by W E Johns
‘No?’
‘No. Knowing that we should lose the village, some alterations were made in that church tower last year. It’s a square tower, you remember. One wall of it is hollow. We’ve a man stationed in it.’
Biggles’s eyes opened wide, but he said nothing.
‘Yes,’ continued the major; ‘he sits up there all day, in the centre of the enemy’s position—telling us everything. Or rather, he did tell us until yesterday.’
‘Ah! They’ve got him?’
‘No. We laid an underground telegraph. The transmitter at his end has gone wrong; a part has burnt out. He needs a spare.’
‘And somebody has got to take it to him?’ put in Biggles evenly.
‘Precisely.’
‘Have you lost touch with him?’
‘Of course. We lost touch the moment his instrument broke down.’
‘Then how did you know it had broken down?’
‘He had a pigeon—just one, for emergency.’
‘Pity; he should have had more.’
‘No. They would have cooed, and perhaps given him away. A cooing pigeon has been the death signal for more than one agent.’
‘The job’s urgent?’
‘Every hour’s delay is costing us men. Having had the man there, we are blind without him.’
‘This sounds like a one-man job,’ observed Biggles gravely.
‘Yes.’
‘How will the one who goes be able to identify the chap at the other end?’
‘Easily. He’s the village padre—a priest—Father Dupont. The difficulty will be to get to him without being questioned. If you went and were questioned—well, it would be all over, since I believe I am right in saying that you do not speak German fluently?’
‘I do,’ declared Thirty. ‘I’ve lived in Germany.’
‘By Jove! I didn’t know that,’ said the major tersely.
‘I’ll go,’ offered Thirty. ‘I stand the best chance of anybody of getting through.’
Biggles looked at him with serious, thoughtful eyes. ‘No one can deny that,’ he said slowly. ‘You know what will happen if you’re—’
‘If I’m caught? Of course. It can’t be helped. Some one will have to take the risk.’
‘That’s the only way of looking at it,’ murmured the major.
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small oblong package. ‘Here’s the thing,’ he said, passing it to Thirty. ‘There is no need for me to say any more. We shall soon know if our man gets it. Whatever happens, don’t give him away. I’ll leave the rest to you. Good luck.’ The major rose and held out his hand to Thirty. Then, without another word, he went.
‘It looks to me as if we started more than we bargained for when we started this rescue business,’ observed Biggles, sadly. ‘How are you proposing to handle this, Thirty?’
‘I think the safest plan would be to go over at night; there would be less chance of being seen in the dark. I’ll land at aerodrome C, which I reckon is only a few miles behind Belville, taking an old macintosh with me to cover up my uniform. If Rip comes with me he can fly the machine home as soon as he has put me on the ground—unless he cares to wait. Maybe it would be better to go, and come back the next morning early; or if I’m not back, the next day.’
‘I’ll wait,’ declared Rip firmly.
Biggles shook his head. ‘I don’t like it,’ he muttered.
‘I can’t say that I’m enthusiastic about it myself, but we couldn’t very well refuse to go,’ admitted Thirty.
‘When are you going?’ asked Algy.
‘Might as well go to-night,’ answered Thirty. ‘You heard what Major Raymond said about urgency.’
‘And you’ll wait for him, Rip?’ questioned Biggles.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a fair step from aerodrome C to Belville,’ Biggles pointed out. ‘I think you’d better compromise. Give him, say, four hours. If he isn’t back by then, come home, and then we’ll all go over every morning until we do get him. All sorts of contingencies might arise. He may be delayed. Somebody might come along while you are waiting. But there is this about it—we all know where he is and what he is doing; provided he doesn’t run into trouble, it would only be a question of time before we picked him up. It’s difficult to work to a fixed time. What do you think, Thirty?’
‘I agree. Let Rip wait for a time by all means, so long as everything is quiet. But it might suit me better if I knew that if I was hung up he’d go home.’
‘Then there seems to be nothing else to discuss,’ said Biggles, getting up from the table. ‘Let’s go and have a look over the Bristol. You might take a packet of food to hide in the hedge. By the way, if any one else turns up—prisoners, I mean—they’ll have to wait until this show is finished. We can’t do half a dozen things at once.’
After that they went up to the sheds and spent the remainder of the day doing such jobs as were likely to be useful, occasionally discussing minor details of the mission. Twilight fell while they were at dinner, and as soon as the meal was over Thirty and Rip collected their kit and, accompanied by Biggles and Algy, who came to see them off, made their way slowly to the sheds. All the pilots of 266 squadron were home, and their machines put away for the night. Only the dark-painted Bristol stood on the tarmac. They hung about until it got properly dark, when Thirty made preparations for departure.
‘I ought to be doing this job, you know,’ Biggles told him, with a worried frown.
‘You’d probably do the flying part better than I shall, but what you’d gain by that you’d lose by not being able to speak German sufficiently well to pass for a native,’ returned Thirty. ‘You ready, Rip?’
The small parcel of food was put into the rear cockpit, and Thirty and Rip climbed into their seats.
‘You know the colour of the night?’ asked Biggles.
‘Yes.’
‘Cheerio, then. Remember, if anything goes wrong, don’t leave aerodrome C. That’s where we will look for you.’
Rip nodded, waved his hand, and switched on, for Algy was waiting by the propeller. The engine started. Algy pulled the chocks away and the machine moved forward into the darkness. A moment later it was in the air, heading for its objective.
Thirty climbed fairly high before crossing the lines, for he was particularly anxious to avoid the searchlights. It seemed to him that there were more than usual, and they flashed in a peculiar way. Then he saw the reason. Lightning was flashing across the sky in several places, and he experienced a pang of uneasiness; a thunderstorm was something he had not taken into his calculations, but it did not occur to him to turn back. Which is not to say that he would not have done so had he known that less than twenty miles away huts were being uprooted and hangars blown flat by the violence of the tempest. He eased the stick forward a little and raced on, aware that his compass was behaving oddly, although he was not altogether surprised, for he was well aware of the influence a magnetic storm can have on delicate instruments.
Thirty reckoned that he was still about ten miles from aerodrome C when the first spot of rain lashed his face. The sky had turned black, with no sign of a star; there were no more searchlights, but at frequent intervals the heavens were lacerated by vivid flashes of lightning, which showed up the earth clearly, enabling him more than once to identify a landmark. He was worried, but still it did not occur to him to return with his mission unfulfilled. A prolonged flash showed him the landing-field, so he throttled back and glided down towards it, more than a little thankful that the storm had not yet broken; indeed, he had begun to hope that it would pass over.
He was now very low, straining his eyes down into the gloom below, holding the machine off as long as he dared, hoping for another flash of lightning to show him the way in. Instead, the storm broke. In an instant he was fighting his way through blinding rain.
He ought to have turned back. He knew that he was taking a terrible risk, but an obstinate streak in him made him persist in his landing. He
could just see the ground and the black shadows which he knew were trees. Passing between two trees, he flattened out, confident that he was down safely. Just as the wheels touched, the lightning flashed and the world was flooded with a brilliant blue light.
It showed Thirty everything about him, but he was only concerned with two of the objects he saw. Ten yards in front of the bumping machine stood a man with his arms outstretched. A little farther on loomed a thick-set hedge.
For the next second, which to Thirty seemed like eternity, he did not think. His brain seemed to have become paralysed. It made no difference. It was too late to do anything. His only real thought, and this was subconscious, was that he had come down in the wrong field. There was a violent crash as the lurching machine struck the figure. Instinctively, knowing that he was going to crash, Thirty flicked off the ignition to prevent fire. There was a rending, grinding crash as the Bristol bored into the hedge. Then, suddenly, silence—silence broken only by the teeming rain and the intermittent roll of thunder.
For a split second Thirty sat still, stunned by the calamity. Then, recovering himself with a rush, he undid his safety belt, flung it off, and turned to Rip.
‘Well, here we are,’ said Rip, coolly.
‘I know it,’ snapped Thirty. ‘I wish we weren’t. What are we going to do? Heavens! Did you ever see such rain in your life?’
‘What about that poor devil you knocked over?’ shouted Rip, above the tearing wind which now struck the wrecked machine like a tornado.
Thirty did not answer. He jumped down and fought his way through the storm to where the figure lay motionless.
Rip joined him. ‘You’ve killed him,’ he yelled.
Thirty knelt, his hands groping. Then he sprang to his feet, laughing hysterically. ‘It’s a scarecrow,’ he cried. ‘We’re in the wrong field.’
The wind became a thousand shrieking demons clutching at them, slashing the rain into their faces, making it difficult for them to keep their feet.
‘We would choose a night like this,’ yelled Thirty bitterly in Rip’s ear.
‘What are you going to do? We can’t stand out here like a pair of fools in this rain,’ cried Rip, wildly.
Thirty, crouching low, made his way back to the machine. He grabbed Rip’s arm. ‘Get that grub out,’ he shouted.
‘Why?’
‘I’m going to set fire to her. She’ll be seen a mile off when it gets light. If I burn her there’ll be nothing left to see. Now’s the time. Every one will be indoors, and the fire won’t be seen for a hundred yards, anyway, in this perishing rain.’
Rip climbed into the wreck and dragged out the parcel of food. Thirty managed to find his Very pistol in the torn cockpit. ‘Stand back,’ he yelled, and sent the flaming charge into the Bristol’s main tank. Then he hurled the pistol into the leaping flames that gushed out, and ran down the hedge to get clear of the bullets that he knew would start flying in all directions as soon as the flames reached the ammunition.
Satisfied that they were in a safe place, he stopped. ‘There is only one thing to do,’ he told Rip.
‘What’s that?’
‘You get across to the proper landing-field. It’s just over there, to the right. Wait for Biggles. He’ll guess that the storm has jiggered us. If he comes before I’m back tell him what happened.’
‘Before you’re back . . . what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going on to find the padre.’
‘What—in your uniform? You’re mad. Great Scott! Where’s the macintosh you were going to wear? Did you bring one?’
Thirty staggered. His hand went to his brow. ‘My God! I left it in the machine,’ he choked. ‘Quick!’ He spun round.
But it was too late. Already the ill-fated Bristol was enveloped in flames from end to end. Helpless, they stood on the outskirts of the ruddy glow of the flames and watched it burn. Cartridges began exploding and forced them to take cover again.
‘I must be crazy,’ groaned Thirty. ‘What on earth could I have been thinking about to do a fool thing like that?’
‘You were upset by the crash, I expect.’
‘Yes, I must have been. But what am I going to do? I can’t walk about the roads like this and hope to get away with it. By gosh! I’ve got it. The scarecrow!’
Risking the bullets, Thirty tore across to where the dummy figure lay. ‘A peasant’s old blue blouse—the very thing!’ he cried exultantly, and started dragging the scarecrow towards the hedge. Reaching it, he dragged off his flying-kit and then donned the one whole garment that comprised the scarecrow’s attire, a loose blue calico blouse of the sort that is commonly worn by the working classes in France and Belgium. It was, of course, saturated, but he was already so wet that it made little difference.
‘Got the box of tricks you’ve got to hand over to the padre?’ questioned Rip, anxiously.
‘Yes—in my pocket. I’m off now. I’ve wasted too much time here already. You find your way to the northern hedge of the landing-field and wait.’
‘I’d rather come with you.’
‘We haven’t two blouses, so it’s no use talking about that,’ answered Thirty, shortly. ‘I hope I’ll be back about dawn.’
Rip held out his hand. He seemed to be choking. ‘Goodbye, Thirty,’ he said huskily. ‘Be careful.’
‘I will,’ Thirty assured him. ‘Remember the motto.’
‘What. . . ?’
‘Thick and thin.’
‘Thick and thin,’ echoed Rip hoarsely.
Thirty waved his hand and set off down the hedge at a steady trot.
Rip watched him until he disappeared into the darkness, and then, picking up the food-bag, began to make his way cautiously towards the landing-field.
Chapter 14
Belville-Sur-Somme
Thirty struck off across the fields until he came to the road he was looking for; he knew of its existence, having previously marked it down from the air; he also knew that in one direction it led to Belville-sur-Somme, some six or seven kilometres distant.
At the road he halted for a minute or two to take stock of the general situation. The centre of the storm had now passed and with it the torrential downpour, although lightning still flickered along the eastern horizon and the aftermath of the rainclouds precipitated a steady drizzle. The night was dark. From where he stood, soaked to the skin, he could not see a single light. Fortunately it was not cold, so he suffered no great discomfort on account of the wet. Satisfied with his inspection of the immediate surroundings, he set off at a steady pace towards the village.
He had covered about a kilometre when he heard a motor vehicle coming along the road behind him; it sounded like a heavy lorry. It was, in fact, a motor-wagon, and he stood aside to allow it to pass, for the road was so narrow that it occupied the whole of it, and the wheels were spurting mud on either side. He did not attempt to hide; there seemed to be no reason why he should; the driver of the vehicle would expect to see somebody on the road occasionally, and there was no reason why he should attach any importance to a belated peasant. Therefore Thirty simply stood aside to allow the wagon to pass.
It did not occur to him that it might stop, so he was unprepared for what happened. As it drew level with him the wagon slowed down, and too late Thirty wished that he had hidden in the hedge until it had passed; but he realized that to do so now would be foolish, for the headlights had revealed him.
‘Lovely night,’ called the driver, with cheerful sarcasm, speaking in German. ‘How far are you going?’
Thirty, in the brief interval at his disposal before he was compelled to answer, could think of no reason for not telling the truth. ‘Belville,’ he said.
‘So am I,’ declared the driver. ‘Hop up.’
Thirty hopped up. There was nothing else he could do. As the wagon lurched forward he snatched a glance at his companion, and saw that he was a soldier.
‘Nearly time this cursed war was over,’ grumbled the driver.
Thi
rty agreed, without enthusiasm. He was thinking hard.
The driver looked at him for a moment; it could only be for a moment because care was needed to keep the vehicle on the narrow road. ‘What are you doing, wandering about by yourself on a night like this?’ he questioned, but without real interest.
‘I’ve got a message to deliver,’ replied Thirty, evasively.
Silence fell.
‘It’s a fair step to Belville; lucky for you I came along,’ observed the German presently, in an inconsequential tone of voice, apparently for the sake of saying something.
‘Yes, it will save my legs and my boot-leather,’ agreed Thirty, wishing the man would not talk.
‘Got a match on you?’ was the next question.
Thirty had, but he did not say so, for the very good reason that he had no desire to reveal what was under his blouse. ‘I don’t smoke,’ he answered truthfully, and the German accepted this as a negative answer.
Presently, to Thirty’s relief, the soldier began to sing. The wagon trundled on, sometimes passing a farmhouse or peasant’s cottage. Once they passed what looked like a big concentration camp. Shortly afterwards lights began to appear ahead.
The driver stopped singing and yawned. ‘Nearly there,’ he said. ‘Where shall I drop you?’
It struck Thirty that he was safer where he was than he would be on the ground, for they were now meeting frequent parties of soldiers, no doubt on their way back to the concentration camp after an evening in the village. ‘Do you go near the church?’ he asked.
‘I’m parking in the square right in front of it,’ announced the German.
‘Then there’s no need for you to stop; I’ll go there with you,’ returned Thirty, well satisfied with this arrangement.
They entered the long village street, ran the full length of it, bumped across a level crossing, and then turned into a large square on the far side of which loomed the black silhouette of the church tower.
Thirty caught his breath and held it, for the scene was very different from the one he had imagined. He had thought to dismount in a deserted village square whence he would be able to stroll away without further parley. Instead of that he found himself in the centre of a scene of military activity. Parked all round the square were lorries and several sorts of artillery. Horses were picketed with cavalry precision; round them, stable-guards in oilskins or great-coats kept the animals in order. In one corner the fire of a field-kitchen flung a cheerful glow over the shining cobble-stones. Troops crowded round it. Soldiers were everywhere.
