Biggles and the Rescue Flight

by W E Johns

  ‘Get home, you fool,’ shouted Forty.

  Realizing the wisdom of his brother’s advice, Thirty turned towards the lines, and putting his nose down raced for safety. He saw nothing of the dog-fight that raged at the spot where the Camels had joined issue, but he could well imagine what was going on. Several times he saw an odd Camel near him, and presently recognized it as Rip’s machine. He also saw an Albatros some distance away; it paid not the slightest attention to him, having more pressing matters to engage its attention.

  Not until they were nearly to the lines did he become aware of Biggles’s Camel, recognizable by its pennants, flying just above him. Another joined it; several more were in the near distance, all heading for the lines. Long, winding communication trenches appeared below, then shell-holes in ever increasing numbers, and he knew that a few more minutes would see them safely home. Nevertheless, a burst of archie just in front of him warned him that he was not yet out of danger, for he was flying very low. Still, he knew that it would be even more risky to lose speed by climbing for height, so in order to spoil the gunners’ aim he started zigzagging, a manoeuvre he kept up until the tangle of barbed wire and debris underneath told him that he was crossing the ghastly area of no-man’s-land. Forty emptied what ammunition he had left into the enemy trenches as they raced across the lines to safety.

  They were across. Thirty could hardly believe it. It did not seem possible. And then, with the relaxation of nerves that followed the knowledge that they were safe, came the inevitable reaction—a feeling of intense depression and utter weariness. All the strength in his body seemed to run down his legs and then disappear, leaving them weak and trembling. He could have cried—easily. He wanted to go to sleep at once. If only he could sleep! Never before had he wanted to go to sleep as he did now. It seemed the most desirable thing on earth, and only by a great effort of will did he keep himself awake.

  He saw the aerodrome just in front of him. It appeared to float towards him, mistily. It did not look real. Nothing seemed real. The whole thing was a dream. Of course it was, he thought drowsily. He was dreaming. Presently he would awake and find himself back at school . . . how very pleasant that would be . . .

  ‘Steady—what are you doing?’ yelled Forty.

  Thirty started convulsively, realizing with a shock that he had nearly fallen asleep at the joystick. He struck his knees violently with his clenched fists to wake himself up; then, bracing his sagging muscles, he throttled back and started to glide in. The aerodrome seemed to rush up towards him, and he drew the stick back, only to push it forward, again as the machine staggered drunkenly on the brink of a stall. A horrible feeling came over him that he was going to crash. The earth was sinking away under him now, and automatically he eased the stick forward to overtake it. Instantly his wheels struck it with a crash; the machine bounced high, came down with another violent bump, and finally settled down in the worst landing he had ever made in his life. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. Still, he taxied up to the sheds before he switched off. Not until then did he sink back with a deep sigh that was something more than mere relief. He sat quite still. He did not want to get out. He only wanted to sit where he was and enjoy the silence . . . the peace . . .

  Forty struck him a friendly blow on the arm. ‘Come on, old boy,’ he said, breezily. Then, with anxiety rising in his voice, ‘You’re not hit, are you?’

  ‘No,’ murmured Thirty, with a foolish smile. ‘Just tired. I was just . . . sort of. . . getting my breath.’ Nevertheless, he allowed Forty to help him down to the ground. He shook himself and made an effort to pull himself together when he saw Biggles hurrying towards them.

  ‘Good show, kid,’ he said, cheerfully, slapping Thirty on the back. ‘I should say that is the best bit of individual work that has been done since this perishing war started, and I’ve seen some pretty stout efforts, too.’ Then, with a change of voice, he asked, ‘What are you going to do about Forsyth?’

  Thirty blinked. The words seemed to act on him like an electric shock. ‘Forsyth! My gosh! Yes . . . I’d forgotten all about him,’ he gasped. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the Flight Office, I expect. At least, I hope so. I left him there with Flight-Sergeant Smyth.’

  ‘But why did you leave him? You said . . .’

  ‘I know,’ muttered Biggles. ‘But to tell you the truth, I got jolly worried after you had gone. It seemed to me that you were bound to run into trouble. I couldn’t just sit still and do nothing, so I collected everybody I could find and came across to see what was going on.’

  ‘Good thing you did,’ declared Forty. ‘We should never have got home otherwise, that’s certain. We were properly up against it. Thirty went completely off his head when the Huns caught us—barging about the sky as if he was flying a tank instead of an aeroplane. Who’s this fellow Forsyth you’re talking about? What’s he done?’

  ‘You ought to know,’ answered Biggles quietly. ‘I’ll tell you all about it presently—it’s a long story. Come and meet him. I expect he’ll still be in the office with Smyth.’

  They all made their way slowly towards the building. Just outside the hangar they waited for Algy to join them, after which they all went on again.

  As they approached the Flight Office Biggles went on in front. With his hand on the door-knob he turned to Thirty. ‘What are you going to do about him?’ he asked.

  ‘You know what I promised,’ replied Thirty in a low voice.

  ‘But you can’t do that now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Think.’

  Thirty struggled to understand what Biggles meant. Then the truth burst upon him.

  ‘Of course!’ he cried. ‘The signal is no more use.’

  ‘Exactly. Any one flying that machine of yours over the lines now would have a pretty thin time. I’ll warrant every machine within fifty miles is looking for it.’

  Thirty’s face fell. ‘What on earth are we going to do about it? I must live up to my promise.’

  ‘We shall have to tell Forsyth what has happened, that’s all,’ declared Biggles. With that he opened the door.

  For what might have been a matter of three seconds he stood still, staring into the room. The others, realizing that something was wrong, crowded behind him and pushed him into the room. ‘What do you think about that?’ he said in a hard voice.

  There was no need for him to add an explanation to his question. On the floor, just raising himself on his elbow and looking dazed, was Flight-Sergeant Smyth. There was an ugly swelling between his eyes. The window, which opened on to the side of the hangar, was pushed right back. Of the German there was no sign.

  ‘He’s gone,’ snapped Biggles. ‘The skunk has broken his parole.’

  ‘No!’ cried Algy. ‘Technically he was within his rights. He gave you his parole—you personally—not Smyth.’

  ‘Technicalities my foot!’ snarled Biggles. ‘Morally he should have waited. Let’s see if we can—’ He broke off as the deep-throated roar of a Beardmore engine suddenly shattered the quiet of the aerodrome.

  Biggles said nothing. With a sweep of his arm he thrust Algy aside and dashed through the hangar to the aerodrome. Reaching it, he pulled up dead and threw up his hands helplessly. ‘There he goes,’ he said. ‘Hi! What do you think you are going to do?’ he went on quickly, as Thirty started running forward.

  ‘I thought perhaps in a Camel I could—’

  ‘Could what? The only way you could stop him would be to shoot him down, and you can’t very well do that. You said you would let him go. Well, he’s gone. Let him go. His blood is on his own head—not ours.’

  Bang! Bang! Bang! The anti-aircraft gun on the far side of the aerodrome suddenly opened up.

  Whoof! Whoof! Whoof! Like a distant echo came the explosion of the bursting shells. Three puffs of white smoke appeared in the sky.

  ‘What are they shooting at?’ cried Biggles in a bewildered voice. Not unnaturally, he was still watching the Fee
in which the German had escaped. Already it was half a mile away, making for the lines, but there was no archie smoke near it.

  ‘Look!’ ejaculated Algy sharply, and pointed.

  Simultaneously the air was filled with noise as three Albatroses, which must have been gliding at a great height overhead with their engines throttled back, plunged down in a steep power dive in the wake of the F.E.

  A cry of horror broke from Thirty’s lips, but nothing was said.

  Breathlessly, the watchers on the tarmac waited for the end. But it was decreed that they should not see it. The F.E. grew dim, and then disappeared from sight in the summer haze that hung over the distant landscape. The three German machines plunged into it too, and a moment later were swallowed up. From far away, so far that they could only just hear it, came the mutter of a machine-gun. The drone of the engine died away. Silence fell. High up in the blue a lark began to warble.

  ‘They’ve got him,’ muttered Thirty in a dull voice.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ returned Biggles, quietly. ‘If he was quick he might have got down.’

  ‘If I thought he was killed—’

  ‘Why worry? What he did he did himself. You’ve nothing to blame yourself for.’

  ‘I can’t help feeling—’

  Biggles put his hand on Thirty’s shoulder. ‘I think you’ve forgotten something,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is war. We are all in it. His turn to-day; ours, maybe, to-morrow. In war there is neither forgiveness nor compassion. We’re—’

  ‘What’s going on?’ interrupted a well-known voice.

  As one, the watchers swung round. Major Raymond was standing behind them.

  ‘What are you all staring at?’ he inquired curiously. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘There is nothing to see, sir,’ answered Biggles, casually. ‘We were just watching a machine take off, that’s all.’

  The major nodded. ‘Come over to the Squadron Office, you fellows, will you? I want a word with you,’ he said in an official tone of voice.

  Obediently they all followed him as he led the way.

  Chapter 20

  Accused

  Major Mullen, the C.O., was sitting alone at his desk when they trooped into the Squadron Office, Major Raymond first, conspicuous by the scarlet tabs on the lapels of his tunic, followed by Biggles, Algy, Forty, Rip, and Thirty.

  Major Raymond looked at the C.O. ‘Shall I say it or will you?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘It’s more a matter for Wing than for me, so I’d rather you did,’ returned Major Mullen.

  Major Raymond turned to Thirty. ‘A rather curious thing has happened,’ he began, in that suave tone of voice that senior officers know so well how to adopt when it suits their purpose. ‘In view of the excellent work you have done since you joined this squadron, and more particularly for the special mission which you carried out successfully for me, I submitted your name to General Headquarters for a decoration—the Military Cross, to be precise.’

  Thirty guessed what was coming. He felt the muscles of his face stiffen, and something seemed to sink inside his stomach. He did not know how he knew, but he knew. He did not speak.

  ‘You can imagine my surprise,’ continued the major, ‘when Wing Headquarters were informed by General Headquarters, who had been in touch with the Air Board, that there was no officer of your name on the list of the Royal Flying Corps. Not unnaturally we assumed that you had been seconded from another regiment, but there was no record of that either. When we discovered that there were two officers at this unit not appearing on the official list, we felt that it was time we made inquiries. Naturally, we asked your C.O. for the movement orders you would normally present on arrival; he thereupon told us that you had arrived without any. Can you offer any explanation of the strange state of affairs?’

  Thirty swallowed something in his throat. ‘I can, sir,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The fact of the matter is, sir, we . . . er . . . that is—’

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘Well, we’re not officers at all; that is, we’ve never been gazetted,’ burst out Thirty, desperately.

  ‘What?’ The word came from Forty. His lips continued to move, but no words came. He appeared to have difficulty in speaking.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Thirty, miserably.

  ‘Where did you get those uniforms?’ asked the major sternly.

  ‘From my brother’s wardrobe, sir.’

  Forty’s eyes grew round. ‘What the—?’

  The major interrupted. ‘Just leave this to me, Captain Fortymore, will you?’ He turned again to Thirty. ‘Kindly continue,’ he said, smoothly.

  ‘I’ve nothing more to say, sir.’

  ‘Why did you do this?’

  ‘Because I wanted—we both wanted, but I was the ringleader—to get to the war.’

  ‘But there are regular channels for that. I understand you both arrived here in service aeroplanes? Where did you get them?’

  ‘We borrowed them, sir.’

  ‘Stole them, you mean.’

  ‘No, sir,’ denied Thirty. ‘We only moved them from one place to another. They’ve been in service all the time. We could think of no other way of getting here.’

  ‘What was the hurry?’

  ‘Well, Forty—that is, Captain Fortymore, my brother—was missing, and I hoped to be able to rescue him. And I did, too,’ concluded Thirty, firmly.

  The major stroked his chin. His face was still stern, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. ‘You ran away from school?’ The question was really a statement.

  Thirty realized then that the major knew more than he pretended. ‘Yes, sir,’ he admitted.

  ‘What do you suppose Germany would say if she knew?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, and I don’t particularly care,’ declared Thirty. ‘I got Forty—I mean, Captain Fortymore—back, and that’s all I care about.’

  ‘You’ve been a civilian under arms, liable to be shot if you were caught.’

  ‘I should have been shot anyway if they had caught me,’ Thirty pointed out, with truth.

  The major coughed and caught the C.O.’s eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose you would,’ he conceded. ‘But that does not alter the case. It was a most dangerous thing to do.’

  ‘So was my trip to Belville the other night, sir, but you didn’t stop me going on that account,’ murmured Thirty.

  ‘That was an entirely different matter.’

  ‘Yes, sir—so I believe.’

  ‘At your age you should have known better.’

  ‘I did know, sir, but it made no difference. I succeeded in what I set out to do, so to apologize and say I am sorry would be sheer hypocrisy. All the same, sir, I apologize to you personally for the trouble I have caused you. Also to the C.O. for deceiving him.’

  ‘That sounds a ham-fisted sort of apology to me,’ observed the major. ‘Still, I’ll accept it. And what do you think you are going to do now?’

  ‘That is for you to decide, sir.’

  ‘I suppose we ought to send you back to school.’

  ‘Without wishing to appear boastful, I think I should be of more use out here, sir.’

  The major smiled. ‘Algebra would seem a bit dull after what you have been doing, no doubt,’ he remarked. Then his manner became serious again. ‘Now look here, young man; this escapade of yours has given General Headquarters—and the squadron for that matter—a lot of trouble. In the circumstances there is only one thing we can do. We cannot have civilians walking about in uniform, so you have both been given commissions in the field. Your names will both appear in to-morrow’s Gazette, and to save your skins, in case either of you is ever caught by the enemy, your commissions have been antedated from the day you joined the squadron. Which means that you have both been officers since that day. That being so, the recommendation for the Military Cross has been allowed to stand.’

  Thirty could hardly believe his
ears. ‘Well, that’s frightfully good of you, sir,’ he stammered. ‘You may be sure I shall—both of us will, in fact—try to live up to it.’

  ‘If you go on as you have started we shall be satisfied.’ The major smiled and held out his hand. He turned to Forty. ‘You’d better keep an eye on this young brother of yours,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken to Major Mullen about it; he says you can stay here in 266 if you like. Either that or you can take him with you to your old squadron.’

  ‘I’m not going to leave Biggles,’ announced Thirty, firmly.

  ‘Well, talk it over,’ smiled the major, making for the door. ‘Oh, by the way, that dinner to-night is still on. Half-past seven, sharp.’

  The C.O. accompanied the major to the door. For a moment or two they stood outside, conversing in low tones, before Major Raymond broke off and turned back to the office. ‘Oh, there is one more thing I must tell that young rascal—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Well,’ he exclaimed, ‘what do you think about that?’ He raised his finger and pointed.

  Thirty was slumped down in the C.O.’s chair. His eyes were closed. From his lips and nose issued a sound of deep, regular breathing. He was, in fact, fast asleep.

  Major Raymond regarded him for a moment in silence. Then, ‘In your chair, too, Mullen,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It looks to me as if it might be a case of coming events casting their shadows before.’

  ‘There are more unlikely things than that,’ said Biggles softly. ‘Fetch a stretcher, Algy; let’s put him to bed. In fact, I think it’s about time we all had a spot of sleep.’

  With which suggestion the others agreed.

  Footnotes

  Chapter 1. Peter Fortymore Receives Bad News

  *1 Royal Flying Corps 1914–1918. An army corps responsible for military aeronautics. Renamed the Royal Air Force when amalgamated with the Royal Naval Air Service on 1st April 1918.