by W E Johns
‘Surely you are the officer who put forward such a scheme some time ago?’ he remarked.
‘That is correct, sir. I did, but it came to nothing. It’s queer that I should have been able to prove it in actual practice; naturally, although I spoke about it, I hardly expected it to come off. Even now it hardly seems possible. Less than three hours ago I was in Germany, and had been run to earth in my hiding-place by an armed guard.’
Thereafter, for the benefit of the C.O. and the Wing officer, the whole story was related from the beginning, omitting, of course, all reference to Thirty and Rip’s irregular arrival in France, which was something Forty himself did not yet know, since with being occupied by an extensive toilet and a square meal, Thirty had not had time to tell him. In any case, he was wondering if he ought to do so, since his brother was a senior officer.
When the story had ended, Major Raymond tossed the end of his cigarette through the open window. ‘Well, that’s the most astonishing tale I’ve heard since I came to France,’ he observed slowly.
Thirty found himself wondering what the major would think if he knew the whole truth of his escapade.
‘What had I better do, sir? Report back to my squadron?’ asked Forty.
‘No, you can’t do that,’ replied the major quietly.
‘Why not, sir?’
‘What I meant was, you can never fly over the lines again.’
Forty’s face showed his consternation.
‘You know the rules of war,’ went on the major, ‘or you ought to. If an escaped prisoner is ever retaken by the enemy he can be shot, since he comes into the category of a spy. If you made a strong application to go on flying there is always a chance, of course, that the higher authority would allow you to do so, but your blood would be on your own head—so to speak. That has happened in the one or two rare cases of an officer getting out of Germany, but if he was captured in France, he is sent to another theatre of war—Palestine or East Africa, for instance. But to tell you the truth, what I cannot help feeling is this: if this can be done once it should be possible to do it again. Officers of experience are very valuable just now, and there are hundreds in German prison camps.’
‘I don’t see how it could be done again, sir,’ said Biggles. ‘You must remember that this was an exceptional case in that a landing-ground—or, shall we say, a picking-up ground—had been more or less pre-arranged. I’m not saying we couldn’t land, but it would be no use landing if the fellows in the prison camps did not know where to make for.’
‘It might be arranged for the future, though,’ observed the major reflectively. ‘A number of rendezvous could be pin-pointed, and officers made acquainted with them, so that if they were shot down they would know where to make for. I take it that you were actually captured by the enemy, Fortymore?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. Not immediately, though. I was on the run for a time. Then I was caught and sent to Tatzgart. I got away with several other fellows the very next day, and there I was lucky, for they had a tunnel which they had been digging for three months. By mutual consent we agreed to separate after we got out so as not to attract attention. Naturally, I made straight for Berglaken, although with a good deal more hope than confidence that my brother would come over for me.’
‘It is a pity there is no way of letting the fellows in prison camps know . . . but there, I do not think we need pursue that.’
‘My original plan, you remember, sir, was not only to pick fellows up, but to establish food dumps, with maps, wire-cutters, rubber gloves for getting through electrified wire, and so on, so that they would at least stand a good chance of getting across the frontier even if they were not picked up,’ explained Forty.
‘Well, I certainly think it’s worth going into,’ declared Major Raymond. ‘I’ll see what headquarters have to say about it. We should need volunteers to run such a show, of course. It would be a lot too risky to order fellows to do it.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t have to look very far, sir,’ put in Biggles.
A faint smile crossed the major’s face as he looked at Biggles. ‘Trust you to be in it,’ he said lightly.
‘I didn’t do so badly this time, sir,’ Biggles reminded him.
‘Well, we’ll see,’ went on the major. ‘There would be a big risk in letting the information be generally known over this side of the line—and we should have to do that to make the thing possible—as a spy might get hold of it. Once it got back to Germany it would be all up. The Huns would simply set a trap at the rendezvous and catch the rescue pilots red-handed. Still, I’ll think about that.’
‘Pardon me, sir,’ put in Forty. ‘You said just now that there was no possible way of letting fellows already in prison camps know.’
The major raised his eyebrows. ‘Can you think of a way?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘I could go back.’
Dead silence followed the words. It was as if every one were trying to work out just what Forty meant.
‘Go back?’ said the major.
‘Exactly, sir. In other words, I could be dumped back over the lines—and get myself recaptured. I should be put back into prison. I would then pass the necessary information to fellows whom I knew.’
The major stared at Forty as if he could not believe his ears. ‘Good heavens!’ he gasped. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Quite serious, sir.’
‘Don’t do it,’ burst out Thirty impulsively. ‘Why, they’ll shoot you the moment they retake you.’
‘Why should they?’ asked Forty naïvely. ‘They would hardly be likely to recognize me. On the only occasion that they saw me I looked pretty dishevelled and wore R.N.A.S.*2 blue uniform. I could arrange to go down a hundred miles farther north than last time. Shaven, in R.F.C. uniform, and with a name like—say—John Smithson, there seems to me to be no earthly reason why they should associate me with the R.N.A.S. officer by the name of Fortymore who escaped from Tatzgart.’
‘By jove! That’s true enough,’ cried Major Raymond. ‘What do you think, Mullen?’
‘I agree with Fortymore; there should be little or no danger of recognition; all the same, I believe the German prison camps are stiff with counter-espionage agents, so there are bound to be, risks.’
‘Yes, I think it’s too risky,’ declared Thirty emphatically.
‘If by this scheme we can serve more usefully than as ordinary flying members of a squadron, I think it’s up to us to do it,’ said Forty, simply. ‘And I’ve one or two pals in Boche prisons; nothing would give me greater personal satisfaction than to get them away.’
‘We’ve all got one or two there, if it comes to that,’ murmured Biggles.
Major Raymond rose and picked up his cap. ‘I must be getting along,’ he said quietly, looking at his wristwatch. ‘If you fellows hear no more about this you will know it is a washout, and I’ll arrange for you, Fortymore, to be sent home for a spot of leave. Otherwise I’ll call another conference. I hope you won’t object to my borrowing your officers, Mullen, if we do decide to do something about it.’
The C.O. of 266 squadron made a wry face. ‘Naturally, I shouldn’t be pleased about it,’ he returned, and then sighed. ‘But, as we say, there is a war on, so I suppose we shall all have to put our backs into it.’
Major Raymond shook hands with Forty. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘And, once more, good show. Goodbye, gentlemen.’
‘That’s all,’ Major Mullen told his officers, briefly. ‘Wash out for the rest of the day.’
Chapter 10
A Dangerous Mission
A week had elapsed since Forty had made his daring and courageous offer to Major Raymond. The period had been one of expectancy, and, to some extent, anxiety. Three days after the conversation in the squadron office, Major Raymond had called another meeting, at which he had reported the decision of the higher command to permit the ‘Rescue Flight’—as it was now called—to be formed; and, in accordance with this decision, he had i
nvited Forty and Biggles to put their heads together and submit to him a plan of the suggested procedure.
This they had done, Thirty, Rip, Algy, and Mahoney attending the discussion. The scheme which had been evolved was simple. With the assistance of the map, and one or two risky excursions over Germany, three lonely areas where landings could be made had been selected. These were some distance from each other, and had been labelled aerodromes A, B, and C. Landings had actually been made at these places to confirm their suitability, the time chosen—as on the occasion when they had rescued Forty—being the break of dawn.
A provisional rescue flight had been formed consisting of Biggles, Algy, Thirty, and Rip. Mahoney was not included, although to his flight had been allocated the duty of flying out to meet returning machines and escorting them home.
Forty, flying under an assumed name, was to allow himself to be recaptured. In the prison camp he was to tell officers whom he could trust implicitly the position of the landing-grounds. Thus, should they succeed in getting out of the prison camps they could make for the nearest one with a fair hope of being picked up in a short time, since the rescue flight was to visit each landing-ground once a week. In the interval of waiting, the escapees would be able to live on food which would be cached*1 in the northern ditch, or hedge, of the landing-ground by the rescue flight when they landed. An escaped officer arriving at one of the landing-grounds was to signify his presence by leaving a piece of newspaper somewhere on the outskirts of the field; to a passer-by, it would be no more than a piece of waste paper. This would prevent the rescue flight making an unnecessary landing.
In view of the success of the previous raid it was decided to use the same machines. Only the Bristol would land, the two Camels acting as look-outs while the Bristol was on the ground, and as an escort when it was in the air.
The greatest risk of the whole thing, apart from a bad landing, which would, of course, leave Rip and Thirty on the ground on the wrong side of the lines, was that one of the enemy agents who were known to frequent the prison camps might hear of the plan and cause a trap to be set. These particular agents were selected on account of their knowledge of the English language; dressed as British officers, and mingling with them even to the extent of sharing their privations, it was almost impossible to detect them. This was the reason why Forty had decided only to impart the secret to officers whom he recognized, or to officers for whom they could vouch. Nevertheless, there was always a chance that one of those in the know might, in an unguarded moment, let slip a few words which would be pounced upon by the agents whose duty it was to listen for such remarks.
To this arrangement Major Raymond had added only one suggestion, or rather, request. He asked Forty to memorize a list of names of officers who, for some reason known only to themselves, the higher command were particularly anxious to recover. The whereabout of these particular officers had been made known to the British authorities by their agents in Germany. Naturally, Forty would only be able to communicate with those in whose camp he found himself. That was all, except that Forty was at liberty to come out of Germany, getting himself picked up by the rescue flight, if and when he had reason to suppose that he was under suspicion.
This settled, the rest of the time had been spent by the members of the special flight making themselves word-perfect in the arrangements and overhauling the machines. And now, on a bright summer’s morning the first move was to be made to put the plan into operation. Forty had to smash his machine deliberately, but as naturally as possible, on the wrong side of the lines. Their goodbyes having been said, they sat in their machines and waited for Biggles, who was having a last word from his cockpit with the C.O. Although on this occasion, since they would not have to make a landing, there was no reason why Thirty and Rip should not fly their Camels, they had chosen to use the Bristol so as to become thoroughly proficient in the handling of it. In front of their own hangar the propellers of Mahoney’s machines were also ticking over, for they were to follow the leading formation and support it should it be attacked by a large number of enemy scouts—which might result in a disaster at the very onset of the operations. A few minutes later the eight machines were in the air, the Bristol in front, with its escort of three Camels giving it the appearance of a photographic machine, and Mahoney’s flight some two thousand feet above and behind. These positions were maintained as they roared through the usual barrage of archie over the lines into the enemy sky.
It was twenty minutes before they saw a hostile machine, and then it was only an old Rumpler*2 which veered off when it saw them coming. Biggles made no attempt to follow it; with his mind concentrated on the major issue he had no inclination to bother about stray machines. So he turned north-west and set off on a new course parallel with the trenches.
Within a few minutes he saw what he had been hoping to find: a small formation of enemy scouts; five Albatroses in loose formation. They were heading east, apparently returning from a patrol. Biggles turned slightly to cut them off, and his nose went down for the necessary speed.
It was no doubt due to the fact that they were some way from the lines that the leader of the German patrol was not keeping a very keen look-out. Or it may have been that, feeling secure, he had relaxed his vigilance. Be that as it may, the Camels were within range before they were seen, and the result, as often happened in such cases, was instant confusion, each Albatros pilot acting as he thought best. Two of them collided. It was not a violent collision; their wing-tips merely brushed, but for one it was sufficient. His wing crumpled and he went down, spinning. The other cut his engine and also started going down, but under control. Of the other three, one dived out of the fight. The other two turned, but finding themselves outnumbered, broke of after firing a few shots and dived for home. It was brief affair, and just such a one as Biggles had hoped for.
Thirty paid little attention to the Germans. He was watching Forty, for a dog-fight was his cue to depart on his dangerous mission. He saw Forty look at him, and his hand go up in a signal of farewell. Biting his lip, Thirty waved back. The propeller of Forty’s Came slowed; a wing-tip dropped; the nose followed, and, the next moment the machine was spinning earthward.
Thirty continued to circle, watching the spinning machine, terrified lest make-believe should become reality, and it failed to come out. But a few hundred feet above the ground it levelled out and went into shallow dive, rocking as if it were not completely under control. There was no field large enough for it to land in, but Forty, playing his part,, acted as though he had no choice but to land. He attempted to side-slip into the largest field. The wheels touched. But there was no distance between it and the boundary, and a moment later it had plunged into the hedge.
Still watching, Thirty saw Forty climb out; saw his Very pistol*3 flash. A tongue of flame appeared near the tank. The next moment Forty ran clear as flames enveloped the whole machine. Other figures appeared, running towards the fire.
After that Thirty’s attention was attracted by Biggles flying across his nose, beckoning to him to follow; which he did, realizing that by holding up the others so far from the lines he was endangering their lives. So after a last quick look at the blazing machine on the ground—which Forty had, of course, fired to prevent it from falling into the hands of the enemy—and the lonely figure standing in the field, he turned and followed his flight-commander.
They reached the lines without incident; which was just as well, for Thirty was preoccupied with his thoughts, and had they been attacked he might have come badly out of the fight. It was only natural that he should have dreaded this moment; he had been steeling himself for it for days, but now the time had come his intense anxiety could not be allayed. He had visions of Forty being interrogated by hard-faced Prussians; of the sinister wall of evil repute behind the riding-school at Lille, where agents met their fate, alone, in the cold grey of dawn.
Thrusting these dismal thoughts aside with an effort he discovered that the Camels were below him, gliding down.
He saw the aerodrome, and, presently, landed on it himself.
‘Well, that all went off like clockwork,’ said Biggles, joining him. Then, noticing Thirty’s depressed expression, ‘Don’t worry; he’ll be all right,’ he added comfortingly. ‘We shall see him again shortly.’
‘I wish I was as sure of that as you seem to be,’ answered Thirty, a trifle bitterly. ‘And “shortly” you say. A fortnight at the very least. Anything can happen in that time.’
‘Well, we couldn’t make it any less,’ murmured Biggles, with a slight shrug. ‘We’ve got to give Forty time to get the thing going—divulge the plan to the right people; and then they’ve got to get away. We arranged that it should be a fortnight before we made our first patrol; but, personally, I think we shall be lucky if we find any one waiting. These prison camps are not so easy to get out of as all that.’
Thirty nodded. ‘Well, I suppose we can only wait and see,’ he observed philosophically; and then, turning, he made his way slowly to his room.
Chapter 11
Rescue Flight to the Rescue
There is an old saying, and a true one, that all things come to an end. Nevertheless, before the arranged fourteen days had expired Thirty was beginning seriously to doubt it. Never had time seemed so long. There was little he could do except make himself thoroughly proficient with the Bristol by flying it in all weathers and making innumerable practice forced landings, for the C.O. had ruled that the rescue flight—as the special flight was now unofficially called—was not to go over the lines on ordinary duties unless enemy activity made it imperative, his reason being the justifiable fear that a casualty would upset the entire scheme, with possibly disastrous results for those officers who, having taken desperate risks to get out of prison, might wait in vain to be picked up.
