by W E Johns
‘Well, I’ve only got my father, if it comes to that, and he’s in France,’ observed Rip thoughtfully. ‘He’d give me a thundering good hiding, though, if I ran away from school and he found me in France.’
‘Oh no, he wouldn’t,’ declared Thirty. ‘He wouldn’t dare. He could be court-martialled if he did. A senior officer daren’t strike a subaltern, not even his own son.’
‘What are you going to do—join up?’
‘And hang about a training school for six months, waiting to be sent out? No fear. I’ve got a brilliant scheme; in fact, I don’t mind telling you that I have been turning it over in my mind for some time. Now poor old Nigel’s gone I don’t seem to care much what happens to me, and that’s a fact. This is my idea. The last time Forty was home on leave he got his promotion, so he dumped all his uniforms and got new ones with three stars on the sleeves. The old uniforms are in his room; I saw them there when I was home for the Easter hols. I’m going to put one on, go to the nearest aerodrome, get into a machine and fly it to France, and then report for duty at the first aerodrome I come to.’
‘But you’d be spotted for a cert.’
‘Don’t you believe it. With thousands of officers walking about, who is going to take any notice of me?’
‘But what would they say in France?’
‘Nothing. They need officers too badly to worry about where they come from. I should have to pretend that I had been ordered to report, and hope that the C.O.*3 would think that my posting orders had got mislaid somewhere. In any case, even if I was found out, what could they do to me? Shoot me for trying to fight for my King and Country? No fear. Once I get to France they’ll let me stay.’
‘You mean us—not I.’
‘Us—what do you mean?’
‘You don’t think I’m going to let you buzz off to France leaving me here swotting over Euclid and other rot, do you?’
‘By Jove! Rip, do you mean it?’
‘I jolly well do. When can we start?’
‘Now; this very minute.’
Rip sprang to his feet and locked the door as Thirty climbed on a chair and pulled down a suitcase from the top of his locker. Throwing back the lid he took out an assortment of clothes.
‘When we brought these here so that we could learn to fly without awkward questions being asked, we little thought how useful they were going to be,’ muttered Thirty, as he struggled into an old grey sweater.
In a few minutes the change was complete, and Rip cautiously opened the window. ‘What about writing a note to the Head telling him what we’ve done?’ he suggested.
‘He’d wire to the authorities to stop us,’ protested Thirty sadly. ‘We’ll drop him a line when we get to France.’
‘By the way, have you got any chink?’ asked Rip suddenly.
‘Why do we need money?’
‘It’s nearly a hundred miles to London, and it will take us a long time to walk.’
Thirty thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out some loose coppers. ‘Sevenpence,’ he announced.
‘I’ve threepence; it looks as if we shall have to hoof it, after all,’ declared Rip.
Thirty threw a leg over the window-sill. ‘What does it matter how we go as long as we get there?’ he observed.
Chapter 2
The Adventure Begins
Twenty minutes saw them on the main road plodding steadily towards London. They hailed several cars going their way, but none would stop; with a lorry driver, however, they had better luck. In response to the boys’ desperate signals he drew in to the side of the road, and only then did they see that he was in khaki.
‘Gosh, we’ve stopped an army lorry,’ whispered Rip.
‘Will you give us a lift, driver?’ pleaded Thirty.
‘Where are you going?’
‘London.’
‘What for?’
‘To join up.’
‘’Op in.’
In a twinkling of an eye the boys had squeezed themselves in next to the driver, and in another moment the lorry was once more speeding down the road.
Neither of the boys ever forgot that journey; it seemed interminable. On and on through the night they rumbled, sometimes meeting or overtaking marching troops, or lines of guns, or wagons. It was two o’clock in the morning when they arrived at the Crystal Palace, the driver’s destination, where, with sincere thanks, they bade him farewell, and started on a long walk through the darkened streets to Mayfair, where the Fortymore town house was situated. They were deadly tired, and Thirty became more and more convinced that the whole thing was a dream. He wondered vaguely what Thompson, the caretaker, would say when he saw them, for it would be necessary to ring the bell to gain admittance.
The sky was just beginning to turn grey when, footsore and weary, Thirty exclaimed, ‘Thank goodness, we’re here,’ and halted before a pillared entrance. His finger found the bell push and he pressed it steadily.
After a few seconds they could hear bolts being drawn. A key grated in the lock. The door opened, revealing a grey-headed old man with a dressing-gown thrown over his night attire. His eyes grew round with wonder as Thirty stepped into the hall. ‘Master Peter,’ he gasped.
‘Quite right, Thompson,’ admitted Thirty. ‘This is my friend, Mr. Ripley.’
‘But what in heaven’s name, sir—’
‘Never mind explanations now, there’s a good fellow,’ said Thirty firmly. ‘Coffee, please, and plenty of it—and some sandwiches. While we’re eating them kindly make up my bed and a spare one. Much as I regret the waste of time I shall have to sleep for a little while. You had better make up Master Nigel’s—’ He broke off, faltering. ‘I nearly forgot,’ he went on quietly. ‘Have you heard the news, Thompson?’
‘What news, sir?’
‘My brother has been reported missing. Officially he is “Missing—believed killed”.’
There was a moment of embarrassing silence. The old man muttered something incoherently, then broke down and wept unrestrainedly. ‘Master Nigel, oh Master Nigel,’ he sobbed. ‘Such a lovable—’
Dry-eyed, Thirty cut him short. ‘Thompson, please, to oblige me will you try to postpone your grief and give service to those who are alive.’
‘But what are you doing here, sir? Why aren’t you at school?’
‘I’m going to the war, Thompson.’
‘But how—?’
‘It’s no use protesting. My mind is made up. I will avenge my brother, if nothing more. In case there should be inquiries, kindly forget that you have seen us—you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Now please get us some coffee and prepare a room. We will share one.’
‘Very good, sir.’ With tears still trickling down his face, the old man departed on his errand.
‘Come this way, Rip,’ invited Thirty, leading the way upstairs. He opened the door of a bedroom, crossed over to a wardrobe and pointed to several uniforms that hung on hangers. ‘There’s our kit, Rip,’ he said softly. ‘Let us try to be worthy of the grand chap who once wore it.’
‘I shall never forget that,’ promised Rip, his lips quivering.
An hour later, having made a frugal and somewhat silent meal downstairs, they returned to the room, undressed, and got into the beds that Thompson had prepared for them.
‘Call us at nine sharp,’ was Thirty’s last order to the old caretaker before turning out the light.
At half-past nine, having had a few hours’ refreshing sleep, the boys stood regarding each other speculatively, conscious perhaps for the first time of the seriousness of the step they proposed to take.
‘They fit pretty well, I think,’ observed Thirty, referring to the uniforms they wore.
Rip nodded. ‘You know, Thirty, now that we have actually got these things on, I feel it is awful cheek to wear them without even enlisting, much less being gazetted*1. We shall get it in the neck if we’re found out.’
‘We’ll talk about that when the time comes,’ r
eplied Thirty evenly.
‘What aerodrome are you going to make for?’ inquired Rip. It was significant that although he was the elder he instinctively left the leadership to Thirty.
‘Hounslow is as near as anywhere.’
‘What sort of machine are we going to try to get hold of?’
‘Any, but Sopwith Camels*2 if we have any choice, since we have done most of our flying on rotary engined Avros. Anyway, we’ll get two single-seaters if we can; if not, it will have to be a two-seater. I don’t care which it is as long as we get to France. Once we are across the Channel we shall be safe; the very last thing any one will suppose is that we are not officers at all, but two chaps who have run away from school. Why, even if we told any one I doubt whether we should be believed. Come on, let’s go.’
At the bottom of the stairs, Thirty, with a curious smile on his rather pale face, pointed to a coat of arms that was painted over the front door. Below it, on a scroll, was a motto. ‘Thick and thin,’ he said quietly. ‘That meant a lot to old Nigel and me. It’s you and I, now.’
Rip nodded. ‘Through thick and thin,’ he said softly, and held out his hand.
Thirty clasped it, and then, as if ashamed of his display of sentiment, hurried into the hall where Thompson was waiting for them. He stared when he saw the uniforms.
‘Lieutenants Fortymore and Ripley,’ smiled Thirty. ‘Oh, and Thompson, I’m afraid we shall need a little money. Do you happen to have five pounds about you? I’ll give you a note to the lawyers in case—’
‘Don’t mention it, sir. I have some money in my room; I will fetch it.’ He hurried away, and soon returned with five one-pound notes in his hand. Thirty gave two to Rip and put the other three in his pocket. Then he held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Thompson,’ he said gravely. ‘Thanks for what you’ve done.’
‘But why are you doing this, sir?’ protested the old man. ‘Isn’t one in the family enough—?’
Thirty pointed to the coat of arms over the door. ‘Thick and thin, Thompson,’ he murmured reprosingly. ‘It’s time you knew that.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’ The old servant bowed his head as he opened the front door.
Thirty ran lightly down the steps and hailed a passing taxi. ‘Goodbye, Thompson,’ he called. ‘Mum’s the word, don’t forget.’
‘I shan’t forget, sir. Goodbye, sir—and God go with you.’ Then, as if the old man could not bear to watch any longer, he hurried insided and closed the door.
‘Hounslow Aerodrome,’ Thirty told the driver.
‘You going up to shoot down them blooming zeps*3., sir?’ inquired the taxi-driver eagerly, noticing the wings on the ‘officers’ breasts.
‘Not to-day, driver,’ replied Thirty easily, as he gazed in surprise at a passing Tommy*4 who had saluted him. In a hesitating sort of way he returned the salute; then he got into the taxi in which Rip was already seated. ‘Gosh, did you see that?’ he breathed. ‘I mean—that tommy. He saluted me. It made me feel an awful hypocrite. We shall have to watch out for that sort of thing or we shall give ourselves away.’ A peculiar smile spread over his face as the taxi moved forward. ‘Well, here we go,’ he said softly.
‘By jingo! I’ll tell you one thing we’ve forgotten,’ declared Rip suddenly. ‘What are we going to do for money? Five pounds won’t last us long. Don’t we have to pay mess*5 bills or something?’
Thirty started. ‘Gosh—yes. I’d forgotten all about that,’ he muttered with a worried frown. ‘I shall have to write to Thompson from wherever we end up at. All the same, we can’t go on drawing off him indefinitely. Now poor old Nigel’s gone I must have got a lot of cash in the bank, but the question is how to get hold of it. If I write to the lawyers, they’ll give us away and we shall be sent back to school. Still, as you say, we can’t live without money, and if the worst comes to the worst I shall just have to write to them. Otherwise we might soon be court martialled for not paying our mess bills. It seems to me that our best chance is to try to put up a jolly good show as soon as we get to France; then, if we are discovered, they might let us stay out there. What a nuisance money is. Well, we can’t go back now, can we?’
‘No fear,’ agreed Rip.
It took them rather more than an hour to reach Hounslow Aerodrome, where the first of the pound notes was almost exhausted in paying off the taxi.
‘By Jove! Just look at them. Doesn’t it give you a thrill to see them?’ cried Thirty, pointing to a dozen or more aeroplanes that were standing on the tarmac. An engine was started up, and the sickly smell of castor oil*6 was wafted to their nostrils.
‘Gosh, I’m trembling like a leaf with funk and excitement,’ muttered Rip.
‘Then you’d better let me do the talking,’ returned Thirty. ‘Only bare-faced bluff will see us through now. Come on.’
Together they moved forward towards the tarmac where several officers, some in flying kit, were standing about, and numerous mechanics were going about their tasks, for it was a fine day and a number of machines were in the air.
‘Look!’ breathed Thirty. ‘Camels! Those are the machines for us if we can get hold of them. That’s the type Nigel flew; he showed me the instrument board of his the last time he was home on leave. See those two with guns on? They must belong to fellows home on leave. If that is so, it doesn’t matter a bit about taking them because they will jolly soon be given new ones.’
No one took the slightest notice of them as they walked along the wide strip of concrete in front of the hangars*7 towards the spot where the Camels were standing. A little group of mechanics stood close at hand, a flight-sergeant among them. Thirty beckoned to the N.C.O.*8, who stepped forward smartly.
‘Whose machines are these, flight-sergeant?’ he inquired blandly.
‘They belong to two officers just come on leave, sir,’ was the prompt reply.
‘Ah, they’re the ones we’re looking for,’ declared Thirty calmly. ‘We’re going to test them, to find out just what condition these overseas machines get in after a period of service.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The flight-sergeant showed not the slightest surprise at the statement or at the youthfulness of the two ‘test pilots’, for during the war pilots of eighteen or nineteen years of age were common, and many of them looked younger.
‘Get the tanks filled up, flight-sergeant,’ ordered Thirty calmly, and then, nudging Rip, he turned towards the nearest hangar. ‘We shall have to see about borrowing some flying kit,’ he whispered. ‘It will be chilly upstairs, and we’ve a fair way to go. There should be plenty of jackets and things in the sheds.’
In this respect he was quite right, for there were several leather jackets together with other flying kit hanging on the walls or thrown across the wings of aeroplanes. After a quick glance to make sure that no one was watching, Thirty picked up the nearest jacket, from the pockets of which protruded flying cap and goggles. Glancing round he saw that Rip had done the same, and together they hurried back to the tarmac.
‘All ready, sir,’ called the flight-sergeant.
‘Listen, Rip,’ said Thirty quietly, as he put on his leather jacket. ‘We’ll take off in a dead straight line and climb slowly. I’ll go first and you follow me. Once we are in the air we are as good as in France.’
As he climbed into the cockpit, the feeling again came over him that he was dreaming. In spite of the reality of the scene he could not believe that he was actually getting into a war plane, bound for France. ‘Switches off,’ he called to the mechanic standing by his propeller, in a voice he hardly recognized as his own.
Breathlessly he watched the ack-emma*9 turn the big blade of the propeller. ‘Contact, sir,’ called the voice.
‘Contact!’
The engine, which had not had time to get cold, started at the first attempt, and with exultation in his heart Thirty watched the mechanic run to the propeller of Rip’s machine. Another instant and it was a gleaming circle of light like his own.. For a minute or two he waited for the engine to get re
ally warm, and while doing so made a quick survey of the instrument board. Satisfied that there was nothing he did not understand, he raised his hands above his head for the chocks*10 to be pulled away; then, taking a firm grip of the throttle, he moved it slowly forward. The mechanic saluted to show that the sky was clear for the take-off. The machine began to move from the aerodrome, slowly, but with ever increasing speed; a moment later it was racing tail up across the short green turf. Thirty pulled the joystick back gently and the machine rose gracefully into the air. At a thousand feet, just beyond the boundary of the aerodrome, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw another Camel following close behind him. ‘Good old Rip,’ he thought joyfully. ‘We’ve done it.’
Chapter 3
France
With Rip sitting close behind his tail, Thirty bored his way steadily through the atmosphere on a southerly course, and when, half an hour later, the Channel came into view, he experienced a new thrill. Beyond the narrow strip of sea, flecked with countless tiny crested waves, was a long dark shadow—war-stricken France, where a million men, crouching in shell-torn trenches, were engaged in the greatest life-and-death struggle in history. If only Nigel had been there—what a time they could have had together! A wave of misery swept over him, but he shook himself impatiently and looked down for something to distract his attention. Across the water, heading for the English coast, a broad-beamed boat was surging, leaving a long feather of wake astern to mark its course; on either side of it raced two slim shapes which even from his altitude he recognized as destroyers. ‘It must be the leave boat*1, and her escort,’ he thought, and then dismissed the matter from his mind as the long, hedgeless fields of northern France rose up before him.
