by W E Johns
He looked at his altimeter; it registered two thousand five hundred feet. Could he do it? He thought not, but he could try.
The rattle behind him and the vibration grew rapidly worse; it became a definite pulsating jolt that threatened to shake the machine to pieces at any moment. But he could see the Lines in the distance now, or rather, the trench system, where the patrols on either side were watching or trying to repair their barbed wire.
Two loud explosions in quick succession and a blinding sheet of flame leapt from the engine and made him throttle right back with frantic haste.
‘Well, if we’re down, we’re down!’ he muttered savagely. ‘But I’m not going to sit up here and be fried to death for anybody; the Huns can shoot us if they like when we’re on the ground, and that’s better than being roasted like a joint of meat on the spit.’
Looking behind him he could see flames from the engine playing on his tail unit, and he knew that if he tried to remain in the air it was only a matter of seconds before the whole thing took fire. He switched off altogether and began gliding down through the darkness, straining his eyes in an effort to see what lay beneath.
In the uncanny silence he could hear the reports of the guns on the ground, and even hear the rattle of machine-gun fire. A searchlight probed the sky like a trembling white finger, searching for him, and archie began to illuminate the surrounding blackness.
Mark, the ever-practical, was calmly preparing for the inevitable end, and even in that desperate moment Biggles wondered if there was anything that could shake Mark out of his habitual calmness. He picked up the machine-guns, one after the other, and threw them overboard; the Huns would be welcome to what was left of them after their eight-hundred-foot fall. The ammunition drums followed. He tore up his maps, threw them into the air and watched them swirl away aft.
Biggles felt in the canvas pocket inside the cockpit, then took out his own maps, ripped them across, and sent the pieces after Mark’s. He thrust his loaded Very pistol into his pocket in readiness to send a shot into the petrol tank of the machine as soon as they were on the ground – providing they were not knocked out in the crash.
The destruction of his machine to prevent it falling into the hands of the enemy is the first duty of an airman who lands in hostile territory.
The sky around them became an inferno of darting flames and hurtling metal. Several pieces of shrapnel struck the machine, and it quivered like a terrified horse. Once the F. E. was nearly turned upside down by a terrific explosion under the port wing-tip. 400 – 300 – 200 feet ran the altimeter. Mark was leaning over the side staring into the blackness below them.
Biggles could distinguish nothing; the earth looked like a dark indigo stain, broken only by the flashes of guns and the intermittent spurts of machine-guns. He no longer looked at his altimeter, for he knew he was too low for it to be of any assistance; he could only keep his eyes glued below and hope for the best.
Suddenly, the shadow that was the earth swept up to meet him. He pulled the joystick back until the machine was flying on even keel. It began to sink as it lost flying speed, then staggered like a drunken animal. He lifted his knees to his chin, covered his face with his arms, and waited for the end. For a moment there was silence, broken only by the faint hum of the wires and the rumble of the guns.
Crash! With a crunching, tearing, rending scream of protest, the machine struck the ground and subsided in a heap of debris. The nacelle, in which the crew sat, buried its nose into the earth, reared up, then turned turtle.
Biggles soared through space and landed with a dull squelch in a sea of mud, but he had scrambled to his feet in an instant, wiping the slime from his eyes with the backs of his gauntlets.
‘Mark – Mark!’ he hissed. ‘Where are you, Mark? Are you hurt, old man?’
‘Hold hard, I’m coming! Don’t make such a row, you fool!’ snarled Mark, dragging himself clear of the debris and unwinding a wire that had coiled around his neck.
Rat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat.
A Very light soared upwards, and half a dozen machine-guns began their vicious stutter somewhere near at hand; bullets began splintering into the tangled wreck of the machine and zipping into the mud like a swarm of angry hornets.
‘Come on, let’s get out of this!’ gasped Mark. ‘Run for it; the artillery will open up any second!’
‘Run! Where to?’ panted Biggles.
‘Anywhere – to get away from here!’ snapped Mark, slithering and sliding through the ooze.
Whee-e-e – Bang! The first shell arrived with the noise of an express train and exploded with a roar like the end of the world. Biggles took a flying leap into a shell-hole and wormed his way into the mud at the bottom like a mole. He grunted as Mark landed on top of him.
‘Why – the dickens – don’t you look – where you’re going!’ he spluttered, as they squelched side by side in the sludge; while the shell-torn earth rocked under the onslaught from the artillery.
‘We’re all right here,’ announced Mark firmly. ‘They say a shell never lands in the same place twice.’
‘I wish I knew that for a fact,’ muttered Biggles. ‘This is what comes of night-flying. Night birds, eh? Great jumping mackerel, we’re a couple of owls all right; an owl’s got enough sense to stay—’
‘Shut up!’ snarled Mark, as the bombardment grew less intense, and then suddenly died away. ‘Let’s see where we are,’ he whispered, as an eerie silence settled over the scene.
‘See where we are? Have you any idea where we are?’
‘Hark!’
They held their breaths and listened, but no sound reached their ears.
‘I thought I heard someone coming,’ breathed Mark. ‘This is awful, not knowing which side of the lines we’re on!’
They crept up to the lip of the shell-crater and stared into the surrounding darkness. A Very light soared upwards from a spot about a hundred yards away. Biggles, peering under his hand in the glare, distinctly saw a belt of barbed wire a few yards away on their left. Mark, who was looking in the other direction, gripped his arm in a vice-like clutch.
‘Huns!’ he whispered. ‘There’s a party of them coming this way. I could tell them by the shape of their helmets. Come on, this way!’
They started crawling warily towards the wire, but when they reached it, finding no opening, they commenced crawling parallel with it, freezing into a death-like stillness whenever a Very light cast its weird glow over the scene.
‘Those Huns were coming from the opposite direction, so this should be our side,’ muttered Mark.
‘Don’t talk,’ whispered Biggles, ‘let’s keep going – this looks like a gap in the wire.’
By lying flat on the ground so that the obstruction was silhouetted against the sky, they could see a break in the ten-feet-wide belt of barbed wire, where it had evidently been torn up by shell-fire. They crawled through the breach, then paused to listen with straining ears.
‘I can hear someone talking ahead of us; they must be in a trench,’ whispered Mark.
‘So can I; let’s get closer,’ whispered Biggles. ‘Ssh – there it is! I can see the parapet. We shall have to go carefully, or we may be shot by our own fellows.’ He raised himself on his hands and was about to call out – in fact, he had opened his mouth to do so – when a sound reached their ears that seemed to freeze the blood in their veins.
It was a harsh, coarse voice, speaking in a language they did not understand, but which they had no difficulty in recognizing as German. It came from the parapet a few yards in front of them.
A line of bayonets and then a body of men rose up in the darkness at the edge of the trench; there was no mistaking the coal-scuttle helmets.
Neither of the airmen spoke; as one man they sank to the ground, forcing themselves into the cold mud, and lay motionless. Heavy footsteps squelched through the mud towards them; a voice was speaking in a low undertone. Nearer and nearer they came, until Biggles felt the muscles of his back re
tract to receive the stabbing pain of a bayonet-thrust. He nearly cried out as a heavy foot descended on his hand, but his gauntlet and the soft mud under it saved the bones from being broken. The German stumbled, recovered, half-glanced over his shoulder to see what had tripped him; but, seeing what he supposed to be a corpse, turned and walked quickly after the others.
‘Phew!’ gasped Biggles, as the footsteps receded into the distance.
‘Let’s get out of this!’ muttered Mark. ‘They may be back any moment. Another minute and we should have walked straight into their trench. Hark!’
The hum of an F. E. reached their ears, and although they could not see it they could follow its path of flight by the archie bursts and the sound. It was coming from the direction of the German trench. It passed straight over them; the archie died away, and presently the sound faded into the night.
‘That’s one of our fellows going home, so it gives us our direction if we can only find a way through our own wire. If there isn’t a gap, we’re sunk; so we might crawl along this blinking wire to Switzerland!’
‘Ssh!’
Once more the sound of footsteps reached them from somewhere near at hand, but they could see nothing.
‘I can’t stand much more of this!’ growled Biggles. ‘It’s giving me the creeps. I’ve just crawled over somebody – or something that was somebody.’
Bang! They both jumped and then lay flat as another Very light curved high into the air; in its dazzling light Biggles distinctly saw a group of German soldiers, evidently a patrol, standing quite still, not more than fifty yards away. Suddenly he remembered something. He groped in his pocket, whipped out his own Very pistol, took careful aim, and fired. The light in the air went out at the same moment. The shot from Biggles’ pistol dropped in the mud a hundred yards away, where it lay hissing in a cloud of red smoke that changed gradually to a ghastly, livid green.
‘You fool, what are you at?’ snarled Mark. ‘I thought I was shot.’
‘Didn’t you see those Huns? I bet I’ve made them jump!’
‘They’ll probably make us jump in a minute!’ retorted Mark.
‘Would have done if I hadn’t fired that Very light at ’em, you mean!’ retorted Biggles. ‘Nothing like getting in the first shot. Makes the other fellow scary. We’ve been walked over by one crowd and treated as bloomin’ doormats. I don’t want a second dose of that!’
‘You’ll get a dose of something else if those Huns poodle along here to inquire what the fireworks are for!’ replied Mark.
‘If!’ jeered Biggles. ‘I’ll bet those chaps are legging it for home for all they’re worth. An’ I don’t blame ’em. I’d do the same myself if I jolly well knew where home was.’
‘You’ll never live to see home again if you don’t stop playing the silly ass!’ growled Mark. ‘And now shut up and listen. See if you can hear anybody talking in a language we understand.’
For some time the two airmen remained still, lying on the ground and listening intently for the sound of voices. But they could hear nothing save the occasional banging of rifles. At last Biggles grew impatient.
‘Well, I’m not going to stay messing about here any longer!’ he snapped. ‘We’ll settle things one way or the other. It will start to get light presently, and then we’re done for. I believe that’s our wire just in front of us. What about letting out a shout to see if our fellows are within earshot?’
‘The Huns will hear us, too.’
‘I can’t help that. Hold tight, I’m going to yell. Hallo, there!’ he bellowed. ‘Is anybody about?’
A reply came from a spot so close that Biggles instinctively ducked.
‘What are you bleating abart?’ said a Cockney voice calmly. ‘You come any closer to me and I’ll give you something to holler for. You can’t catch me on that hop!’
Bang! A rifle blazed in the darkness, not ten yards away, and a bullet whistled past Biggles’ head.
‘Hi! That’s enough of that!’ he shouted. ‘We’re British officers, I tell you – fliers. We crashed outside the wire and can’t get through. Come and show us the way!’
‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ came the reply. ‘You might ’ave got ’urt. ’Old ’ard a minute! But you keep your ’ands up, and no half-larks!’
Silence fell.
‘He’s either coming himself, or he’s gone to fetch someone,’ muttered Mark. ‘We can’t blame him for being suspicious. He must have been in the listening post, which is where people shoot first and ask questions after-wards. The Huns get up to all sorts of tricks.’
‘Where are you, you fellow?’ suddenly said a quiet voice near them.
‘Here we are!’ answered Biggles.
‘Stand fast – I’m coming.’
An officer, revolver in hand, closely followed by half a dozen Tommies wearing the unmistakable British tin helmets, loomed up suddenly in the darkness.
‘How many of you are there?’ said the voice.
‘Two,’ replied Biggles shortly.
‘All right, follow me – and don’t make a row about it.’
Squelching through the ooze, they followed the officer through a zigzag track in the wire. The Tommies closed in behind them. A trench, from which projected a line of bayonets, lay across their path, but at a word from their escort the rifles were lowered, and the two airmen half-slipped and half-scrambled into the trench. The beam of a flash-lamp cut through the darkness and went slowly over their faces and uniforms.
‘You look a couple of pretty scarecrows, I must say,’ said a voice, with a chuckle. ‘Come into my dugout and have a rest. I’ll send a runner to headquarters with a request that they ring up your squadron and tell them you’re safe. What have you been up to?’
‘Oh – er – night-flying, that’s all. Just night-flying!’ said Biggles airily.
fn1Fokker aeroplane with three wings and two forward-firing machine-guns. Often referred to as a tripe or tripehound.
fn2Heavy bombs 112lb and Cooper bombs 20lb were both carried under the aircraft. Baby incendiaries (sometimes abbreviated as BI’s) were fire bombs thrown by hand from the cockpit – a dangerous game.
fn3Slang: engine cylinders.
Biggles opened his eyes drowsily as a hand shook his shoulder respectfully but firmly. At the back of his sleep-soaked mind he knew it was his batmanfn1 calling him.
‘Come on, sir!’ said the voice. ‘It’s six o’clock! Patrol leaves at half-past!’
Second-Lieutenant Bigglesworth (Biggles for short) stared at the man coldly. ‘Push off!’ he said, and nestled lower under the bedclothes.
‘Come on, now, sir, drink your tea!’ The batman held out the cup invitingly.
Biggles swung his legs over the side of the bed, shivering as the cold air struck his warm limbs, and took tea.
‘What’s the weather like?’ he asked.
‘Not too good, sir, lot of cloud about, but no rain as yet!’ Satisfied that his officer was really awake, the batman departed.
Biggles stood up and pulled his sweater on. He glanced across the room at Mark Way, who had already been called, but was fast asleep again and snoring gently. He picked up his pillow and heaved it at the peaceful face of his flying partner.
Instead of hitting the slumbering Mark, it swept a row of ornaments from the shelf above his head. There was a fearful crash as they scattered in all directions.
Mark leapt up in bed as if impelled by an invisible spring.
‘What th—’ he began, looking about him wildly.
Biggles, who was brushing his hair in front of a cracked mirror, side-stepped quickly to avoid the pillow as it came back, hurled by a vigorous arm. It caught the half-empty teacup and swept it into the middle of his bed. He looked at the marksman in disgust.
‘Rotten shot!’ he said. ‘Your shooting on the ground is worse than it is in the air, and that’s saying some thing!’
‘Can’t you fellows get up without making such an infernal din?’ snarled an angry voice from the far
end of the room. ‘This place is like a madhouse when A Flight are on an early show. You two should save your energy; you’ll need it presently, when Rayner gets going.’
‘Rayner – what’s Rayner got to do with me?’ asked Biggles, in surprise, as he pulled on his sheepskin boots.
‘Mapleton is going to have a tooth drawn this morning, so he has had to report sick. I heard him talking to the Old Man about it last night. Rayner is going to lead your show this morning.’
‘I see,’ said Biggles. ‘Well, it’ll be a change for him to find his Flight sticking to his tail instead of scattering all over the sky when a Hun heaves into sight.’
He ducked to avoid a cake of soap hurled by a member of C Flight, of which Captain Rayner was in command, and departed.
He hurried to the sheds and started the engine of his F. E.2b two-seater plane. Mark came out of the armoury carrying his gun, which he proceeded to test, and Captain Rayner appeared at the corner of A Flight hangar.
‘It’s right, then!’ Biggles muttered to Mark. ‘Mabs isn’t doing the show – here’s Rayner!’
‘What about it?’ grunted Mark, from the cockpit, where he was carefully arranging his ammunition drums.
‘I suppose he’ll try to show us what a hot-stuff merchant he is, that’s all. And it’s a bit too early in the morning for fireworks,’ answered Biggles.
Captain Rayner climbed into his machine, looked around to see that the others were in place, taxied out onto the aerodrome, and roared into the air. The three other machines that were to form the dawn patrol took off behind him, heading towards the distant trenches of the western battlefront.
The grey light of early morning grew stronger, and before the Lines were reached the sun was shining brightly. A strong wind was blowing from the west, bringing with it masses of cloud like great white cauliflowers, gleaming with gold and yellow at the top, merging into dark blue and purple at the base. Here and there the ground was still obscured by long grey blankets of ground mist, through which the earth showed in pale greens and browns.
The patrol climbed for some time before approaching the Lines, the leader making his way towards one of the strips of blue sky that here and there showed through the mass of cloud. They entered the opening at five thousand feet, and then corkscrewed upwards, climbing steeply as though through a hollow tube to the top side of the cloud. Then the four machines levelled out and headed eastward.
