by W E Johns
‘Why, what’s the matter with him?’ asked Wat Tyler, the recording officer, from the table, helping himself to more bacon.
‘Tomorrow is Christmas Day, and he tells me he hasn’t got a turkey for dinner.’
‘He can’t produce turkeys out of a hat. What do you think he is – a magician? How can—’
‘Oh, shut up, Wat. I don’t know how he can get a turkey. That’s his affair.’
‘You expect too much. You may not have realized it yet, but there’s a war on!’
Biggles, otherwise Captain Bigglesworth, eyed the recording officer sarcastically.
‘Oh, there’s a war on, is there?’ he said. ‘And you’d make that an excuse for not having turkey for Christmas dinner? I say it’s all the more reason why we should have one. I’ll bet every squadron on each side the Line has got turkey for dinner – except us!’
‘Well, you’re a bright boy,’ returned Wat, ‘why don’t you go and get one, if it is so easy?’
‘For two pins I’d do it!’ snorted Biggles.
‘Fiddlesticks!’
Biggles swung round on his heel.
‘Fiddlesticks, my grandmother!’ he snapped. ‘Are you suggesting I couldn’t get a turkey if I tried?’
‘I am,’ returned Wat. ‘I know for a fact that Martin has ransacked every roost, shop and warehouse for a radius of fifty miles, and there isn’t one to be had for love or money.’
‘Oh!’ Biggles said. ‘Then in that case I shall have to see about getting one.’
Algy caught his eye and frowned.
‘Don’t make rash promises,’ he said warningly.
‘Well, when I do get one you’ll be one of the first to line up with your plate, I’ll be bound,’ Biggles retorted. ‘Look here, if I get the bird, will you all line up very respectfully and ask for a portion – and will somebody do my dawn patrols for a week?’
There was silence for a moment. Then:
‘Yes, I will,’ declared Mahoney.
‘Good! You can be getting a stock of combat reports ready, then,’ declared Biggles, turning towards the door.
‘Where are you off to?’ called Wat.
‘Turkey hunting,’ replied Biggles shortly.
‘And where do you imagine you are going to find one?’
‘You don’t suppose I’m going to stand here and wait for one to come and give itself up, do you? And you don’t suppose I’m going to wander about this frost-bitten piece of landscape looking for one?’ inquired Biggles coldly.
‘But I tell you, you won’t find a turkey within fifty miles!’
‘That’s all you know about it!’ grunted Biggles, and went out and slammed the door.
Now, when that conversation had commenced, Biggles had not the remotest idea of where he was going to start his quest for a turkey. But presently something awakened in his memory. He had a clear recollection of seeing a large flock of turkeys below him on an occasion when he had been flying very low, and as he left the room to fulfil his rash promise he suddenly recalled where he had seen them.
He was half-way to the sheds when he called to mind the actual spot, and realized with dismay that it was over the other side of the Lines!
He paused in his stride and eyed the sky meditatively. The clouds were low, making reconnaissance-flying quite useless, but there were breaks through which a pilot who was willing to take chances might make his way to the ‘sunny side’.
Returning to the ground would be definitely dangerous, for if the pilot chose to come down through the clouds at a spot where they reached to the ground, a crash would be inevitable. But once in the air the clouds would present plenty of cover. It was, in fact, the sort of day on which an enthusiastic airman might penetrate a good distance into enemy territory without encountering opposition.
He went on thoughtfully towards the sheds. The farm on which he had seen the turkeys, he remembered, was close to a village with a curiously shaped church tower. It was, to the best of his judgement, between thirty and forty miles over the Lines, and provided that the clouds were not absolutely solid in that region he felt confident of being able to find it again.
But he had by no means made up his mind to go, for the project bristled with big risks. To fly so far over enemy country alone was not a trip to be lightly undertaken. And to land in enemy territory and leave the machine – as he would have to do – was little short of madness. Was it worth the risk?
He decided it was not, and he was about to return to the mess when he was hailed by Algy and Mahoney, who had followed him up.
‘Are you going turkey hunting in this atmosphere?’ grinned Mahoney.
The remark was sufficient to cause Biggles to change his mind there and then, for he could stand anything except ridicule.
‘Yes,’ he said brightly, ‘they fly very high, you know – higher than you ever go. But I think I can manage to bag one.’
‘But you’re not seriously thinking of flying?’ cried Algy, aghast. ‘It’s impossible on a day like this! Look how low the clouds are!’
‘You’ll see whether I am or not,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Smyth, get my machine out.’
‘But it—’ began the N.C.O.
‘Get it out – don’t argue. My guns loaded?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tanks full?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then get it out and start up.’
‘He’s as mad as a March hare,’ declared Mahoney hopelessly five minutes later, as Biggles’ Camel plane roared up into the moisture-laden sky.
‘He is!’ agreed Algy. ‘But it’s time you knew him well enough to know that when he comes back he’ll have a turkey with him – if he comes back at all.
‘I wish I knew which way he’d gone. If I did I’d follow him to see that he doesn’t get into mischief.’
After climbing swiftly through a hole in the clouds Biggles came out above them at five thousand feet, and after a swift but searching scrutiny of the sky turned his nose north-east. In all directions stretched a rolling sea of billowing mist that gleamed white in the wintry sun under a sky of blue.
North, south, east, and west he glanced in turn; but, as he expected, not a machine of any sort was in sight, and he settled himself down to his long flight hopefully. The first difficulty, he thought, would be to find and identify the village or farm; the next would be to land in a suitable field near at hand without damaging the machine.
He realized that his greatest chance of success lay in the fact that the place was so far over the Lines, well beyond the sphere of the German planes and the German infantry who were holding, or were in reserve for, the trenches. To have landed anywhere near them would have been suicidal.
As it was, his objective was a remote hamlet where the only opposition he was likely to encounter on the ground was a farmer, or his men, although there was always a chance of running into stray German troops who were quartered or billeted well behind the Lines at rest camps, or on the lines of communication.
‘Well, it’s no use making plans on a job like this,’ he mused. ‘Let’s find the place and see what happens.’
He glanced at his compass to make sure that he was on his course, and then at his watch, and noticed that he had been in the air nearly twenty-five minutes.
‘Almost there,’ he muttered, and began looking for a way down through the clouds. But in all directions they presented an unbroken surface, and, rather than risk over-shooting his objective, he throttled back, and, with his eyes on his altimeter, began gliding down through them.
He shivered involuntarily as the clammy mist closed about him and swirled around wings and fuselage like gale-blown smoke. Down – down – down; 3,000– 2,000– 1,000, and still there was no sign of the ground.
At five hundred feet, he was still in it, but it was getting thinner, and at three hundred feet he emerged over a sombre, snow-covered landscape. The country was absolutely strange to him, so he raced along just below the clouds, looking to right and left for a la
ndmark that he could recognize.
For about five minutes he flew on, becoming more and more anxious, and he was beginning to think that he had made a big error of judgment, when straight ahead he saw the dim outline of a far-spreading wood. He recognized it at once.
‘Dash it! I’ve come too far,’ he muttered, and, turning the Camel in its own length, he began racing back over his course. ‘There must be a following wind upstairs to take me as far over as this,’ he mused as the minutes passed, and still he could see no sign of the village he sought.
He came upon it quite suddenly, and his heart gave a leap as his eyes fell upon the well-remembered farmhouse, with its rows of poultry houses. But where were the turkeys? Where was the flock of a hundred or more plump black birds that had fled so wildly at his approach on the last occasion? Then he understood.
‘Of course!’ he told himself savagely. ‘What a fool I am! They’re all dead by now. Plucked and hanging up in Berlin poulterers’ shops, I expect. Ha!’
A sparkle came to his eyes as they fell on a great turkey cock, evidently the monarch of the flock, that had, no doubt, been kept as the leader of the next year’s brood. It was standing outside one of the houses, with its feathers puffed out, its head on one side, and an eye cocked upwards on the invader of its domain.
‘Don’t stretch your neck, old cock; you’ll have a closer view of me in a minute,’ mumbled Biggles, as he took a quick glance around to get the lie of the land.
The poultry coops were in a small paddock about a hundred yards from the farmhouse and its outbuildings, which, in turn, were nearly a quarter of a mile from the village. There were several fields near at hand in which an aeroplane might be landed with some risk, and, as far as he could see, not a soul was in sight.
So much he was able to take in at a glance. There was no wood, or any other form of cover, so concealment was out of the question. The raid would have to be made in the open and depend entirely upon speed for its success.
‘Well, it’s no use messing about,’ he thought, and, cutting out his engine, glided down into a long, narrow field adjoining the paddock. He had a nasty moment or two as the machine bumped over the snow-covered tussocks and molehills with which the pasture was plentifully besprinkled; but, kicking on the right rudder just before the Camel ran to a standstill, he managed to swerve so that it stopped not far from the low hedge which divided the field from the paddock.
He was out of the cockpit at once and, with his eye on the farm, ran like a deer towards the turkey which still appeared to be watching the proceedings with the greatest interest.
It stood quite still until he was no more than ten yards away, but still on the wrong side of the hedge, and it was only when he began to surmount the obstacle that the turkey’s interest began to take the form of mild alarm.
‘Tch – tch!’ clucked Biggles gently, holding out his hand and strewing the snow with imaginary grains of corn. But the bird was not so easily deluded. It began to side-step away, wearing that air of offended dignity that only a turkey can adopt; and seeing that it was likely to take real fright at any moment, Biggles made a desperate leap.
But the turkey was ready; it sprang nimbly to one side, at the same time emitting a shrill gobble of alarm. Biggles landed on all fours in the sodden grass.
‘I ought to have brought my gun for you,’ he raged, ‘and then I’d give you something to gobble about, you scraggy-necked—’
His voice died away as he gazed in stupefied astonishment at a man who had appeared at the door of the nearest poultry house – which, judging by the fork he held, he had been in the act of cleaning.
If Biggles was surprised, it was clear that the man was even more surprised, and for ten seconds they stared at each other speechlessly. Biggles was the first to recover his presence of mind, although he hesitated as to which course to pursue.
Remembering that he was in occupied Belgian territory, it struck Biggles that the man looked more like a Belgian than an enemy.
‘Are you German?’ Biggles asked sharply, in French.
‘No, Belgian,’ replied the other quickly. ‘You are English, is it not?’ he added quickly, glancing apprehensively towards the farmhouse.
The action was not lost on Biggles.
‘Are those Germans in the house?’ he asked tersely.
‘Yes, the Boches are living in my house!’ The Belgian spat viciously.
Biggles thought swiftly. If there were Germans in the house they would be soldiers, and, of course, armed. At any moment one of them might look out of a window and see him.
‘Why have you come here?’ the Belgian went on, in a nervous whisper.
Biggles pointed to the turkey.
‘For that,’ he answered.
Chapter 17:
BIGGLES GETS THE BIRD
The Belgian looked at him in amazement. He looked at the bird, and then back at Biggles. Then he shook his head.
‘That is impossible,’ he said. ‘I am about to kill it, for it has been kept back for the German officers in the village.’
‘Will they pay you for it?’ asked Biggles quickly.
‘No.’
‘Then I will. How much?’
The Belgian looked startled.
‘It is not possible!’ he exclaimed again.
‘Isn’t it?’ Biggles cast a side-long glance at the turkey, which, reassured by the presence of the owner, whom it knew, was strutting majestically up and down within three yards of them. He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out some loose franc notes. ‘Here, take this!’ he said and leapt onto the bird.
This time there was no mistake, and he clutched it in both arms. He seized the flapping wings and held them together with his left hand, and took a firm grip of the neck with his right.
‘Come on, kill it!’ he called to the Belgian. ‘I can’t!’
There was a sudden shout from the direction of the house, and, looking up, he saw to his horror that a soldier in grey uniform was standing on the doorstep watching him. Again the call of alarm rang out, and a dozen or more German troops – some half-dressed, others fully clad and carrying rifles – poured out.
For a moment they stood rooted in astonishment, and then, in a straggling line, they charged down into the paddock.
Biggles waited for no more. Ducking under the outstretched arm of the farmer, who made a half-hearted attempt to stop him, he scrambled over the hedge into the field where he had left the machine. His foot caught in a briar, and he sprawled headlong; but the bird, which he had no intention of relinquishing, broke his fall, and he was up again at once.
Dishevelled, and panting with excitement, he sped towards the Camel. Fortunately, the impact of Biggles’ ten stone weight as he fell seemed to have stunned the bird, or winded it; at any rate, it remained fairly passive during the dash to the machine.
As he ran, Biggles was wondering what he was going to do with the bird when he got to the aeroplane, and blamed himself for overlooking this very vital question. With time, he could have tied it to some part of the structure – the undercarriage, for instance – but with the Germans howling like a pack of hounds in full cry less than a hundred yards away, there was no time for that.
So he did the only thing possible. He slung the bird into the cockpit, and still holding it with his right hand climbed in after it. It was obvious at once that there was no room for both of them, for the cockpit of a Camel plane is small, and a turkey is a large bird.
At least, there was no room on the floor of the cockpit without jamming the control-stick one way or the other, which certainly would not do. The Camel was not fitted for side-by-side seating, so in sheer desperation he plonked the bird onto the seat and sat on it.
He felt sorry for the bird, but there was no alternative, and he mentally promised it respite as soon as they got clear of the ground.
A rifle cracked perilously near, and another, so without waiting to make any fine adjustments, he shoved the throttle open and sped across the snow. It
did not take him long to realize that he had bitten off rather more than he could chew, for the turkey was not only a large bird, but a very strong one.
Whether it was simply recovering from the effects of the fall, or whether it was startled by the roar of the three hundred horse-power in the Camel’s Bentley rotary engine, is neither here nor there; but the fact remains that no sooner had he started to take off than the bird gave a convulsive jerk that nearly threw him onto the centre section.
‘Here, lie still!’ he snarled, as he fought to keep his balance and keep the swinging Camel in a straight line. But the bird paid no heed, so in sheer desperation he pulled the machine off the ground and steered a crazy course into the sky.
He breathed a sigh of relief as his wheels lifted, for he had fully expected his undercarriage to buckle at any moment under the unusual strain. The danger of the troops being past, he attempted to adjust himself and his passenger into positions more conducive to safety and comfort.
He groped for his belt, but quickly discovered that its length – while suitably adapted for a single person – was not long enough to meet around him in his elevated position. So he abandoned it, and, keeping under the clouds, made for home, hoping that he would not find it necessary to fly in any other position than on even keel.
His head was, of course, sticking well up above the windscreen, and the icy slipstream of the propeller smote his face with hurricane force. He tried to crouch forward, but the turkey, relieved of part of his weight, seized the opportunity thus presented to make a commendable effort to return to its paddock.
It managed to get one wing in between Biggles’ legs and, using it as a lever, nearly sent him over the side; he only saved himself by letting go of the control-stick and grabbing at the side of the cockpit with both hands. The machine responded at once to this unusual freedom by making a sickening swerving turn earthwards, and he only prevented a spin – which at that altitude would have been fatal – by the skin of his teeth.
