If anybody wants to know where I am, you can tell them I’ve gone over to No. 187 Squadron for an hour or two.’
‘Very good, sir!’ Flight-Sergeant Smythe watched him take off with distinct disapproval.
Biggles found it was much worse in the air than he had expected. That is often the case. However bad conditions may seem on the ground, they nearly always appear to be far worse in the air. Still, by flying very low and hugging the road, he anticipated no difficulty in finding his destination. So, after sweeping back low over the sheds, he struck off in the direction of No. 187 Squadron’s aerodrome at an altitude of rather less than one hundred feet, keeping an eye open for trees or other obstructions ahead.
Before five minutes had passed he was repenting his decision to fly, and inside ten minutes he was wondering what madness had come upon him that he should start on such an errand for no reason at all. Twice he overshot a bend in the road and had difficulty in finding it again.
The third time he lost it altogether, and, after tearing up and down with his wheels nearly touching the ground, during which time he stampeded a battery of horse-artilleryfn1 and caused a platoon of infantry to throw themselves flat in the mud, he knew that he was utterly and completely lost.
For a quarter of an hour or more he continued his crazy peregrinations, searching for some sign that would give him his bearings, and growing more and more angry, but in vain. Once he nearly collided with a row of poplars, and on another occasion nearly took the chimney-pot off a cottage.
It was the grey silhouette of a church tower that loomed up suddenly and flashed past his wing-tip that decided him to risk no more, but to come down and make inquiries about his position on the ground.
‘I’ve had about enough of this!’ he grunted as he throttled back and side-slipped down into a pasture. It was a praiseworthy effort to land in such extremely difficult conditions, and would have succeeded but for an unlooked-for but not altogether surprising circumstance.
Just as the machine was finishing its run, a dark object appeared in the gloom ahead, which at the last moment he recognized as an animal of the bovine species. Having no desire to run down an unoffending cow – both for his own benefit and that of the animal – he kicked out his foot and swerved violently – too violently.
There was a shuddering jar as the undercarriage slewed off sideways under the unaccustomed strain, and the machine slid to a standstill flat on the bottom of its fuselage, like a toboggan at the end of a run.
‘Pretty good!’ he muttered savagely, looking around for the cause of the accident, and noting with surprise that the animal had not moved its position.
Rather surprised, he watched it for a moment, wondering what it was doing; then he saw that it was tearing up clods of earth with its front feet, occasionally kneeling down to thrust at the ground with its horns.
An unpleasant sinking feeling took him in the pit of the stomach as he stared, now in alarm, at the ferocious-looking beast which, at that moment, as if to confirm his suspicions, gave vent to a low, savage bellow. He felt himself turn pale as he saw that the creature was a bull, and not one of the passive variety, either.
Bull-fighting was not included in his accomplishments. He looked around in panic for some place of retreat, but the only thing he could see was the all-enveloping mist and rain; what lay outside his range of vision, and how far away was the nearest hedge, he had no idea.
Then he remembered reading in a book that the sound of the human voice will quell the most savage beast, and it struck him that the moment was opportune to test the truth of this assertion. Never did an experiment fail more dismally. Hardly had he opened his lips when the bull, with a vicious snort, charged.
The cockpit of an aeroplane is designed to stand many stresses and strains, but a thrust from the horns of an infuriated bull is not one of them. And Biggles knew it. He knew that the flimsy canvas could no more withstand the impending onslaught than an egg could deflect the point of an automatic drill.
Just what the result would be he did not wait to see, for as the bull loomed up like an express train on one side of the machine, he evacuated the plane on the other.
fn1 Horse-drawn artillery guns.
Chapter 6:
LOST IN THE SKY
It must be confessed that Biggles disliked physical exertion. In particular he disliked running, a not uncommon thing amongst airmen, who normally judge their speed in miles per minute rather than miles per hour. But on this occasion he covered the ground so fast that the turf seemed to fly under his feet.
Where he was going to he did not know, nor did he pause to speculate. His one idea at that moment was to put the greatest possible distance between himself and the aeroplane in the shortest space of time.
The direction he chose might have been worse; on the other hand, it might have been better. Had he gone a little more to the right he would have found it necessary to run a good quarter of a mile before he reached the hedge that bounded the field.
As it was, he only ran a hundred yards before he reached the boundary, which, unfortunately, at that point took the form of a barn by the side of which lay a
shallow but extremely slimy pond.
Such was his speed that he only saw the barn, and the first indication he had of the presence of the pond was a clutching sensation around his ankles.
He came up in a panic, striking out madly, thinking that the bull had caught him. But, finding he could stand, for the water was not more than eighteen inches deep, he staggered to his feet and floundered to the far side. Having reached it safely he looked around for the bull, at the same time removing a trailing festoon of water-weed that hung around his neck like a warrior’s laurel garland.
The animal was nowhere in sight, so after pondering the scene gloomily for a moment or two while he recovered his breath, Biggles made his way past the barn to a very dirty French farmyard.
There was no one about, so he continued on through a depressed-looking company of pigs and fowls to the farmhouse, which stood on the opposite side of the yard, and knocked on the door.
It was opened almost at once, and, somewhat to his surprise, by a remarkably pretty girl of seventeen or eighteen, who eyed him with astonishment. When he made his predicament known, in halting French, he was invited inside and introduced to her mother, who was busy with a cauldron by the fire.
Within a very short time he was sitting in front of the fire wrapped in an old overcoat, watching his uniform being dried on a clothes-line in front of it, and dipping pieces of new bread into a bowl of soup.
He felt some qualms about his machine, but he did not feel inclined to investigate, for he hesitated to lay himself open to ridicule by telling the others of his encounter with the bovine fury in the meadow.
‘This,’ he thought, as he stretched his feet towards the fire, ‘is just what the doctor ordered! Much better than the mouldy mess!’
How long he would have remained is a matter for conjecture, for the fire was warm and he felt very disinclined to stir, but a sharp rat-tat at the door announced the arrival of what was to furnish the second half of his adventure that day.
