Biggles In France

by W E Johns

  But the warning rattle of Biggles’ guns made him spring up again. In his anxiety he tried to land in a field that was really much too small for such a big machine, with the inevitable result, and it crashed into the trees on the far side.

  Biggles was also feeling anxious, for he knew that as soon as he was on the ground the German’s first action would be to destroy or hide the camera, so he took a risk that in the ordinary way he would have avoided. He put the machine into a steep-side slip and tried to get into the same field.

  As he flattened out he knew he had made a mistake, for the machine did not drop as it would normally have done, but continued to glide over the surface of the ground without losing height. The modifications that had been so advantageous a few minutes before were now his undoing, and although he fish-tailedfn1 hard to lose height, he could not get his wheels onto the turf.

  At a speed at which the machine would normally have stalled, he was still gliding smoothly two feet above the ground, straight towards his victim. There was no question of turning, and to have forced the machine down would have meant a nasty somersault.

  Seeing that a crash was inevitable, Biggles switched off and covered his face with his left arm, and in that position piled his Camel on to the wreckage of its victim.

  He disengaged himself with the alacrity of long experience, and leapt clear – for the horror of fire is never far from an airman’s mind – and looking round for the observer, he saw him standing a short distance away as if undecided whether to make a bolt for it or submit to capture.

  Biggles shouted to him to return, and without waiting to see if he obeyed, set to work to liberate the unfortunate German pilot, who was groaning in his seat.

  Biggles derived some satisfaction from the knowledge that he was still alive, and with the assistance of the German observer who came running up when he saw what was happening, they succeeded in getting him clear.

  Wilkinson and another pilot came running down the hedge, having landed in the nearest suitable field when they saw the Camel crash.

  ‘I thought you’d done it that time!’ panted Wilkinson, as he came up.

  ‘So did I!’ admitted Biggles. ‘But I’ve bust my beautiful aeroplane; I’m afraid I shall never get another one like it.’

  ‘What— Hallo, here comes Major Raymond,’ said Wilkinson. ‘He must have been watching the show from the ground; and here’s the ambulance coming down the road. The sooner that German pilot is in hospital the better; he’s got a nasty one through the shoulder.’

  ‘Is the camera there?’ cried Major Raymond, as he ran up, accompanied by two staff officers.

  ‘Camera, sir? By Jove, I’d forgotten it!’ replied Biggles. And it was true; in the excitement of the last few minutes all thoughts of the special object of his mission had been forgotten.

  ‘Yes, here it is,’ almost shouted the major, tugging at something amongst the debris, regardless of the oil that splashed over his clean whipcord breeches. ‘That’s lucky—’

  He stopped abruptly as several pieces of thick glass fell out of the wide muzzle of the instrument and tinkled amongst the splintered struts. He turned the heavy camera over and pointed accusingly at a round bullet hole in the metal case, just opposite the lens.

  ‘You’ve put a bullet right through it!’ he cried.

  Biggles stared at the hole as if fascinated.

  ‘Well, now, would you believe that?’ he muttered disgustedly. ‘And they took five years to make it!’

  fn1 A quick side to side movement of the rudder used when landing to slow the machine down by creating extra wind resistance.

  Chapter 14:

  SUSPICIONS

  Biggles turned the nose of his Camel plane towards the ghastly ruins of Ypres, still being pounded by bursting shells. He took a final glance at that pulverized strip of Belgium, over which tiny puffs of shrapnel were appearing and fading continuously, then floated away towards the western side of No Man’s Land.

  His patrol was not yet over, but the deep, pulsating drone of his engine had lost its rhythm as it misfired on one cylinder, and Captain Bigglesworth (his promotion dated from his meritorious work in bringing down the camera-plane) had no desire to become involved in a fight whilst thus handicapped.

  Several machines were in the sky, mostly British bombers, for the great battle for possession of the Ypres Salientfn1 was still in progress. But they did not interest him, and he was about to turn his back on the scene when a tiny speck, moving swiftly through the blue, caught his eye.

  ‘That’s a Camel! I wonder if it’s one of our crowd?’ he ruminated as he watched it. ‘By James! He’s in a hurry, whoever it is!’

  The pilot of the approaching Camel was certainly losing no time. With nose well down and tail cocked high, the machine sped through the air like a bullet, straight towards the other Camel.

  As it drew near, Biggles saw that it was not one of his own squadron – No. 266 – nor did he recognize the device, which took the form of two white bands, just aft of the ring-markings on the fuselage.

  ‘There must be a new squadron over,’ he thought, as he headed for Maranique, headquarters of his own squadron, noting with surprise that the new arrival changed its course to follow him. It drew still nearer, and finally flew up alongside, the pilot waving a cheerful greeting.

  Biggles raised his hand in reply, and a slow smile crept over his face as he examined his companion’s machine more closely. At least a dozen neat round holes had been punched in an irregular pattern on the metal engine cowling; there was another straggling group just behind the pilot’s seat, and at least twenty more through the tail.

  ‘Gosh, no wonder he was in a hurry!’ Biggles muttered.

  Presently the aerodrome loomed up ahead and he glided down towards it and slipped in between the hangars. The other machine landed beside him, and side by side they taxied up to the sheds. Biggles pushed up his goggles, threw a leg over the ‘hump’ of his Camel, slid lightly to the ground, and walked over to the other machine, from which the pilot was just alighting.

  ‘“Morning!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Pity you didn’t make a better job of it!’

  The stranger looked at him, frowning.

  ‘How so?’ he asked.

  ‘I mean, if you could have got a few more holes through your cowling it would have made a sieve; as it is, it’s neither one thing nor the other.’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll give it to the cook for a colander,’ replied the other, smiling. He removed his flying-helmet carefully, and looked ruefully at a jagged rent in the ear-flap.

  Biggles whistled.

  ‘My word, if that one had been any closer it would have given you a nasty headache!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘It would have given my old mother a heartache!’ answered the stranger, feeling the side of his head gingerly, where a red weal, just below the ear, told its own story.

  ‘Well, come across to the Mess,’ invited Biggles. ‘By the way, my name’s Bigglesworth, of Squadron 266.’

  ‘Mine’s Butterworth, of 298.’

  ‘Where do you hang out?’ asked Biggles. ‘I can’t remember seeing any of your fellows in these parts!’

  ‘No,’ was the reply. ‘We’re up on the coast, at Teteghen, doing special escort duty with the day bombers who are operating against the seaplane shed at Ostend. We haven’t been over very long.’

  ‘Ostend! Then how did you get right down here?’ Biggles wanted to know.

  ‘Just plain curiosity, I guess. I’m not on a “show” today, as a matter of fact, I went up to do a test, and while I was up I thought I’d like to have a look at the Lines. We do most of our flying over the sea, just off the coast, y’know!’

  Biggles was still surveying the holes in the machine with a professional eye.

  ‘Quite,’ he said slowly. ‘But how did you get in this mess?’

  Butterworth laughed.

  ‘Serves me right, I suppose,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got a Hun yet, so I thought I’d try to get on
e. I found one, as you can see – and that’s what he did to me!’

  ‘Not too good,’ commented Biggles. ‘You’ll have to fly with Squadron 266 for a bit and learn how to do it. But come along; I expect you can do with some lunch.’

  ‘Sure! I can do with a bite!’

  ‘You’re a Canadian, aren’t you?’ went on Biggles, as they walked in the direction of the officers’ mess.

  ‘Yes. What made you think that?’

  Biggles laughed.

  ‘People who say “sure” and “I guess” are usually Canadians or Americans, and as you aren’t in American uniform – well— Hallo, here comes young Algy Lacey! He’s a good scout. You’ll like him. What cheer, laddie!’ he went on as they met. ‘This is Butterworth, of Squadron 298.’

  Algy nodded.

  ‘Glad to know you!’ he said. ‘How did you get on, Biggles?’

  ‘Nothing doing. I didn’t see a Hun, and had to pack up after an hour, with a missing engine. Butterworth here kept all the Huns to himself; his kite’s got as many holes in it as a petrol-filter. What happened, Butterworth?’

  On the mess veranda Butterworth told his story:

  ‘After I left the aerodrome this morning I headed due east for a time, following the Line between Bixshoote and Langemarck. I didn’t see a soul, which got a bit boring, so when I got to Wieltje I turned off a bit to the left to see if those German Fokkers and Albatroses are as common as you fellows pretend.

  ‘For some time I didn’t see anyone, except one or two British R.E.8’s doing artillery observation duty, and then I suddenly saw five or six Albatroses on the right of me. I was only about a mile over the Lines – which didn’t seem far from home – but I guess the Huns spotted me just as I spotted them, and as I turned they turned.

  ‘I shan’t forget the next five minutes in a hurry. At first I put my nose down and streaked straight down the Lines, trying to out-distance them rather than face them. In other words, I ran away, and I don’t mind admitting it. You fellows might think it’s good fun taking on half a dozen Huns at once. But not yours truly. I know my limitations.

  ‘The Huns kept pace with me, heading me off from the Line all the time, and then I saw some more Huns coming up from the south. That did it. I got the wind up properly, and just made a wild rush for home; I went right through the middle of the Hun formation, and I reckon I should have bumped into someone if they hadn’t got out of my way!

  ‘I clamped on to my gun lever and sprayed the sky. How I got through I don’t know, because I could hear their lead boring through my kite several times.

  ‘Well, I got through, as you can see, but it was sheer luck, I guess. I didn’t stop till I saw you in the distance; you may have noticed that I made for you like a long-lost brother.’

  ‘What do you suppose you’re flying a kite for?’ It was Mahoney who spoke; he had approached unobserved.

  ‘To shoot Huns, I suppose,’ was the answer.

  ‘You won’t get many if you go on like you did this morning!’ was Mahoney’s retort.

  ‘Oh, give him a chance!’ broke in Biggles. ‘He hasn’t been over here long. D’you really want to get a Hun?’ he went on, turning to Butterworth.

  ‘I should say I do!’

  ‘Then suppose we go over together this afternoon and have a look round – that is, you, Algy and me? My engine will be all right by then, and yours only needs a few patches.’

  ‘That’s fine! But don’t let me butt—’

  ‘Oh, it’s a pleasure! We always try to do the best we can for guests. Don’t we, Algy?’

  ‘Certainly!’

  ‘That’s fine!’ declared Butterworth. ‘Have a cigarette?’ He took a cigarette case from his pocket and offered it. Biggles took it, removed a cigarette, and examined the case with interest. It was a flat one, slightly bent to fit the pocket. Heavily engraved across the corner were the initials F. T. B.

  ‘Nice case,’ Biggles observed, handing it back to its owner.

  Then Biggles glanced at his watch.

  ‘I think I’ll just slip into the office and ring up the sheds to tell them to push on with those machines,’ he said. ‘Then we had better go in to lunch. Suppose we leave the ground at three?’

  ‘Suits me,’ agreed the visitor.

  After lunch they reassembled on the veranda for coffee. Biggles drank his quickly, stood the cup and saucer on the window-sill, and looked across to where Butterworth was in conversation with Mahoney and Maclaren.

  ‘I’m just going to slip up to the sheds to see how things are going on,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be more than a couple of minutes. Algy, you’d better come with me to make sure your machine is OK’

  He picked up his cap and set off towards the hangars, Algy following. On the way, at a point where the hedge met the footpath, he stooped to break off a thin ash stick, which he trimmed of its leaves and twigs as he walked along.

  ‘Are you riding a horse this afternoon?’ asked Algy, as he regarded this unusual procedure with mild interest.

  Biggles shook his head.

  ‘At present I’m just riding a hunch – an idea,’ he replied mysteriously. ‘Wait a minute, and I’ll show you.’

  Reaching the sheds, Biggles went straight to the visiting Camel. A new cowlingfn2 had been fitted, and the riggers were about to patch the holes in the fuselage.

  ‘All right, you can break off for a minute or two,’ he told the mechanics. And then, to Algy: ‘I want you to take a good look at those holes, to see if you can see anything peculiar about them!’

  Algy looked at him in amazement, but examined the holes carefully.

  ‘No, I’m dashed if I can see anything unusual about them,’ he admitted, after he had finished his scrutiny. ‘They look like good, honest bullet holes to me!’

  ‘Do you remember me asking Butterworth, at lunch, if he had been under fire before this morning? I asked him the direct question.’

  ‘Yes, I remember perfectly, and he said “No”.’

  ‘Then what do you make of this?’ Biggles inserted the ash stick in a hole on one side of the fuselage, and pushed it until the point rested in the corresponding hole on the opposite side, where the bullet had emerged.

  ‘I still don’t see—’ began Algy. But Biggles cut him short.

  ‘Can you tell me how a bullet could pass along a path now indicated by that stick without touching the pilot? It would go through the top part of his leg, wouldn’t it? It couldn’t possibly miss him entirely, could it?’

  ‘No, it certainly could not!’ exclaimed Algy.

  ‘Did you notice Butterworth limping or bleeding, or mentioning being hit? You didn’t! Well, I’m as certain as I stand here that Butterworth wasn’t in the cockpit of that aeroplane when that bullet was fired!’

  ‘What on earth made you spot that?’ gasped Algy.

  ‘You needn’t flatter me on account of my eyesight. It was as plain as a pikestaff. At first I simply thought that Butterworth was piling on the agony. There are fellows, you know, who walk about talking as if they were Bishops or McCuddensfn3, and it adds colour to the tale if there are a few holes in the machine. But let us pass on. This fellow says his name is Butterworth.’

  ‘There’s nothing funny about that, is there?’

  ‘There might not be if I didn’t happen to know Butterworth personally!’ retorted Biggles. ‘I met him at Lympne the last time I was in England!’

  ‘There might be two Butterworths!’ retorted Algy.

  ‘There might. But it would be a thundering funny coincidence if they both had the same initials – F. T. B. – and the same identical cigarette-case, with the initials engraved in the same way in the same place!’

  Algy stared.

  ‘The same cigarette-case?’ he gasped.

  ‘That’s what I said. Nobody’s going to make me believe that there are two such cigarette-cases in the world, both belonging to Butterworths who happen to have the same initials! There is a limit to my imagination. No! Today was not the first
time I have taken a cigarette out of the self-same case that that fellow is now flaunting!

  ‘And I’ll tell you why he is flashing it. He put that case on the table to prove, by suggestion, in case there should be any doubt, that his name is Butterworth. Frank Butter worth had that case at Lympne; I’ve played bridge with him, with the case lying on the table. It was a present from his father, he told me.’

  Algy continued to stare.

  ‘Have you finished giving me shocks? I mean, have you any more cards up your sleeve?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I have; only one, but it’s a boneshaker. Just turn this over in your mind, and see if it suggests anything to you. Frank Butterworth is stationed at Teteghen – or I should say was. He went out on patrol yesterday morning – and went west. He was seen to go down over the German side of the Line, and land.’

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’ Algy demanded.

  ‘Because I made it my business to ring up the squadron and find out; that’s where I went when I disappeared just before lunch.’

  ‘Then what do you think – now?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. I think that Frank Butterworth is either in a German prison hospital, or he’s staring up at the sky through four feet of Flanders mud. What is this fellow doing with his cigarette-case? He has got it as a proof of his identity, and I wouldn’t mind betting that he has got letters addressed to Butterworth in his pocket!

  ‘What is he doing here – miles away from Teteghen, where Butterworth wouldn’t be known? It was a hundred to one against anyone down here knowing Frank Butterworth, but the odd chance has come off. What’s his game, eh? Work it out for yourself. I’ll give you two guesses!’

  ‘Do you think he’s a spy?’ said Algy thoughtfully.

  ‘What else can I think? I don’t want to appear to have a spy complex, but – well, that’s what it looks like to me! I should say the fellow is a German-American. There are hundreds of them in America who speak English as well as we do. On the other hand, there is just a chance that he is a British agent up to some game!’