Biggles and the Rescue Flight

by W E Johns

  Of general tactics they learned a good deal from conversations in the mess, where they listened with breathless interest to the stories of hair-raising exploits that occurred almost daily in that vague place known as ‘over the lines’ or ‘in the blue’. Not infrequently Biggles was the leader of these exploits, sometimes in company with the other two flight-commanders, Mahoney and McLaren.

  But of all their fellow officers the one for whom they formed the greatest attachment was a member of their own flight who invariably flew in formation at Biggles’s right hand. He was an untidy youth with longish hair and a freckled face on which dwelt an expression of amused surprise. He was, they learned, a distant relative of Biggles’s, and had come straight out from school and caused a minor sensation at the squadron by shooting down an enemy aircraft on his first trip over the lines. His name appeared on the squadron roll as Second Lieutenant The Honourable Algernon Lacey, but he was never called anything but Algy, even by Major Mullen, the C.O.

  From the very beginning, possibly on account of their recent schooldays, a mutual friendship sprang up. Some of the older pilots sometimes showed signs of nerves, but Algy refused to treat the war as anything but a joke. The more his machine was shot about, the more he laughed, although on such occasions Biggles was apt to turn a reproving eye on him.

  It was Algy who, on the eleventh morning after their arrival at the squadron, joined them on the tarmac in front of the flight hangar where they were waiting for orders. His Sidcot flying suit*2 was flung carelessly over his shoulder; in his right hand he carried the rest of his flying kit—helmet, goggles, and gauntlets. On reaching Thirty and Rip he flung his kit in a heap on the dusty concrete and eyed them both with mock seriousness.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he inquired.

  ‘All right,’ replied Thirty. ‘Why?’

  Algy nodded sombrely. ‘This is the great day.’

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘You’re going over the lines—right over to where the big bad Huns are waiting to gobble little boys up.’

  ‘You being one of the little boys?’ suggested Thirty slyly.

  A quick smile spread over Algy’s face. ‘Not me,’ he declared. ‘I used to be, but I’m a tough mouthful, now.’

  ‘Is Biggles coming?’

  ‘You bet he is. He’s leading the show. Four machines are required to escort a photographic machine home; that’s all; it looks like being a nice quiet party, so Biggles has decided to give you a taste of the real business. I’m making the fourth. We’re to pick up the two-seater—a D.H.4*3—over Douai, at ten o’clock.’

  ‘Douai?’ murmured Thirty. ‘I’ve heard you speak about that place in the mess. Isn’t there an enemy aerodrome there?’

  ‘There certainly is. It’s the little old home town of the Richthofen Circus*4—the boys who fly the red Albatroses*5. That’s why the “Four” is going over to try to get a photograph of it. If we barge into any Albatroses take my tip and stick close to Biggles. But we may not see them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because at that time of the morning they’re usually at the far end of their beat—the other side of Savy. That’s why the raid has been timed for ten o’clock.’

  ‘I hope we see them, all the same,’ murmured Thirty.

  ‘You’ll live and learn,’ grinned Algy. ‘That is, if you’re lucky,’ he added. ‘Here comes Biggles; we’d better get started up.’

  Biggles, in his flying kit, had come out of the squadron office and was walking briskly towards them. ‘I suppose Algy has told you that I’m taking you over the lines this morning,’ he began.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Thirty and Rip together.

  Biggles nodded seriously. ‘I shall keep out of trouble if I can,’ he said. ‘But if we do run into any I hope you’ll try to remember what I have told you. Above all, don’t lose your heads—and keep close to me if you can. Never mind what you see, and on no account leave the formation. If you do, it’s ten to one you never get back to it. You understand that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good! Then let’s get away.’

  Without another word Biggles turned on his heel and walked towards his machine, beside which two mechanics were standing.

  The other three members of the flight made their way to their respective Camels, where they put on their flying kit, and after settling themselves in their cockpits started their engines.

  Thirty, thrilling with a sensation he had never before experienced, looked across at Rip and, meeting his eyes, waved his hand encouragingly. Rip waved back. There was no time for anything more, for Biggles’s machine, with streamers*6 fluttering from the interplane struts, had begun to taxi out towards the aerodrome. The others followed, and a moment later all four were roaring across the short green turf.

  Once in the air they closed up, and after circling the aerodrome three times to gain height, the leading machine, still climbing, turned slowly towards the east.

  Thirty gave his engine a little more throttle and moved up as close as he dared to the fluttering wing pennants of his leader. Once more he was finding it difficult to believe that he was not dreaming; that what he saw was really happening; that he was in an aeroplane flying towards the battlefields through a sky in which enemy machines were on constant patrol. Looking down he saw an expanse of brown earth, perhaps a mile in width, gradually merging into dull green on either side. Through the brown expanse that coiled like a mighty serpent across the landscape from west to east ran tiny zigzag lines, hundreds of them, making a cobweb-like pattern. His breath suddenly came faster as he realized that he was looking at the actual lines where two mighty armies were entrenched, grappling in a stupendous life and death struggle. From time to time tiny white puffs appeared, and drifted sluggishly across the brown expanse. They looked harmless enough, but he knew that they must be the smoke of bursting shells.

  Remembering where he was, he looked up sharply, and with a guilty start saw that he had got out of position. Biggles was looking at him, beckoning him nearer with a peremptory gesture, so he made haste to close up again. Hardly had he done so than a little ball of black smoke appeared and mushroomed out not far of black smoke appeared and mushroomed out not far from his outside wing tip. He no longer marvelled at it, for he knew what it was. They were over the lines, and they were being shelled.

  Biggles flew straight on. He took no notice of the archie bursts that began to arrive in twos and threes. He did not appear to be aware of them. Thirty was, however—painfully so—as he realized what the unpleasant result would be if one came too close. Moistening his lips, he flew on, trying not to think about the venomous-looking little clouds of smoke with their fiery hearts. Presently, to his relief, they began to die away, as if the gunners had grown weary of their task.

  Again he looked down. The country was absolutely strange, and he realized with a tightening of the heartstrings that should he by any chance find himself alone he would only have the remotest idea of how to get back to the aerodrome.

  He caught his breath sharply as Biggles’s machine suddenly rocked its wings. He knew what the signal meant*7. Enemy aircraft were in sight. But although he craned his neck this way and that he could not see them. Then Biggles pointed with his gloved hand and he wondered how he could have been so blind. Perhaps a mile away, heading straight towards them at an altitude slightly lower than their own, was a machine which Thirty recognized at once. It was a D.H.4. But it was not alone. Trailing along behind it were six brightly painted aeroplanes. One was blue with yellow stripes, the bright blue nose gleaming in the sun; another was orange, splashed in a bewildering manner with black patches; another was lemon, with a purple zigzag stripe running down the side of the fuselage. The straight wings and V struts told him what they were—Albatros Scouts. One turned sharply, and he saw the black Maltese Cross*8 on its side. There was something so sinister about it that it gave him a queer thrill; it was not exactly fear, but it was something very much like it. Breathless, he watched the running
fight draw near. That the D.H.4 was hard pressed was certain, both from the erratic course steered by the pilot and the feverish manner in which the gunner in the back seat handled his weapon, reloading with frantic haste when each drum of ammunition ran out and flinging the empty drums overboard as he snatched them from his gun.

  Judging by the way he skidded wildly towards them, it seemed as if at that moment the D.H.4 pilot saw the four Camels for the first time. In an instant—it appeared to Thirty—they were in the thick of the enemy scouts, and he gulped as he swerved to avoid them, so inevitable did a collision seem. Never had he been so close to other machines in the air, nor had he seen so many in such a small section of the sky. Wherever he looked he saw an aeroplane. Then, with a gasp of consternation, he realized that Biggles had disappeared. So had Algy. Rip had begun to circle. In a fever of anxiety he looked around hoping to see the wing pennants of his leader, but an instant later the crisp chatter of a machine-gun behind him made him look back over his tail. For an instant he remained motionless as his horrified eyes fell on a blue nose so close behind him that the whirling propeller appeared likely to smash into his empennage*9.

  He did the first thing that came into his mind. He turned—and then jerked the joystick back convulsively as two machines raced across his nose, the orange Albatros, hotly pursued by a Camel. He recognized Biggles’s machine by its pennants, and a wild hope surged through him that he might be able to follow it; but although he banked vertically, by the time he was round it had disappeared. A great plume of black smoke loomed up in front of him; from behind it appeared Bluenose, tiny flecks of orange flame darting from the twin guns on the engine cowling.

  Thirty zoomed. His brain was in a whirl. Things were happening faster than he could think. Again came the venomous, fear-inspiring chatter of guns, and looking back in a panic he saw Bluenose again on his tail. In sheer desperation he looped. As he levelled out at the end of it something began to beat a tattoo on his fuselage; dry-lipped, he looked back, and in a sort of numb horror saw that Bluenose was still on his tail. He whirled round in the tightest turn he had ever made—but Bluenose was still behind him when he flung a lightning glance over his shoulder. Try as he would, he could not shake him off; and all the time came the intermittent tattoo of bullets hitting the machine somewhere behind him. He jumped violently as an unseen hand seemed to jerk at his sleeve; his altimeter appeared to explode, flinging its glass face into his lap.

  From that moment a change came over him. A wave of cold anger surged into his heart as he realized that the other fellow was doing all the hitting. With his lips set in a straight line, he dragged the joystick back into his right thigh and held it there. The Camel banked viciously and remained in the turn. Bluenose appeared on the other side of a narrow circle; Thirty could see the pilot staring at him through his goggles. Enormous goggles they seemed. His head appeared to be all helmet and goggles.

  In this position they remained for a good twenty seconds, during which time Thirty racked his brains to think of a manoeuvre that would bring him behind his opponent. In his anger he dragged the Camel round until it was spinning on its wing tip, but the other machine did the same and their relative positions remained unchanged.

  Sheer impotence took Thirty in its grip; it was followed by a sort of savage desperation as he realized that so far he had not fired a single shot. He knew that the instant he straightened out Bluenose would be on his tail again, but he decided that it was a risk he would have to take; for the tail chasing could not go on indefinitely, with the wind blowing him farther and farther over the enemy lines.

  He began his next move by shooting out of the circle. Bluenose flashed out behind him—as he knew he would; he heard the guns start their monotonous taca-taca-taca-taca. But before a dozen shots had been fired he had dragged his nose down in a spin. Five times he allowed the Camel to turn on its vertical axle before he pulled out, then looked swiftly around for Bluenose. He saw him at once, just pulling out of a spin, and he managed to get in a quick burst before the other saw him. Bluenose turned away like lightning, but Thirty for the first time had got him where he wanted him—in his sights. His hand closed on the Bowden lever*10 and he gripped it with a fierce exultation. His guns poured out a stream of lead. Bluenose turned, but Thirty, now exuberant, hung on to his tail, firing every time the other showed in his sights. Then a shadow fell across him, and he shrank as though expecting a blow. A Camel roared past just over his head. When he looked back for Bluenose the Albatros had disappeared.

  Wondering where he had gone he flattened out and looked about him. To his utter amazement he could not see a single machine. The Albatroses had gone. The D.H.4, too, had disappeared. But as he watched, shaken by this phenomenon, a Camel swam slowly into view, pennants fluttering on its struts. It was Biggles. But where was Rip—and Algy? A cold hand seemed to settle over his heart as he looked down and saw a cloud of smoke rising from something that lay on the ground. Sick with apprehension he looked back at Biggles, who had now come very close to him. He had pushed up his goggles and was beckoning. Thirty looked at his face, and noted that he looked annoyed. Turning in the direction indicated by his flight-commander, he closed up behind him and followed him to the west.

  Archie bursts appeared again, but a few minutes later the lines came into view, and shortly afterwards, the aerodrome. The nose of the leading Camel tilted down and he followed it, noting with amazement that in some extraordinary way another Camel had appeared and was gliding down near his wing tip. He recognized Algy’s machine by its number.

  Five minutes later he was standing on the tarmac wondering if the fight had really happened; everything seemed so quiet and peaceful. His knees felt strangely weak, and he noticed—not without annoyance—that his fingers were trembling. Algy had lighted a cigarette and was slowly taking off his helmet and goggles. Biggles was walking towards the place where Thirty was standing.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ he asked coolly. ‘Did you want to stay over there all day?’

  ‘Well, I—I thought—I thought I was doing the right thing,’ stammered Thirty.

  ‘I told you to stick close to me if we ran into trouble,’ answered Biggles curtly. ‘Instead of which you went off and fooled around with that bluenosed shark.’

  ‘Fooled around –’ muttered Thirty incredulously. ‘Why, I couldn’t get away from him.’

  Biggles’s face broke into a smile. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve seen that blighter before, and he’s hot stuff. You were either pretty cunning or jolly lucky, I’m not quite sure which. He pushed off when he saw me coming back.’

  Thirty was conscious of a feeling of vague disappointment; it seemed that he had not made Bluenose run for home, after all. Biggles had done it. ‘What do you mean—when you came back?’ he asked.

  ‘I saw the “Four” nearly back to the lines, where I handed it over to Algy and then came back to collect you,’ Biggles told him.

  ‘Did you see what happened to Rip?’

  Biggles nodded towards the aerodrome boundary. ‘Here he comes,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you see him as we came in? He landed in the next field. He must have got his engine shot up, or else had his tank holed.’

  Rip joined them. He was slightly pale, but smiling. ‘I’m afraid I’ve bust my undercarriage,’ he announced ruefully.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about that,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘You did well to get back, both of you. That was a pretty hot lot we ran into.’

  ‘What was that machine I saw on fire on the ground?’ asked Thirty.

  ‘That was the fellow with the purple stripe. He was careless enough to give me a nice easy shot. I’ll get you to confirm my combat report. Come on into the flight office; I want a word with you both.’

  Wondering how he was to keep his eyes on his flight-commander in a dog-fight, Thirty, with Rip beside him, followed Biggles to the flight office. They found Algy already there.

  Biggles closed the door and then faced the two ju
nior members of his flight. He eyed them reflectively before he spoke. ‘Just what do you two fellows think you’re doing here?’ he asked quietly.

  Thirty felt the blood drain from his face. ‘Doing here—’ he echoed foolishly.

  ‘Yes. Who gave you permission to wear those uniforms?’

  Thirty felt something inside him go down like a lift; he looked at Rip hopelessly, and then back at Biggles, who was unfolding a small piece of paper which he had taken from his pocket.

  Chapter 5

  A Discussion in Confidence

  Biggles, with the ghost of a smile playing round the corners of his mouth, smoothed out the paper, which the others now saw was a newspaper clipping, and handed it to Thirty without a word.

  Thirty stared at the piece of newsprint with the dumb fascination of a bird under the influence of a snake, for in the centre of it was a head-and-shoulders portrait of himself, in his school clothes. Above it, in heavy type, appeared these words:

  ‘MYSTERY OF TWO SCHOOLBOYS

  Lord Fortymore Disappears With Friend from

  Well-known Public School’

  With sinking heart Thirty read what he already knew well enough—the story of his and Rip’s disappearance from school following immediately upon the appearance of his brother’s name in a casualty list. Various suggestions were then put forward as to where the two truants might have gone, concluding—rather shrewdly—by advancing the theory that they had run away to join up.

  Thirty handed the paper back to Biggles, who tore it into small pieces and dropped it on the floor. For a moment or two he could think of nothing to say.

  ‘How did you come to get hold of that paper?’ he asked at last, haltingly.

  ‘It was the merest fluke,’ replied Biggles. ‘The paper was sent to me from England because it happened to contain an account of a raid I took part in. Turning over the pages last night before throwing it away, I was not a little surprised—as you may imagine—to see your photograph. It was a bit difficult to see how you could have got a commission in such a short time, so I formed my own conclusions. Come on, you’d better tell me the truth.’