by W E Johns
Immediately afterwards the four airmen rounded the spur of rock which concealed them from the rest of the valley. But Biggles did not stop. Running, and jumping over obstacles, he raced on down the gorge that led to the machines, and not until they were in sight of them did he ease the pace. He slowed down for the rescued prisoner to catch up with him, for, due no doubt to the privations he had endured, Forty was catching his breath in gasps, and it was clear that he was near the end of his endurance.
‘Sorry to rush you like this,’ apologized Biggles, ‘but after shooting that Hun we can’t afford to get caught. Not much farther to go. There are our machines.’
Forty had no breath to answer. He could only nod.
A minute later they reached the machines, and it was clear from a glance that Rip had obeyed his orders to the letter. The Bristol’s propeller was ticking over, and Rip was standing by the nose of Biggles’s machine.
‘All right, easy all,’ called Biggles. ‘Everything in order, Rip?’
‘Not a sign of any one,’ replied Rip. ‘You’ve got him, then?’ he added, grinning with delight as he looked at the new member of their party.
‘We can’t talk now; there will be a bunch of Huns here in a few minutes. Let’s get away. Forty, you travel in the back seat of the Biff*4. Thirty, you know the way I told you to go home. Go to it. Don’t stop whatever happens. We must reckon that those Huns we’ve just left will get on the telephone and set things buzzing, so we may have to fight. Never mind if Algy and I stop; you keep going for the lines as fast as you can go. That’s all.’
The party split up, each member hurrying to his allotted machine. Rip started Biggles’s propeller, then Algy’s, afterwards climbing up into the back seat of the Bristol in which Forty was already standing. ‘Bit of a squeeze, I’m afraid,’ he grinned. ‘Be awkward if we have to use the gun.’
‘You lie flat on the floor,’ Forty told him, ‘that’s the best way. It will spread the weight, and give me room to work the gun if we run into a rough house.’
Further conversation was cut short by the roar of the three engines as the machines moved forward.
Thirty, after a glance to make sure that the others were ready, opened his throttle wide. The Bristol surged forward, tail up. Except for taking a longer run than usual to get off it behaved as usual, and he drew a deep breath of relief as he banked slowly round until his nose was pointing to the west. A quick look over his shoulder revealed the two Camels taking up position just above and behind him, so he resumed his course with joy and confidence in his heart.
‘An hour and we’ll be safe,’ he thought exultantly.
Chapter 8
A Race for Life
But in this he was not quite correct. He was to learn what many other British pilots had already learned—sometimes to their cost—that a return journey from enemy country could take a good deal longer than the outward trip because of the wind, which in northern France almost invariably blows from west to east, retarding the speed of a plane in direct ratio to its force.
The machines had been in the air for nearly an hour when Thirty first became aware of this unfortunate factor. He was flying level at ten thousand feet when his astonished eyes fell on a conspicuous landmark, a lake, which he had noticed on the outward journey. According to his calculations, based on time, they ought to be nearly home, whereas he had a clear recollection of passing over the lake a good twenty minutes after they had crossed the lines. This meant, in effect, that they had not covered more than two-thirds of the return journey.
Looking down, he saw what he hoped to see. Smoke. There is nothing unusual in this; one can usually see smoke of some sort from the air. In this case it was being generated by a smouldering bonfire in a corner of a field, and a grunt of disgust broke from his lips. From the way the smoke rolled low over the ground he knew that the wind—which, as usual, had risen after the sun was up—could not be less than twenty-five miles an hour.
So far they had not seen a single aircraft of any sort, but now he looked around the sky anxiously, and was not a little relieved to see that it was still clear, except far away to the west, where the top of a long line of cumulus clouds was just showing, like a breaking wave, above the horizon.
The Bristol roared on towards them, as if anxious to make their acquaintance, the engine voicing its rhythmic bellow which, by reason of its very regularity, Thirty barely noticed.
He had just sat up straight after picking up his map, which had fallen to the floor, when, with a start, he saw Biggles’s Camel surge down beside him. He saw that Biggles was pointing, urging him to a slightly more southerly course. He complied at once, but, naturally, wondered why Biggles had taken this step. The other Camel returned to its original position, so he stared hard down the course he would have followed had not the change been made. For some time he could see nothing unusual, but then he caught his breath sharply as his eyes fell on a number of tiny objects that were moving across the landscape. But for the fact that they were in perfect V formation they might have been insects, so small were they; and they might, literally, have been crawling on the ground, which is the invariable effect created in such circumstances. They were still too far away for Thirty to make out their national markings, or recognize the type, but he knew that they could only be enemy machines so far over the lines.
Watching them closely, he saw that they were flying on a straight course that would soon take them out of sight, but as he regarded them apprehensively he saw the light flash on the top plane of the leader, and he knew that he had turned. One by one the other machines of the formation followed, a brilliant streak of light flashing for an instant from each one in turn as the rays of the sun caught the polished wing surfaces.
Continuing to watch, now with marked apprehension, Thirty saw that the formation had altered its course and was now standing directly towards them. The inference was obvious. They had been seen by the lynx-eyed leader of the enemy patrol, who was coming to investigate. A minute later Thirty could see the black crosses on their wing-tips; and, as before, they gave him a queer thrill. He realized now that the ever-vigilant Biggles had spotted the enemy machines the instant they had come within his range of vision, and the change of course he had ordered was an attempt to escape observation.
Thirty stared ahead fixedly through his centre-section hoping to see the lines, for the question seemed to him to be one of whether the enemy machines would overtake them, and climb up to them, before they reached the security of their own country.
Five minutes passed slowly. Thirty, glancing at his watch every few seconds, found it difficult to believe that it was only five minutes, that time could move so slowly.
Looking back at the enemy machines he saw that they were now no more than a thousand feet below, and perhaps a quarter of a mile behind. Still in formation, they were banking very slowly to a course that would bring them immediately behind the three British machines.
Thirty looked over his shoulder to make sure that his brother had seen them; there was no need to ask; Forty was leaning idly against the rear gun mounting, staring down at the enemy scouts with an expression of bored indifference. The sight did a lot to restore Thirty’s confidence, and he looked back again at the enemy. He could only see three of them now, for the others were immediately behind him; he recognized them for Albatros scouts, and saw that they were creeping up steadily.
Raising his eyes he saw that the Camels were still just above and behind him. This rather surprised him, for he rather expected that they would have done something, although what, he did not know. Still, it did not occur to him to question Biggles’s judgement.
Looking at his watch for the hundredth time he saw that they had been in the air for an hour and a quarter, and a glance ahead still revealed no sign of the lines. What it did reveal, however, was a mighty mass of cloud, four or five thousand feet thick, rolling towards them, and not more than two or three miles away. He hoped that Biggles would give him a lead as to whether he shoul
d remain above it or go under it, and he was still staring at it when from a yawning blue chasm in the centre of it there burst five scarlet-painted Triplanes*. He stared at them in unspeakable horror, for from their actions it was instantly clear that the enemy machines had seen those bearing the red, white, and blue rings. The Triplanes were between them and the lines. Thirty’s heart sank. ‘We’re cut off; they’ve got us between two fires,’ he thought bitterly.
Looking up behind him he saw that Biggles and Algy had closed up; they were signalling to each other with swift gesticulations, a ridiculous-looking dumb pantomime. Evidently they understood each other, for Algy nodded assent. Almost at once the nose of his Camel tilted downwards and Biggles forged past the Bristol in a steep dive, beckoning to Thirty to follow him.
Thirty obeyed without hesitation, regardless of the fact that the three machines, with the two Camels leading, were roaring straight towards the five Triplanes, which, being slightly below them, had tilted up their noses to meet them.
To Thirty, the next few seconds were the acme of breathless excitement. As straight as a hawk swooping on its prey, Biggles’s machine plunged towards the red formation. Thirty, being behind, saw everything. His heart seemed to stop beating, as, with a sort of spellbound fascination, he waited for what appeared to be a wholesale collision. Something told him that whatever happened Biggles would not turn. A curious feeling of finality stole over him, leaving him strangely calm. He would not turn, either, he decided. So, tight-lipped, he waited for the crash. He saw little jabs of flame start dancing at the muzzles of the guns on the crimson cowlings; saw the swift streak of tracer bullets spurt from the nose of Biggles’s machine. Perhaps two hundred yards separated the two formations, and they were still hurtling straight to destruction.
He had braced himself for the shock of the head-on collision when the German formation split like a covey of partridges driven over guns, some zooming to the right, others to the left. His left wing-tip missed a red one by perhaps ten feet. He could see every detail of it, the tappits working in the engine and the faint smoke trail of the exhaust. He saw the pilot’s face clearly, the fixed stare in his eyes behind the goggles, and the set mouth. He heard a gun behind him stutter for an instant. Then the two machines swept past each other. The air ahead was clear.
Immediately Biggles steepened his dive to such a degree that Thirty used both hands on the joystick to keep pace with him. He became conscious of a great noise in his ears, a kind of wailing scream that rose to a shrill crescendo. He risked a glance behind. The sky seemed to be full of machines. He had no time to see more, for it needed all his skill to keep close to the two Camels, which, swerving, had plunged into the aerial chasm between the cloud masses from which the Triplanes had appeared.
Even at that desperate moment he found time to marvel on it, for it was a scene such as not even Dante could have imagined. It was unreal; a fantasy. Below lay a colossal pit, the base of which was lost in blue mist. On either side, ice-blue walls towered up to the paler blue of heaven. Billows of gleaming white, so bright that they dazzled the eyes, flecked the sun-drenched rim of this stupendous cavity, the bottom and sides of which were as intangible as the atmosphere through which they roared. The noise of the engines took on a strange muffled note.
Down—down—down they plunged, sometimes swerving round little islands of pale grey mist that floated in the void, dispersing others as they burst through them. Again Thirty heard the gun behind him, and snatching a glance over his shoulder saw Forty shooting at something which the tail of the machine prevented him from seeing.
Biggles turned sharply to the right, so sharply that the Bristol overshot him. Recovering quickly, however, Thirty followed, and now being broadside to his original course saw clearly what had before been hidden from his view. Roaring down the misty gorge were nearly a score of machines. It was an amazing sight, one that printed itself indelibly on his memory.
A large, dark-green two-seater, with the tell-tale black crosses on its wings and fuselage, suddenly came into view at the far end of the gorge, evidently with the idea of using the passage to get above the clouds. The speed with which it turned and plunged blindly into the wall of cloud brought a faint smile to Thirty’s lips. Then, suddenly, he saw the ground, dim with the shadow of the great cloud mass that hung over it like a pall. A little way ahead it changed from dull green to brown. Thirty recognized the lines. At the same moment Biggles and Algy both turned outwards, allowing him to pass between them. He would have turned, too, but Biggles signalled to him to go on, and an instant later they had passed out of his field of view. He knew what they had done. They had turned to meet the enemy machines, which, being single-seaters, had drawn so close to the two-seater that it would have been fatal to go on. Alone, doubtless they could have given the enemy the slip, but they could not—or rather, would not—leave the slower two-seater.
Thirty looked at his altimeter. The needle was just below the two-thousand mark, so much height had they lost in their rush through the hole in the clouds. He looked back, trying to find it, hoping to see the two Camels emerge; but either it had closed up or there was nothing to indicate where it was. He was still looking when a smart blow on the head made him turn. Forty pointed. Following the line indicated, Thirty’s heart gave a lurch when he saw four machines almost on top of him. He breathed again when he recognized them for Camels, but it gave him a jolt to realize that although they were so close he had not seen them until they had been pointed out to him. Almost at once he saw that they were from his own squadron, Mahoney’s red, yellow, and blue streamers conspicuous in the lead.
An idea came into his head. Flying close, he beckoned, and then turned back towards the clouds. Another shock awaited him as his nose came round, for the sky through which he had flown was black with archie bursts. Somehow it didn’t worry him. He felt that the four Camels ought to know where Biggles and Algy were. But it was in vain that he searched for the cavity through which he had just come.
He jumped, literally, when, without warning, a red Triplane fell out of the cloud and plunged across his nose, the rear part smothered in a sheet of flame. He saw the luckless pilot trying to get out. Then it passed out of sight below him. An Albatros shot out of the cloud, but as quickly disappeared into it again when, apparently, the pilot saw the four Camels. Another Triplane came out, gliding, with a dead propeller; a Camel shot out a little way beyond it. The Triplane went into a spin, and the Camel started circling. From the fact that it carried no streamers Thirty knew it must be Algy.
Biggles came out of the cloud a good deal higher up; he, too, circled for a moment and then came down to join the others, but swerved away towards the lines before reaching them. Thirty followed, after noting that the other Camels were turning to do the same.
The nose of Biggles’s Camel went down, and the seven machines scattered and, in no sort of formation, dived through the ever-present archie across the shell-torn strip of no-man’s-land.
‘We’re home,’ Thirty told himself unbelievingly.
He landed near Algy’s machine. Algy came running over to him, laughing almost hysterically.
‘My gosh! Did you see that old Hun two-seater scuttle when he saw us?’ he chuckled.
‘Yes,’ answered Thirty, lamely, wondering how Algy could laugh. He himself felt oddly weak. His mouth was dry, and the skin seemed to be tightly drawn over his face. Stiffly, he climbed out on to the wing and jumped to the ground.
Chapter 9
Forty Makes a Proposition
Forty also climbed down, followed by Rip, looking not a little relieved to vacate his cramped position. Mahoney joined them, and in a few minutes they were all laughing and joking.
‘Lucky you arrived at such a useful moment,’ Thirty told Mahoney.
‘Lucky? I wouldn’t call it luck,’ replied the flight-commander. ‘Biggles asked me to hang about in case you ran into trouble.’
‘I thought we might be glad of Mahoney’s help if we finished up with a
rush—as indeed we did,’ said Biggles. ‘Here comes the C.O. You’d better leave the explaining to me; he’d be in order in ticking us off; in fact, I think he will.’
Major Mullen joined the party, his face expressing his astonishment when he saw Forty. ‘Who is this fellow?’ he asked, stiffly.
‘Fortymore, sir, of eighty-four squadron,’ answered Biggles.
‘What?’
‘He was shot down some time ago, sir, and made prisoner. He had a sort of an arrangement with his brother—that is, Fortymore of our squadron—as to where he would make for if he got clear of the Huns. We went over to-day and picked him up. That’s all, sir.’ Such was Biggles’s account of the adventures of the morning.
Major Mullen addressed Forty. ‘Do you mean to say—you’ve just come out of—Germany?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Yes, sir.’
The C.O. looked from one to the other. ‘Great Heaven,’ he said softly. He thought for a moment. ‘You’d better go and have a bath and some food and get into some decent clothes,’ he told Forty, at last. ‘I shall have to report this to Wing*1 at once. Come up to the squadron office as soon as you are ready. You’d better come too,’ he added, looking at Biggles and Thirty in turn. ‘Hurry up; I expect Major Raymond will want a word with you.’ With that he turned and walked towards his office.
‘Who’s Major Raymond?’ Thirty asked Biggles.
‘Wing Intelligence Officer. I should say he will come over; he doesn’t get a chance to interview some one straight out of Germany every day. Come on, Forty; let’s find you some togs.’
Biggles was right in his assumption that Major Raymond would want to interview Forty and hear at first-hand the details of the exploit, for when those who had been ordered to do so gathered at the squadron office about an hour later he was already there. He looked at Forty—now shaved, and spick and span in a borrowed uniform—for several seconds before congratulating him on his escape.
