by W E Johns
Had he been watching the mademoisellefn1 he would have noted that she blushed slightly; but he was looking towards the door, so it was with distinct astonishment and no small disapproval that he watched the entrance of a very dapper French second-lieutenant, who wore the wings of the French Flying Corps on his breast.
The lieutenant, who was very young, stopped dead when he saw Biggles, while his brow grew dark with anger, and he shot a suspicious glance at mademoiselle, who hastened to explain the circumstances. The lieutenant, who, it transpired, was mademoiselle’s fiancé, was mollified, but by no means happy at finding an English aviator in what he regarded as his own particular retreat, and he made it so apparent that Biggles felt slightly embarrassed.
However, they entered into conversation, and it appeared that the Frenchman was also in rather a difficult position. Three days previously he had set off from his escadrillefn2 on an unofficial visit to his fiancée and had been caught by the weather.
When the time had come for him to leave, flying was absolutely out of the question, so he had to do what many other officers have had to do in similar circumstances. He rang up his squadron and told them that he had force-landed, but would return as soon as possible.
But, when the weather did not improve, he had been recalled. So, leaving his machine where he had landed it, which was in a field rather larger than the one Biggles had chosen, he had gone back to his aerodrome by road. Now, as the weather was reported to be improving and likely to clear before nightfall, he had been sent to fetch his machine.
Biggles, in turn, related how he had become lost in the rain and had landed, with disastrous results to his undercarriage.
The lieutenant smiled in a superior way, as if getting lost was something outside the range of his imagination, and then crossed to the window to regard the weather, which was now certainly improving, but was by no means settled.
‘I will fly you back to your squadron,’ he declared.
Biggles started. The idea of being flown by anybody, much less a French second-lieutenant, left him cold, and he said as much.
But, as the afternoon wore on and the lieutenant’s frown grew deeper, he began to understand the position. The Frenchman, who was evidently of a jealous disposition, was loath to leave him there with his best girl, yet he – the Frenchman – was due back at his squadron, and further delay might get him into trouble.
So, rather than cause any possible friction between the lovers, Biggles began seriously to contemplate the lieutenant’s suggestion.
The weather was still dull, with low clouds scudding across the sky at a height of only two or three hundred feet. But it had stopped raining, and light patches in the clouds showed where they were thin enough for an aeroplane to get through.
In any case, Biggles knew that he would soon have to let Major Mullen, his commanding officer, know where he was, so, finally against his better judgment, he accepted the lieutenant’s invitation – to the French man’s relief.
He thanked his hostesses for their hospitality, donned his uniform, and accompanied the pilot to a rather dilapidated Breguet plane, which stood dripping moisture in the corner of a field on the opposite side of the house from where he had left his Camel.
When his eyes fell on it he at once regretted his decision, but there was no going back. More than ever did he regret leaving the comfortable fireside as the Frenchman took off, with a stone-cold engine, in a steep climbing turn. A minute later they were swallowed up in the grey pall.
The period immediately following was a nightmare that Biggles could never afterwards recall without a shudder, for the Frenchman, quite lightheartedly, seemed to take every possible risk that presented itself. Finally, he staggered up through the clouds, levelled out above them, and set off on a course that Biggles was quite certain would never take them to Maranique.
‘Hi, you’re going too far east!’ he yelled in the pilot’s ear.
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders expressively.
‘Who flies? Me or you?’ he roared.
Biggles’ lips set in a straight line.
‘This isn’t going to be funny!’ he muttered. ‘This fool will unload me the wrong side of the Lines if I don’t watch him!’ He could see the lieutenant’s lips moving; he was evidently singing to himself, as he flew, with the utmost unconcern.
Biggles’ lips also moved, but he was not singing.
‘Hi,’ he shouted again presently, ‘where the dickens are you going?’
The Frenchman looked surprised and pained.
‘Maranique, you said, did you not?’ he shouted.
‘Yes. But it’s that way!’ cried Biggles desperately, pointing to the north-west.
‘No – no!’ declared the Frenchman emphatically. Biggles felt like striking him, but that course was inadvisable as there was no dual control-stick in his cockpit. So all he could do was to sit still and fume, deploring the folly that had led him into such a fix.
Meanwhile, the Frenchman continued to explore the sky in all directions, until even Biggles had not the remotest idea of their position.
‘We only need to barge into a Hun,’ he thought, ‘and that’ll be the end! I’ll choke this blighter when I get him on the ground!’
The lieutenant, who evidently had his own methods of navigation, suddenly throttled back, and, turning with a smile, pointed downwards.
‘Maranique!’ he called cheerfully.
‘Maranique, my foot!’ growled Biggles, knowing quite well that they could not be within twenty miles of it.
The Frenchman, without any more ado, plunged downwards into the grey cloud.
Biggles turned white and clutched at the sides of the cockpit, prepared for the worst. There was no altimeter in his cockpit, and he fully expected the Frenchman to dive straight into the ground at any second. To his infinite relief, not to say astonishment, they came out at about two hundred feet over an aerodrome.
It was not Maranique. But Biggles did not mind that. He was prepared to land anywhere, and be thankful for the opportunity, even if it meant walking home. The Frenchman’s idea of flying, he decided, was not his.
It was nearly dark when they touched their wheels on the soaking turf near the edge of the aerodrome. In fact, they were rather too near, for the machine finished its run with its nose in a ditch and its tail cocked high in the air.
Biggles evacuated the machine almost as quickly as he had left his own Camel plane when the bull had charged, and, once clear, surveyed the wreck dispassionately.
‘Thank goodness he did it, and not me!’ was his mental note.
His attention was suddenly attracted by the curious antics of the Frenchman, who, with a cry of horror, had leapt to the ground and was fumbling with a pistol.
For a moment Biggles did not understand, and thought the wretched fellow was going to shoot himself, out of remorse. But then Biggles saw that he was mistaken.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Voilà!fn3’ The lieutenant pointed, and, following the outstretched finger, Biggles turned ice-cold with shock. Dimly through the darkening mist, not a hundred yards away, stood an aeroplane.
It did not need a large cross on the side of its fuselage to establish its identity. The machine, beyond all doubt and question, was a German Rumplerfn4 plane!
Biggles turned to the wretched Frenchman in savage fury.
‘You blithering lunatic!’ he snarled. ‘I told you you were too far to the east. Look where you’ve landed us!’
The lieutenant paid no attention, for he was busy performing the last rites over his machine. He raised the pistol, and at point blank range sent a shot into the petrol-tank. Instantly the machine was a blazing inferno.
Then, side by side, they ran for their lives. They heard shouts behind them, but they did not stop.
They ran until they reached a wood, into which they plunged, panting for breath, and then paused to consider the position, which was just about as unpleasant as it could be. The place was drippin
g with moisture, and Biggles’ teeth were chattering, for his uniform was by no means dry when he had put it on at the farmhouse.
But there was nothing, apparently, that they could do, so they pressed on into the heart of the wood, where they crouched until it was dark, hardly speaking a word, with Biggles furious and the Frenchman ‘desolated’ almost to the point of suicide.
Then, with one accord, they crept from their hiding-place towards the edge of the wood, coming out in a narrow, deserted lane.
Suddenly the Frenchman clutched Biggles’ arm, his eyes blazing.
‘The Rumpler!’ he hissed. ‘We will take the Rumpler, and I will yet fly you back to Maranique!’
Biggles started, for the idea had not occurred to him, and he eyed his companion with a new respect and admiration. He had no intention of letting the Frenchman fly him to Maranique – or anywhere else – but if they could manage to get control of that machine they might yet escape, and even reach home that night. It was a project that many prisoners of war, and flying officers at large in hostile territory, dreamt of.
‘Come on! We’ll try, anyway!’ Biggles said crisply, and set off in the direction of the aerodrome. It was nervy work, and more than once they had to crouch shivering in the bottom of a ditch, or in soaking undergrowth, while bodies of men moved towards the Lines, or backward to the rest camps. As it so happened, none came anywhere near them.
With the stealth of Red Indians on the warpath, they crept towards their objective. In his heart Biggles felt certain that by this time the machine would have been put in a hangar, from which it would be impossible to extract it without attracting attention. If that was so, it was the end of the matter.
As they slowly neared the spot where they had last seen the German machine a low murmur of voices reached them from the direction of the Frenchman’s crashed Breguet, and once Biggles thought he heard a laugh. The crash, it seemed, was amusing.
Well, maybe he would have laughed had the situation been reversed. But as it was, there was little enough to raise a smile as far as they were concerned.
Hoping all the officers of the German squadron had collected round the crash, they made a wide detour to avoid it, and presently came upon the Rumpler almost in the same position as they had last seen it.
Someone had moved it slightly nearer the sheds – that was all. What was even more important, not a soul was in sight.
Now that the moment for action had arrived, Biggles felt curiously calm; the Frenchman, on the other hand, was panting with excitement.
‘You start the prop; I will open the throttle!’ he breathed.
‘Not on your life!’ declared Biggles. ‘I’ll do the pouring. I’ve done all the flying I’m going to with you. You make for the prop when I say the word “go”.’
The Frenchman was inclined to argue, but Biggles clenched his fists, with the desired result, so he took a final look round and crouched for the spring.
‘Go!’ he snapped.
Together they burst from cover and dashed towards the solitary machine. Biggles, as arranged, made for the cockpit, while the French lieutenant tore round the wing to the prop. Even as he put his foot into the stirrup to climb up Biggles staggered backwards; his heart seemed to stop beating. A head had appeared above the rim of the cockpit. He stared, but there was no doubt about it – a man was sitting in the machine. The French pilot saw him, too, for a groan burst from his lips.
Then a voice spoke. It was not so much what the man said, or the tone of voice he employed, that struck Biggles all of a heap. It was the language he used. It was English – perfect English.
‘What the dickens do you two fellows think you’re going to do?’ he said as he stood up and then jumped to the ground.
Biggles’ jaw sagged as he stared at an officer in the Royal Flying Corps uniform. ‘Who – who are you?’ he gasped.
‘Lynsdale’s my name – No. 281 Squadron. Why?’
Biggles began to shake.
‘Who does this kite belong to?’ he asked, pointing to the Rumpler.
‘Me. At least, I reckon it’s mine. I forced it to land this morning, and we towed it in this afternoon.’
‘What aerodrome is this?’ Biggles queried shakily.
‘St. Marie Fleur. No. 281 Squadron moved in about a week ago. As a matter of fact, we’ve only got one Flight here so far, but the others are expected any day. By the way,’ Lynsdale went on, turning to the Frenchman, ‘are you by any chance the johnnie who landed here about an hour ago and set fire to his kite?’
But the Frenchman was not listening. He had burst into tears and was sitting on the wheel of the Rumpler, sobbing.
‘Never mind, cheer up, old chap!’ said Biggles kindly. ‘There’s plenty more where that one came from, and we’re better off than we thought we were, anyway.’
‘You’d both better come up to the Mess and have some grub, while I ring up your people and tell them you’re here!’ observed Lynsdale, trying hard not to laugh.
fn1 French: miss, girl.
fn2 French: squadron.
fn3 French: There!
fn4 German two-seater biplane for observation and light bombing raids.
Chapter 7:
THE HUMAN RAILWAY
One of the most characteristic features of flying during the Great War was the manner in which humour and tragedy so often went hand in hand. At noon a practical joke might set the officers’ mess rocking with mirth; by sunset, or perhaps within the hour, the perpetrator of it would be gone for ever, fallen to an unmarked grave in the shellholes of No Man’s Land.
Laughter, spontaneous and unaffected, with Old Man Death watching, waiting, ever ready to strike.
Those whose task it was to clear the sky of enemy aircraft knew it, but it did not worry them. They seldom alluded to it. When it thrust itself upon their notice they forgot it as quickly as they could. It was the only way.
That attitude in mind, that philosophy of life in warfare, was aptly instanced by the events of a certain summer day in the history of No. 266 Squadron.
The day was hot. The morning patrol had just returned, and the officers of 266 Squadron were lounging languidly in the ante-room, with cooling drinks at their elbows. Maclaren, who had led the patrol, his flying-suit thrown open down the front, exposing the blue silk pyjamas in which he had been flying, leant against the mantelpiece, a foaming jug in his right hand. He was using his left to demonstrate the tactics of the Hun who had so nearly got him, and he punctuated his narrative by taking mighty draughts of the contents of the jug, which he himself had concocted.
‘He turned, and I turned,’ he continued, ‘and I had him stone cold in my sights. I grabbed for my gun lever’ – his forehead wrinkled into a grimace of disgust – ‘and my guns packed up. Well, it wasn’t their fault,’ he continued disconsolately, ‘there was nothing in ’em! It was the first time in my life that I’ve run out of ammunition without knowing it!
‘Luckily for me, the Hun had had enough and pushed off, or I shouldn’t be here now. He’s probably still wondering why I didn’t go after him. I don’t suppose he’ll ever know how mighty thankful I was to see him go, and I don’t mind telling you I wasted no time in getting home. It was a red machine – an Albatros – so it may have been Richthofen himself. He certainly could fly.
‘A dozen times I thought I’d got him, but before I could shoot he’d gone out of my sights. Two or three times while I was looking for him he had a crack at me. I’ve got an idea I’ve been rather lucky. I—’
He broke off, and all eyes turned towards the swingdoors that led into the dining-room as they were pushed open and a stranger entered.
He did not enter as one would expect a new officer joining a squadron to enter. There was nothing deferential or even in the slightest degree respectful about his manner.
Indeed, so unusual was his method of entry upon the scene that the amazed occupants of the room could only stare wonderingly. Actually, what he did was to fling the doors open wide, and, hol
ding them open with outstretched arms, cry in a shrill Cockney voice: ‘Passing Down Street and Hyde Park Corner!’ He then emitted a series of sounds that formed an excellent imitation of a Tube train starting, punctuated with the usual clanging of doors.
The rumble of the departing ‘train’ died away and the stranger advanced smiling into the room. Half-way across it he stopped, waved his handkerchief like a guard’s flag, whistled shrilly, and called: ‘Any more for Esher, Walton, Weybridge, Byfleet or Woking?’
Then he sat down at a card table opposite Biggles. But the performance was not yet finished, as the spellbound watchers were to discover.
‘Two to Waterloo!’ he cried sharply. He followed this instantly by bringing down his elbow sharply on the table, at the same time letting his fist fall forward so that his knuckles also struck the table. The noise produced, which can only be described as ‘clonk, clonk-er, clonk, clonk-er’, was precisely the sound made in a railway booking-office used for punching the date on tickets issued.
Having completed these items from his repertoire, he sat back with a smile and awaited the applause he evidently expected. There was, in fact, a general titter, for the imitations had been excellent and admirably executed.
Biggles, whose nerves were a bit on edge, did not join in, however. He was tired, and the sudden disturbance irritated him. He merely stared at the round, laughing face in front of him with faint surprise and disapproval.
‘What do you think you are – a railway?’ he asked coldly.
The other nodded.
‘I’m not always a railway, though. Sometimes I’m an aeroplane,’ he observed seriously.
‘Is that so?’ replied the astonished Biggles slowly.
Another titter ran round the room, and the stranger rose.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I’m a Camel.’
‘A Camel! gasped Biggles incredulously.
The other nodded.
‘I can do any sort of aeroplane I like, with any number of engines, but I like being a Camel best. Watch me!’ Forthwith he gave a brilliant sound imitation of a Camel being started up.
