by W E Johns
'The little fool! The crazy lunatic!' gritted Biggles. 'Why didn't he stay where he was? He'll collide with somebody at the first clash. I only hope it's a Hun, and not me, that's all!'
He turned his attention again to the scene ahead. The red-and-yellow Fokker, now a mere speck in the sky, was turning in a wide circle, and Biggles' eyes instinctively probed the sky above it. His lips parted in a bitter smile.
'So there you are!' he mused. 'How many? One– two – four – seven – eight, eh? Eight and one's nine. It looks as if somebody's going to get hurt to-day!'
The action was not long delayed. The enemy machines, confident of their superior strength, were turning towards the Camels, and Biggles' lips set tightly in a straight line. The heat of his fury suddenly subsided, leaving him stone cold. He didn't swerve an inch from his course, but flung his Camel at the nearest machine, and at two hundred feet gripped his gun control savagely.
He knew it was madness, this blindly rushing into combat with odds of two to one against. Even if they got two or three of the enemy machines, the Camels would be lucky to get back to the Line. Howell and Harcourt hardly counted in an affair of this sort. It was he and Algy against the rest. At the back of his mind was one devouring thought – to get as many of the enemy as he could before they got him!
As he turned to chase the leading Fokker, which had swerved under his fire, he heard bullets ripping through the fuselage behind him, but he ignored them. There was no time for tactics. Kill or be killed was the motto of to-day!
The dog-fight became a delirium of whirling machines, zooming, rolling, and banking, firing and firing again through a network of tracer bullets. Machines flashed across his sights, and his guns chattered incessantly. With a grunt of satisfaction, he saw two Fokkers collide and fall, spinning, a tangled mass of splintered struts and fabric.
A Camel roared past in a sheet of flame, missing him so narrowly that his heart stood still. Another Fokker shed its wings as it pulled up in a vertical zoom at terrific speed, the fuselage falling like a stone through space.
A red-and-yellow Fokker – the one that had dropped the boots – roared past, zigzagging wildly, with a Camel glued to its tail, and even Biggles, hardened air-fighter as he was, caught his breath at the fury of the Camel's attack. He even risked a pause to watch it, for it seemed that the Camel was deliberately trying to ram its opponent.
The enemy pilot evidently thought so, too. For, far from trying to return the attack, he was throwing his machine about in a panic, in a vain endeavour to shake himself clear of the mad pilot who had singled him out for destruction at any cost.
Never in all his experience had Biggles seen such a sight, and it did not occur to him for one moment that the pilot in the attacking machine could be anyone but Algy. The end came suddenly. The Camel's guns spurted death at point-blank range, and the Fokker went to pieces in the air.
The victor zoomed high, and Biggles stared in stupefied amazement as he recognised the number of Har-court's machine. He looked around the sky. Five Fokkers were retiring back over their own Lines. Only two Camels were left. He and Harcourt were alone in the sky. Four machines were smoking on the ground below.
Turning back towards the Lines, Biggles made out another Camel, very low, just gliding across to safety. He looked around again for Harcourt, and rapped out a startled ejaculation as he saw him in hot pursuit of the five Fokkers.
'He's barmy! The shock has sent him off his rocker!' muttered Biggles, as he raced after the other machine. Catching it, he had to wave frantically and almost ram the other pilot in order to make him turn. Harcourt waved his fist furiously, and reluctantly followed Biggles back towards the aerodrome.
Biggles breathed a sigh of relief as he picked out Algy's machine, standing on its nose among the shell-holes around the reserve trenches, the pilot standing unharmed beside it.
'Got his engine shot up, I expect,' muttered Biggles, as he glided down towards the now visible aerodrome. 'Must have been poor Howell I saw going down.'
Landing, he climbed out, and, wiping oil from his face with his sleeve, looked earnestly at Harcourt, who had also landed and was walking slowly towards him. On Harcourt's face was an expression of utter gloom.
'What came over you?' asked Biggles, smiling.
'Came over me?' replied Harcourt. 'Did you see me knocking the spots of the red-and-yellow hound?'
'I should say I did!' said Biggles. 'I thought you'd gone off your rocker – trying to ram him!'
'I was!' Harcourt muttered.
Biggles started.
'What's that?' he said quickly.
'I'd made up my mind to get him somehow,' replied Harcourt harshly. 'I'd shot nearly all my ammunition at him without hitting him, and I thought it was the only thing I could do to get him. I'd made up my mind I was going to get him – somehow. I've never been so angry with anyone in my life before.'
'But why – why the yellow-and-red fellow in particular?' asked Biggles.
Harcourt looked up quickly, his eyes glinting with anger.
'Didn't you see what he did?' he asked in surprise.
'Yes – I saw him throw the boots,' admitted Biggles.
'Boots!' Harcourt hooted. 'I didn't care two hoots about the boots. It was where he threw them that made me so angry. They went through the roof of my hut and landed on the table beside my bed. Look!'
He groped in his pocket and held out his hand, on which lay a stripe of something golden – something that shone brightly in the sun.
'What is it?' asked Biggles, with a puzzled frown.
Harcourt tried to speak, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.
'Percy!' he said huskily. 'Poor little Percy!'
Biggles leaned against the fuselage of his machine and laughed weakly.
'It's nothing to laugh about!' snarled Harcourt. 'He was swimming in his jam-jar on the table as good as gold. The boots caught him fair and square, and flattened him out like a common plaice – poor little beggar!
'I tell you, Bigglesworth, when I saw he was dead I was so angry I made up my mind to get his murderer, even if it cost me my life. It cured me of being afraid of Huns. A man is a coward who will do a thing like that!
'Let's do some more flying. I'll teach the hounds to go about killing goldfish!'
Chapter 7
The Professor Comes Back
Algernon Montgomery burst into the officers' mess of No. 266 Squadron.
'Biggles!' he yelled. 'Listen, everybody! The Professor's O.K.! He's down over the other side!' The words fairly tumbled out of his mouth. 'It's a fact!' he went on breathlessly. 'A message has just come through from Wing that the Boche have reported him a prisoner of war. What do you know about that?'
Biggles had sprung to his feet at Algy's first shrill announcement.
'What!' he cried incredulously. 'Say that again!'
'It's true enough. Or how would the Boche know his name?' cried Algy excitedly.
Biggles grinned and scratched his head.
'Well, I'm dashed!' he said. 'But there! Plenty of people have been shot down in flames and got away with it. If he was flying fairly low, he might have managed to sideslip down and crash on his wing-tip*. Well, well, would you believe it!'
* No parachutes were carried by British aircraft during this war so to jump from a plane meant certain death. Some German airmen were issued with parachutes in 1918 but the British authorities were thought to believe that issuing parachutes to their men would encourage cowardice!
Major Mullen hurried into the room.
'Have you heard the news, Bigglesworth?' he called. 'Young Henry Watkins wasn't killed, after all! He's down, over the other side!'
'Yes, sir,' replied Biggles. 'Algy has just told us. That reminds me of something. I wonder – I wonder!' he mused, a thoughtful frown coming over his face.
'Wonder what, Biggles?' broke in Algy impatiently. 'Come on, don't keep us in suspense!'
'The Professor being a prisoner of war reminds me
of something, that's all. Listen! You know how he was always bursting with ideas? Well, he said to me one day that he wondered why on earth some organisation wasn't started to pick up British officers who had escaped from prison in Germany, at some pre-arranged rendezvous.
'You remember the lecture we had from that chap – I forget his name – who came round all the squadrons telling us what to do if we were captured? He told us about double frontiers, frontier guards, electrified wire, dog patrols, the difficulty of swimming the Rhine, and so on. Well, I sat next to Henry, and after the lecture he asked the bloke some questions about it.
'The chap said it wasn't actually so difficult to get out of prison as it was to get back through the Lines or across the frontier. That was where most people were nabbed again. Henry asked him why we didn't have some meeting-place fixed – some field where machines could go over and pick prisoners up.
'The chap said the idea had been thought of, but the trouble was there were so many German spies over this side that the enemy would know which fields were to be used as soon as we had fixed them, and the first machine that went over and landed would probably find an armed guard waiting for it; or else they would wire the field* and crash the plane as it landed.
* To prevent fields or open spaces being used by enemy aircraft a trip wire was suspended above the ground to snag the undercarriage wheels and crash the aircraft.
'Instead of getting a prisoner back, we should probably lose another officer and a machine as well. The idea stuck in Henry's mind, though, and he told me one evening that he reckoned we should all work in pairs within the squadron, each pair to fix up its own rendezvous. In fact, he showed me the field he had fixed on, where he would make for if he was a prisoner and escaped.
'He said we should know if he was there because he'd try to keep a small smoke-fire going in a corner of the field. As a matter of fact, there are plenty of fields close together in that locality that would do – along the east side of the Langaarte Forest. This news that he is a prisoner made me wonder if he has managed to get away and get to the field. Dash it, he might be there now! He'd get out of prison somehow! He wouldn't be in quod five minutes without working out some scheme – '
Colonel Raymond's car, from Wing Headquarters, pulled up outside, and a moment later the staff officer entered the mess. He nodded cheerfully to Biggles and the other officers, then crossed over to Major Mullen, standing near the fireplace. Presently Major Mullen beckoned to Biggles and to MacLaren and Mahoney, the other flight-commanders.
'The Colonel wants to know why you haven't found that new Boche night-bombing squadron,' began the CO. earnestly. 'It's getting serious. They are coming over every night and doing a terrible lot of damage in back areas!'
'Don't we know it!' snorted Biggles. 'We've had an alarm every night this week. I'm getting an old man for want of sleep. No, sir, I can't spot their aerodrome, and that's a fact. I've searched every inch of the ground for forty miles. The only thing I can think of is they might be using those abandoned sheds which were used by the Richthofen crowd before they moved nearer the Line.'
'No, they're not there,' replied the colonel, shaking his head.
'How do you know that?' asked Biggles quickly, with a frown.
Colonel Raymond overlooked the breach of respect.
'We know, that's all,' he replied quietly. 'We have our own way of finding out these things!'
'I see,' answered Biggles slowly. 'Sorry!'
'Well, they're in your sector somewhere,' declared the colonel, 'and it's up to you fellows to find them. They're Friedrichshafens*, so they're big enough to see; the Boche can't hide 'em in a cowshed. Well, get busy, you fellows. I shall expect to hear from you. Good-bye!'
* A German twin-engined biplane bomber with a crew of three.
Biggles gazed after the retreating figure thoughtfully. 'You'll go on expecting, if I know anything!' he muttered. 'The Boche have got a nice little dug-out for those planes where they won't be disturbed. But I suppose we shall have to have another look for them.
'What about the Professor, though? Who's game to come with me to see if Henry's lit his bonfire? It must be six weeks since he went down. If he isn't there yet, we'll keep an eye on the place to see if he arrives. What about having a look this afternoon? It's some way over the Line, so the more of us there are, the merrier!'
'I'm game!' replied MacLaren at once. 'I'll bring my boys.'
'And I,' grinned Mahoney. 'We'll all go – the whole bunch of us!'
'Fine!' replied Biggles. 'Algy!' he called. 'Harcourt! Stand by for patrol at four-thirty. We're going to fetch the Professor home!'
'You're as crazy as he was!' growled Algy, but his twinkling eyes belied his words.
'Half a minute, what's the plan?' inquired Mahoney.
'I think the best thing to do is simply to fly over and find out if he's there, before we do anything else,' suggested Biggles.
'Suppose he is, what then?' asked MacLaren.
'Then we'll come back and decide what to do about it. We don't want to attract too much attention, though. I'll take Algy and Harcourt, and stay at about five thousand feet up. You, Mac, come along just behind me at seven or eight thousand. And you, Mahoney, bring the rest along at about ten thousand. We'll fly straight over there and back, and take no notice of anything or anybody. Come on.'
Ten minutes later nine Camel planes were roaring steadily towards the Lines in the positions which had been agreed upon. Biggles, with Algy at his right wing-tip and Harcourt at his left, settled himself comfortably in his cockpit for a fairly long cruise ahead. They raced through the archie – anti-aircraft gun-fire – over the Line, and sped on into enemy country, keeping a watchful eye open for hostile scouts.
Once a formation of half a dozen enemy Fokker triplanes appeared on the horizon and stood towards them, but spotting the other Camels high overhead the Germans thought better of it, and beat a hasty retreat.
A long straight road bordered with straggling poplars loomed up ahead, and ran like a silver thread into the blue distance, where it disappeared into the vast Forest of Langaarte, which lay like a great stain across the landscape. Biggles altered his course a trifle as he drew nearer, then began to swing round in a wide circle that would take him over the edge of the forest and the field of Henry's choice.
He pushed up his goggles and stared down intently, although he was still too far off to pick out the details of the objective field. From time to time he looked around, and a puzzled frown puckered his brow.
'Funny, no archie,' he mused, 'and this area used to be stiff with it. They must have shifted it nearer to the Lines!'
The complete absence of archie aroused his suspicions without his being able to say why. It was not normal, that was all. And anything of an unusual nature in the sky of France at that time was in itself a cause for suspicion. Again he peered downwards, then caught his breath with a little hiss of surprise. In the far corner of a long rectangular field which bordered the forest a tiny pillar of pale-blue smoke rose almost perpendicularly in the still evening air.
'He's there,' Biggles told himself unbelievingly, for, in spite of the object of their flight, he did not in his heart of hearts really expect to find that the Professor had been able to keep his word. He turned his head and looked at Algy, pointing downwards as he did so. Algy raised his thumb to show that he understood.
For a moment Biggles was tempted to risk a landing, but the sun was already sinking in the west, throwing long, purple shadows across the ground. His impatient spirit craved for the excitement of the rescue, but the sober voice of prudence warned him to wait.
'If he's there now, he'll still be there to-morrow,' he reflected, and then, suddenly making up his mind, he headed back towards the Lines.
'Well, what do you know about it, eh?' he cried to the other flight-commanders half an hour later as they climbed out of their cockpits.
'The point is, what are we going to do about it?' muttered Mahoney seriously. 'Landing is
going to be a thundering risky business. Quite apart from the risk of a trap, it only needs a rabbit hole to trip your machine up, and then where are you?'
'You leave that to me,' said Biggles confidently.
'What luck?' cried Major Mullen, hurrying from the squadron office.
'He's there!' replied Biggles. 'This is my idea, sir. We'll all go over to-morrow morning at the first glimmer of dawn, just like we did to-day, except that we'll keep a bit higher up. If the whole bunch of us start milling about the wood, low down, the entire German Army will roll up to see what's going on. So when we reach the forest, you swing away to the left, Mac, and you, Mahoney, to the right; but keep an eye on me. Algy and Harcourt will circle just above the field and keep unwanted visitors out of the way. If the Professor is there, he will have to come back on my wing.'
'Unless we ask for a two-seater to go and fetch him,' chimed in the major.
'Not likely, sir. By the time it got there, half the German Air Force would be there waiting for it. The Boche know as much about what is going on this side of the Line as over their own side, and the fewer people who know about this the better. He can ride on my wing comfortably enough; I've carried a passenger that way before. As soon as I get him aboard and start off back, everybody close up round me, and we'll make a dash for the Line. How's that?'
'Suits me,' said MacLaren laconically.
'And me,' agreed Mahoney.
'That's settled, then,' said Biggles, with satisfaction.
Late that evening, Biggles threw aside the book he was reading, rose to his feet, and yawned mightily.
'Well, I'm going to roost,' he announced. 'Don't forget the show in the morning. We leave the ground at dawn, and – ' He broke off suddenly, and stiffened into an attitude of expectancy. Every officer in the room did the same.
Algy, who was thumping the battered mess piano, stopped in the middle of a bar with his hands raised. From a buzz of conversation and laughter a hush settled over the room in which a pin might have been heard to drop.
